Authors: Renee Manfredi
A week passed, each day much like the previous one. There was no one to insist that she leave her room by noon, nobody to vex her into irritation that, in retrospect, was far superior to this dispirited solitude. She filled her days with errands, a day or two at Dr. Naylor’s to do blood work, and evening dog walks with Violet, which had become the point of light in her day.
One evening, the instant she stepped into the house, the electricity cut off. She navigated through the dark, found candles in the pantry, and went down to check the fuse boxes. Everything seemed to be okay. She called Violet to see if she had power.
“Nope. I’m just sitting here in the dark, twiddling my thumbs. Storm’s coming.”
Anna started to hang up but said, “Would you like to come over for a cup of tea?”
Violet said she would, and within a few minutes she was at Anna’s door.
“It always seems darker when you’re alone and the lights go off, doesn’t it?” Violet asked.
Anna agreed. She stared at the fringe of blue flame on the burner, waited for the water to boil. “I have mint, lemongrass, or,” she tipped the can to the weak path of light, “jasmine flower.”
“Jasmine flower, please,” Violet said.
Anna spooned the tea into cups and set out muffins with the last of the blueberries Anna had frozen last summer. That, Anna remembered, had been a shining day, the two of them in the blue abundance, eating berries off the stems. Even the dog’s teeth were purple by the end of the day. Flynn had asked, “Other than dogs, you know the only thing I like better than blueberries?”
“No, what?”
“Nothing. Blueberries are the best thing in the world. The more they stain you, the more you can speak their language.”
Anna had looked at Flynn’s lips and chin. “Well, I guess now we’re both fluent. Him, too.” She nodded at the dog.
“Isn’t it great? You and me and Baby Jesus all fluent in Uly.”
“In what?” Anna had asked.
“Uly. The universal language of yum.”
Violet spoke now. “Have you heard from the boys recently?”
“Jack called me a few days ago. They’re settling into their new home.”
“Are they visiting this weekend?” Violet asked.
Anna shook her head. “Not this weekend. Maybe next.”
“I hope I see them again. I always thought they made a lovely couple. I enjoyed them immensely.” Violet moved the candle closer, peered down into her cup.
“Reading your tea leaves?” Anna joked. When Violet didn’t answer, Anna pushed her own cup over. “Tell me,” she said.
Violet fished for her glasses in one of her innumerable pockets. Tilted the cup this way and that. “You’ve been having a lot of bad dreams.” She paused. “And what you are unable to embrace, now embraces you. Double what has been taken, with you now abides.” She pushed the cup away, took off her glasses.
“That’s it?” Anna asked.
“Certainly that’s it. Did you expect I’d find the winning lottery numbers?”
“But what does it all mean?”
“Well, Anna, if you want my translation, I’d say this: when in deep water, become a diver.” Violet looked away.
Anna felt a cold air around her and Violet, chills snaking up her spine. “Do you believe in ghosts, Violet?”
“Of course,” she said. “Don’t you?”
“Listen, can I ask a favor of you?”
“Anything,” Violet said.
“Would you be willing to stay here tonight? I’m having a little trouble being here alone,” Anna said.
“I’d be happy to stay here, dear. Especially if you let me run home and get my dogs. They get so frightened in storms.”
“Oh, sure. They’re always welcome,” Anna said.
In the short time Violet was gone, Anna thought she might be having a heart attack; she was drenched in sweat, tight bands squeezing her chest, at her sides, as though she was standing between two boulders that were pushing so hard her ribs felt like they were bowing in the center, about to snap. Her head was buzzing, full and thick, the ambient room sounds muffled, near things distant: her dog right beside her, though somehow not
within reach. He looked up at her with soft eyes; the reflected light in his irises as remote as moons.
“How?” she heard herself say. And in the very next instant the feeling was gone, and the sounds in the room were as they should be: Violet’s boot-heavy tread, the click of dog nails on the floor, the thud of a closing door.
“It’s us,” Violet called, then walked into the kitchen. She stopped. “Is everything all right?” She looked around.
“I’m fine now,” Anna said. She did feel calm. Normal, once again, but exhausted. “I’m about ready for bed. But make yourself at home. There’s plenty of food if you’re hungry.”
“Thank you, Anna, but I believe we’ll turn in, too. You don’t mind if Luna and Haiku are in the bedroom, do you?” Violet asked, pointing to the elderly beagles.
Anna said she didn’t, and wished Violet a good night.
Within minutes, Anna was asleep, dreaming that she was sitting in the last pew of a huge cathedral. The windows were floor-to-ceiling stained glass, and a brilliant light kaleidoscoped in. Jack and Stuart were exchanging wedding vows, though she couldn’t hear a word from way back here. There was a rustling at her elbow. She turned and saw Flynn.
“Why do you keep calling me? What is it you think I can do?” Anna asked.
Wordlessly, Flynn took Anna’s hand and then they were in a hospital, wandering through corridors so narrow and winding Anna had to dodge someone every few seconds.
You can walk right through the people
, Flynn said.
They stopped at the nursery. Anna looked in and saw hundreds, thousands, of babies in bassinets. Not one of the infants was crying. No one attended to them.
There. I need to get in there. You need to help me
, Flynn kept saying.
Anna looked over at her granddaughter, then back into the nursery. Wolf cubs, all of whom were watching Anna with their yellow eyes, had replaced the infants.
“Those are wolves,” Anna said.
No
, Flynn said,
some of them are angels. And some are just like us
.
T
hey had a quiet ceremony at the Unitarian church in Boston, just a handful of friends on a midsummer afternoon, with a small reception afterward. Jack thought this was probably the first sign of encroaching dotage: a couple of years ago he and Stuart would have invited two hundred people instead of twenty. Anna was their attendant, beautiful in a pale yellow dress. That was a month ago, and Jack hadn’t seen Anna since then, though he spoke to her on the phone nearly every day.
Contrary to her expectations, Anna sold the house almost immediately, for close to double what she thought she’d get. Yesterday when Jack talked to her, Anna sounded almost cheerful. She was spending her days going through decades of accumulation in the attic, the spare bedrooms. The new owners wanted to close as soon as possible.
“Then what?” Jack had said. “Where are you going?”
“Well, I’m still trying to decide.”
“Why don’t you let me and Stuart come up this weekend?” It had, in fact, been Stuart’s idea that they go and help her.
“No. Thank you, but no. I need this distraction. It’s perfectly mindless. One of these days, though, you’ll have to come and look through what I’m leaving for you in storage. Beautiful antiques. Furniture. I’m leaving four of the beds for you. That’s probably more than enough, but you can choose the ones you want. Also, the most beautiful baby cradle that belonged
to my husband’s great-grandmother. Wait till you see.”
“You’ve done so much for us already. Sell the furniture. Take the money and travel.” She had given them a large sum of cash for their wedding, enough to make a huge downpayment on their brownstone with a sizable portion left over to defray some of the costs of renovations.
“Jack, please. I have no one else to spend my money on. You’ll get it now, or you’ll get it later when I leave it to you. You might as well enjoy it.”
There was no arguing with the logic of Anna.
Jack started to dial Anna’s number now, but changed his mind. It was probably too early for a Saturday morning. He’d call her later. He walked into his little office off the master bedroom, spread out the stack of folders, the files with the closest deadlines on top. The coffee was brewing. Stuart was out of the house already, at the paint store or Home Depot. Quiet weekends were a thing of the past. Between the sanding and painting and replastering, the continuous stream of carpenters and kitchen refacers and tile men, they never seemed to do anything but house projects.
He shuffled through the papers on his desk, retirement portfolios from a scattering of professionals—university professors, nurses, accountants—who had hired him to sort through the confusion of stock and bond investments, aggressive growth funds and the like. He was reliable and thorough and his consulting business was steadily increasing through referrals. But all of this should have been done Friday afternoon. He had three phone meetings on Monday, with all three clients expecting guidance and advice. He’d gotten off to a slow start, a sluggish awakening to a gray, overcast day heavy with clouds. It had been raining for days.
Back in the bedroom, Jack stretched out to rest for a half an hour before starting to work again. He closed his eyes, inhaled the scent of fresh paint and wood varnish, heard the hiss of tires on the wet asphalt outside. Anna had shown him the beauty in days like this; the gloomier the weather, the brighter her house burned. Birch log fires, soup, soft lights and candles ablaze in every room, even the bathroom. He picked up the bedside phone, dialed.
“Jack,” she said.
“How’d you know it was me?”
“Just did. How did your checkup go yesterday?”
“My numbers are in the middle of the acceptable range. And you were
right about my fatigue. I am slightly anemic.”
“What did they tell you to do?”
Jack heard the screeching of strapping tape. “They put me on prenatal vitamins. Straight iron tablets can be…I forget what they said. Something about too harsh.”
“Yeah. Well, what you don’t use of the prenatal vitamins, you can give to Greta.”
“So, you still think it’s bad that we’re trying to do this.”
“Well, I’m giving you a Chinese Chippendale baby cradle. So, I think the idea is bad, but if a baby manages to get here, the little fella needs someplace to sleep, doesn’t she?”
“Of course. No baby of mine is sleeping in anything from the softer side of Sears. Wait, I’ll have to call you back, I guess. Someone’s downstairs.”
Jack walked to the staircase. “Stuart?” he called.
“Cabinets,” a voice called back, and Jack backed up, heart pounding. It was the sexy carpenter. Dark and tall, and totally ripped; he wore polo shirts that showed off his shoulders and arms.
Jack washed up, put on clean clothes and went downstairs. “Hi,” he said. He couldn’t remember the man’s name. Why did Stuart do this? Why couldn’t he hire heterosexual workers? Why would he hire this man who looked like Antonio Banderas? Wasn’t their life enough of a soap opera without bringing Mr. Swinging Tool Belt in? Welcome to this week’s episode of
Gays of Our Lives
. On today’s show, watch Stuart walk in just as Jack and the Mr. Fix-It Hottie are engaged in a passionate exchange of Tongue and Groove.
“I brought laminates and solids, both in birch, as Stuart requested, and some samples in alder.” He looked over at Jack, smiled. “Wanna take a look?”
“You bet,” Jack said. “Can I get you some coffee?”
“I’d love some.” Jack felt the man’s eyes boring into him as he took down mugs, poured the hazelnut French roast that Stuart always made far too weak—and getting weaker, since Greta was often here and complained about the strong coffee. He was aware of everything suddenly, his senses sharpened. He smelled the man’s shampoo and aftershave, the wood in the sample book, felt the grit from the imperfectly swept floor under his bare
feet.
He put the mug and the sugar and cream on the breakfast bar, then sat on the stool beside the man. “I forget your name, I confess,” Jack said.
“Michael,” he said, smiling and extending his hand.
Jack took it. Strong and warm, calluses on the palm. Jack felt the heat radiate from the center of his body to his extremities. He bent in close to look at the samples, listening to the litany of price versus quality materials, dovetail joints versus glue or nails. With every page he turned in the book he seemed to move closer to Jack, until finally, now into the high-end hardwoods, the entire length of Michael’s arm was against Jack’s. There was no mistaking this. The other couple of times he’d been here Michael had flirted with him—well, Jack had to admit that he’d flirted back—but there was no mistaking that this was an invitation.
Michael looked up at him and smiled wider. “What do you think?”
“I like the birch. But I’m deferring all decisions to Stuart and his impeccable taste.”
Michael nodded, enclosed his hand around Jack’s wrist. “Is this a Rolex?” He took Jack’s hand in his, pretended to study the watch.
“That’s a Rolex. And this,” he said, holding up his left hand, “is a wedding band.” He smiled, squeezed Michael’s hand once and left the kitchen, shaking. He went into the downstairs guest bedroom and dialed Stuart’s cell phone. Out of range, apparently. He sat on the couch with the morning newspapers. He would stay here until Michael left. He didn’t trust himself. Didn’t trust that his intentions would naturally override his desire—they rarely had before. He felt very much like he did those years ago with Hector, a feeling of physical craving, the drug-like need of the lust Hector inspired.
He’d come very close once in the month or so since he and Stuart had married. It was a man he had met in an all-night grocery. Jack had, in fact, gone as far as getting into the man’s car and reaching into his wallet to check for condoms. But something had flashed in his head then, an image of the memorial service they had for Flynn. It was raining lightly that morning, but the light inside the chapel was anything but dreary. There was brightness within, as if the day were sunny and cloudless. The stained glass made it seem even brighter—a few too many haloes, for his taste, though he did like the way the very queenish-looking Saint Augustine held
those tablets, like they were his cards at drag bingo—but it was more as if his perception of the light was changing. When the service started, he was impossibly heavy, leaden with sorrow. He had to reposition his body every three minutes because his spine felt so collapsed and brittle under the weight. But little by little a peace settled over him. By the end of the short service he knew everything would be okay—he, Anna, they would all manage. The image that came to him in the chapel was that of an enormous chandelier with thousands and thousands of tiny lights, some of which flickered then burned out. He imagined he could feel Flynn around him, a light that continued with him and Anna and Marvin, switched off somehow, no longer illuminating, but somehow still there. Here.