Marianne lives in Toronto with her husband and massages people for a living. She became a Buddhist last year.
“What does that mean exactly?” I asked Helen.
“Something to do with trees and rocks and grass. Honestly. I don’t know when everyone decided they could go out and believe in anything they felt like.”
I see Marianne and Mark once a year, at Christmas. Mark looks like Dickie. Marianne looks like Helen. They’ll ask me questions but don’t seem interested in the answers. Maybe they sense my own lack of interest. I try to mask it, but I’m never sure if I’m doing a good job. Besides, it’s not a matter of interest. It’s a barricade. John would’ve turned fifty-three this year. I can’t even imagine what his face would look like, and I feel a sharp pull of sadness. All the life he never had.
“Did I tell you how angry Marianne was when she received the invitation for my seventy-fifth birthday?” Helen asks. “She said she was planning a surprise party. I said to her, ‘Marianne, you wouldn’t expect me to sit around waiting for something to happen.’ ” Helen sighs and places her hat back on her head. “I know what she’s saying, Joyce. But at the same time, what if they’d forgotten about it? Then my milestone would come and go without any fanfare at all. I couldn’t take the chance.”
“You shouldn’t be so controlling,” I say to her, as I’ve said for most of her life, although I don’t think she’s ever heard. “They wouldn’t forget something as important as that.”
“I’m not so sure.” The hat comes off again. “I was afraid it’d be nothing more than an obligatory phone call after dinner. They get so easily distracted. I can’t trust them.”
“I’m sure Dickie would’ve—”
“Dickie wouldn’t have done a thing. Dickie
couldn’t
have done a thing.”
We ride in silence for a few moments. For a brief second, I wonder why I’m taking this route. Then I remember. The book. I turn onto Bleeker Street and pull into the Golden Sunset parking lot for the second time today.
“Well, it isn’t much to look at,” Helen says. “Is it nice inside?”
“About what you’d expect,” I say.
“I sometimes wonder if Dickie would be better off in a place like this.”
“It would make things easier for you.”
“But the guilt. I couldn’t do it.” She cocks her head. “Poor Mrs. Pender. No son to visit her.”
My hands tighten around the steering wheel.
“Oh, Joyce. I didn’t—”
“It’s fine,” I tell her.
“It’s not that I forget. I don’t. I’ll never forget poor John.”
“Do you want to wait here?”
“Sure. Just don’t be too long. The car will heat up.”
I tie my rain cap over my head and step out, making my way towards the front entrance. My sister knows nothing about guilt.
––
Mrs. Ogilvy is asleep in her bed and Mrs. Pender is nowhere to be found. Would she still be getting weighed? That stupid book. It has to be here somewhere. I tiptoe over to her night table and slowly slide open the drawer. There’s a folded newspaper inside and a box of peppermints. I open the drawer farther. If she’s lost the book, so help me. Beneath the peppermints, something catches my eye. A greeting card. I glance over my shoulder to make sure Mrs. Ogilvy is still sleeping, then lift it out.
It’s a Mother’s Day card. There’s a faded picture of a monarch butterfly on the cover with impossibly perfect script that reads, “To a Dear Mother.” My heart catches in my throat. How long has it been since I received such a card? Inside, there are three verses about a Mother’s love. I can’t bring myself to read the words. At the bottom of the card, under Freddy’s signature, is this line:
Moved to Miami three months ago. Will send new address
.
Miami? Freddy never lived in Miami. He went to New York and then to Hollywood. Is there a Miami in California? I shake my head. No, stupid. Hollywood is in California. Miami is in Florida.
There’s a date written in the top corner of the card. I fish my glasses from my purse and hold the card out. The writing is faint, but I can just make it out.
May ’77.
My breath catches. I put the card back into the drawer and hurry out of the room.
CHAPTER FIVE
H
ELEN DOESN’T
shut up the entire ride home and I’m too preoccupied to listen.
“I just don’t know, Joyce. On the one hand, having a computer would mean that I could email the grandkids. And Marianne says it’s the easiest thing in the world. You just turn it on and away you go. But I’m not good with technology. Have you ever thought about getting one?”
I feel her eyes on me, but I don’t look over. I keep seeing those sevens on the Mother’s Day card. How is it possible? He’s been dead for years.
“I don’t want a computer.” I reach over and turn up the radio.
“What happened to the book?” Helen asks, her voice overpowering the radio host without any effort at all. “Did you forget it again?”
I’m so angry, but I don’t know why. What a ridiculous morning.
“I found a card in her room,” I blurt out. “From Freddy. It was dated 1977.”
She looks at me, eyes wide. “That’s not possible.”
“I know it isn’t. He died in ’59.”
“You’re sure it was from him?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t ask Mrs. Pender about it?”
“She wasn’t in the room.”
We pull up in front of her house with its lush lawn and bright red impatiens. She always had more of a green thumb than me. My flower beds have sat empty the entire summer. My lawn looks like straw. I could water it, but pulling out the sprinkler and hose seems like a Herculean effort. I haven’t taken care of anything since Charlie died. My house is an eyesore. Shame seeps through me like ink.
I put the car in park and we sit in silence. Helen’s hat is pushed back on her head, giving her a straw halo. I scan the dashboard. Crisp bugs lie on their backs, legs like broken matchsticks. When was the last time I cleaned the car? Everything, it seems, is falling apart.
“Funny,” Helen says, “I don’t remember what Freddy looked like. Was he a redhead?”
“Blond.”
“You dated him.”
“No.”
“Something happened between the two of you. I remember you talking about it.”
“Nothing happened.”
“He was a singer, wasn’t he?”
“More of a dancer.”
“He supposedly killed himself, right? How did it happen again?”
“He jumped off a ship. Mrs. Pender said that he’d fallen in with the wrong crowd.”
“What—?” But then her lips clamp down. For once, my sister’s thoughts catch up to her words. “I see.”
The air inside the car thickens, making it hard to breathe. My lungs stick together. Withered balloons. I open the window partway. Raindrops hit my shoulder.
It’s only when I’m stopped at a red light a few blocks away that my lungs begin to open. I sit and wait, gulping for air while the traffic light turns into a fireball.
When I pull into my driveway, Mr. Sparrow is stepping down from my front porch, wearing his baseball hat. He waves and raises it, revealing a shiny dome. I’m in no mood for small talk, but I have no choice. I press a smile onto my face and step out of the car. The rain has stopped, leaving behind a heavy humidity. I look down at my driveway and see a brown-pink worm patiently pulling itself across the asphalt towards some unknown destination. They’ll be everywhere shortly. My sister will be mortified.
“How about that rain?” Mr. Sparrow asks.
“Yes. How about it. Seems like we’ve had more rain than sun this year.”
“I was just dropping off some zucchini. They’ve come in real nice.”
“I see that.”
There’s a basket full of them waiting in front of my door. What am I going to do with all those zucchinis? I don’t even like them. Oh, Mr. Sparrow. Bless you and nature’s bounty, but I’d be happy with a solitary tomato every now and then.
“Looks to me like someone just got back from the beauty parlour.” He leans in closer for an inspection. “That’s a good head of hair in my opinion.”
“Thank you,” I laugh, feeling myself blush. “Connie tends to backcomb a little too much. It takes a day or so to settle out. How have you been?”
“Oh, fine. All things considered. You?”
“The same. I’m looking forward to the fall.”
“You’re looking forward to what?”
I take a step closer. “The
fall
. Autumn. Cooler weather.”
“Speak for yourself,” Mr. Sparrow says. “Cooler weather brings cold weather. And cold weather brings snow. You know that neighbour boy is going away to school this year, don’t you?”
“Trevor?”
“I ran into him the other day. He’s going to the university in Andover. Science or something like that. In any case, he won’t be around this winter.”
“But who will do the shovelling?” I remember the stale oatmeal cookies and my helplessness.
He shrugs. “We’ll find someone. The snow won’t come until December.”
I may be gone by December, I think. I have to call that real estate agent. I try to nod encouragingly at Mr. Sparrow. I watch him cross the street, his bowed legs working furiously. Once I’m gone, who will make sure his blinds are up every morning?
I have just enough time to change into my navy blue suit and slide some lipstick across my lips before heading out to Louise’s service. I’m grateful for the distraction. If I were sitting at home, I’d be thinking about that Mother’s Day card. I’ll go see Mrs. Pender tomorrow and get that book. I won’t say anything to her about the card. I can’t admit to snooping through her drawers. Besides, I decide, it’s nothing. A mistake. I won’t think about it any more.
The attendance for Louise’s service is sparse. Her two sons come with their families. There are a handful of relatives. Friends scatter themselves among the pews. I recognize a few former Silver Balls.
“I hope you like ham salad sandwiches,” Fern whispers to me. “Because that’s all we’ll be eating for the next week.”
I press my finger to my lips. She doesn’t say things as quietly as she thinks. The older she’s gotten, the more careless she’s become.
“That’s what happens when people are on their own for too long,” Helen told me once. “They lose their filters.”
Fern lives in the house she inherited when her mother died. She worked as a schoolteacher for most of her life, which is what her mother wanted her to do. She’s done well for herself. The house is neat and nicely decorated. She has a good pension. But I don’t think Fern has ever been happy. She hides it well behind her wisecracks. The best thing for her would’ve been to get out from under her mother’s shadow. But that never happened. Fern had to take care of her. And now that her mother is gone, I sense a growing anger in her. I think she feels cheated out of a life. Still, she’s been good company for me over the years, especially since Charlie’s death. We take comfort in our solitary status. When we’re together, there’s no talk of husbands or children or grandchildren to endure. Just two older women, passing the time.
Right before the service ends, Fern and I make our way down to the basement. We’re in charge of the dessert table. My date squares are still making me nervous, but I’m comforted by the fact that someone has brought the most horrible-looking lemon squares. I scoop my squares out onto a plate with an air of superiority. At one point during the luncheon, Arlene Disdale looks over at me and gives me the thumbs-up. I’m not joining her bridge club.
“Are my arms shorter or is my stomach bigger?” Fern asks later while we do the dishes. “I can’t seem to get close enough to this sink.”
I offer to wash if she wants to dry, but she says she’ll get by. Her midsection is a wet, dark oval and she’s elbow-deep in suds.
“What were you up to today?” she asks.
“I went for my hair. Then to see Mrs. Pender.” I frown as I rub a plate dry.
“How is she doing?”
“Fine.” I set the plate down. Pick it up. Set it down. “Can you keep a secret?”
“I’ll likely forget it before I tell it.”
“I found something in Mrs. Pender’s drawer. An old Mother’s Day card from Freddy. It said he was moving to Miami.” I lean in closer. “He never lived in Miami. And the card had two sevens on it. As in the year.”
“But didn’t he die?”
“Yes. A long time ago.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” She’s talking more to herself than to me. Her eyebrows rise and fall.
“I saw something like this on
Dateline
once. This man faked his own death. No one knew for years. It was a fascinating story.” She turns to me. “Where’s the card?”
“Still in Mrs. Pender’s drawer.”
“We should get our hands on it. I’d like to see it for myself.” She’s washing the dishes faster now. Suds splash her blouse. “Do you think, Joyce, that Freddy might be alive? I mean, is it even possible? And even if he isn’t, what kind of secrets is that woman keeping?”
We’re interrupted by Arlene carrying two paper plates stacked with sandwiches.
“I’ve made these up for you girls. There’s a mountain of food left. I tried to do an assortment. Do you want some squares?”
“Just freeze them until the next funeral,” Fern says.
“It better not be mine,” Arlene replies. “I deserve more than thawed-out leftovers.”
Before I leave, Fern tells me she’ll call me later. “To discuss the situation,” she says under her breath.
——
For dinner, I have a quarter sandwich of egg salad, a quarter of turkey and a half of ham salad. I have rice pudding for dessert. It tastes like paste and I barely finish it. I take a pad of paper from the telephone table and a pen and write down the following:
Things To Do. (Moving)
Then I sit and stare at the sheet of paper. Several times, I touch my pen to the surface only to pull it away again. A cluster of blue dots stare back, spider eyes, waiting for me to make the first move. The pen goes down and I watch as lines begin to form. First across, then down.
77
I get up from the table and dial Fern’s number.
As much as I knew I’d regret it, I called Helen after talking to Fern. Then we laid out our plan. I don’t like driving at night, although it’s more dusk right now than dark. I don’t trust myself outside of daylight. I feel disoriented, even though I know these streets like the back of my hand. Still, one wrong turn and I could end up in an alleyway with a stranger’s silhouette staring me down. Or hit someone and be vilified in the next day’s paper. I can already see the capital letters of self-righteous forty-year-olds in the Letters to the Editor. Seniors shouldn’t be allowed to drive! A DANGER to SOCIETY!