The Marriage of Sticks (14 page)

“I would, but I have too much stuff to do. There’s a zoning meeting this afternoon and I gotta be there. The company that bought the Tyndall house sold it after the murder there last year. Can’t say as I blame them. Now a consortium’s sniffing around. They want to tear it down and build a hotel or something. What’s a dull little town like ours going to do with a hotel? Who’s going to stay there, Rip Van Winkle?

“Anyway, I gotta go. If you two need anything, she has my phone number. I wish you
were
moving back, Frances. I’d rather visit you here than down at that creepy apartment in the city.”

They kissed and we shook hands. Starting for the door, he was called back by the smirking counterman, who held out the pizza he’d ordered. McCabe grinned and went back for it.

“Is there much crime here? You mentioned a murder before.”

His smile evaporated and he stared at me before answering. “That was a one-time thing. There were a lot of extenuating circumstances. Crane’s View is a quiet town. Dull most of the time. Lotta blue-collar people here, some commuters. Everyone works hard. On the weekends they mow their lawn or watch a game. I’ve been a cop here a long time. The worst crime we have is, once in a while someone gets his car boosted. That’s all.

“Listen, I really gotta go. Ms. Hatch, I will talk to you soon. And let me know if you folks are going to move in. I’ll send some people over before you do to straighten the house up so at least it’ll be livable when you first get in.”

The counterman yodeled out, “Byyyyye, Chief!”

McCabe gave him the finger and smiled. “I don’t get no respect.” Then he was gone. I watched him get into a beautiful silver car and drive away.

“Drives a very nice car for a policeman.”

Hugh had watched too, and he nodded. “Did you see the wristwatch he was wearing? That was a Da Vinci! We’re talking about
serious
money for that timepiece.”

Frances shrugged. “He’s loaded. He doesn’t need to be a cop, but does it because he likes it. Made a lot of money with his first wife. Something to do with television. He told me once but I forget.”

“I like him. He’s a tough guy.” Hugh put up his fists and pretended to box.

“You
do
? He reminds me of one of the gangsters in
Goodfellas.
I wouldn’t want to mess with him.”

Frances patted my hand. “No, you wouldn’t. He’s like a Russell’s viper if you cross him. But a great friend and one of the few people you can depend on completely. Shall we go? I’m excited to see my house.”

This time Frances sat in the front seat and directed Hugh to the house. As we drove through Crane’s View, I kept imagining myself there, walking down this street, shopping at that store. Letters to us would arrive at the small gray post office at the end of Main Street. After a while, we would know the names of the men on the orange garbage truck stopped at a corner. Young kids rode bicycles in woozy lines down the sidewalk. Dogs crossed the road at their own pace. Two girls had set up a lemonade stand on one side of a tree-lined street. The sun through the leaves dappled the girls and they frowned at us when we drove by.

“Hugh, look!”

A pretty teenager was walking a bullterrier that looked like Hugh’s. The two were in no hurry. The dog sniffed something on the sidewalk, tail wagging slowly. The girl wore a Walkman and waited for him with arms crossed. She looked up as we passed and waved. Frances waved back.

“That’s Barbara Flood. Good-looking girl, huh? Her grandfather was Tyndall’s gardener. Turn right here.”

“She’s the first black person I’ve seen here.”

Frances gave Hugh a shove. “Don’t start with the liberal agenda. There are plenty of blacks in Crane’s View. The mayor is black.”

He caught my eye in the mirror and winked. “I was just making an observation.”

“Yeah, well it weighed ten pounds. This is it. Stop here.”

“
This
house? You’re joking.”

Frances’s voice slashed down like a karate chop. “What’s the matter with it?”

I bent forward for a better look. “Nothing’s the matter. It’s just big. You said it was small. This is not a small house, Frances.”

It was blue, sort of. Blue with white trim. But the years had faded the paint to the color of a pair of old jeans. The white around the windows and door had yellowed and was peeling off everywhere. McCabe was right—the first thing it would need would be lots of paint. The house was square, shaped like a hatbox, with two floors and a large porch in front. The night before we drove there, Hugh and I had spent a whole dinner wondering what it would look like. Neither of our imaginings had come even close to this.

189 BROADWAY // CRANE’S VIEW, NEW YORK

“Here Hugh, you open the door. I want to take a look around.” Frances handed him keys and walked toward the porch steps. Leaning forward, she kissed the wooden newel post. “Haven’t seen you in a long time.” Slowly climbing, she patted the banister as she went. At the top, she reached out and pressed the doorbell. It rang loudly inside.

Hugh put his arm around my shoulder. “Did you hear that? A
real
bell
Ding dong!
”

I quietly asked, “What do you think?”

“I like it! Reminds me of a house in an Edward Hopper painting. It’ll need a lot of work, though. I can see that already.” He put his hands on his hips and looked appraisingly at the house.

“It’s sure a lot bigger than I’d imagined. I thought it would be a kind of large bungalow.”

Frances walked to the end of the porch and stopped. Her back was to us. She didn’t turn around for the longest time.

“What’s she doing?”

“Remembering, probably. Let’s go inside. I can’t wait to see what it’s like.” Hugh slotted the key and turned it in the lock a couple of times. Before pushing the door open, he slid his hand back and forth over the surface. “Nice door, huh? Oak.”

It swung open. The first odors of our new home drifted out to say hello: dust, damp, old cloth, and something in complete contrast to empty-house bouquet. Hugh entered while I stood in the doorway, trying to figure out that one smell. Clean and sweet, it was not at all appropriate in a building that had been closed and unused for years. It was fresh, delicious. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.

“Miranda, are you coming?”

“In a second. Go ahead.”

I heard Hugh walk across the floor, then a door creak open. He said a quiet “Wow” to something in there, then his feet started across the floor again. What
was
that smell? I took a few steps into the house, looked around, and closed my eyes.

When I opened them a moment later, the hallway was full of people. Full of children, rather, with a few adults standing around watching the show. Kids were running, jumping, making faces at each other, and playing. They ran back and forth from room to room, stomped up and down the staircase, ate yellow and blue cake (
that
was it—cake smell!), blew plastic horns, hit each other. Most wore pastel party hats. Seeing them, I realized what this was—a kid’s birthday party.

I was not surprised. I must repeat that, because it is very important. From one second to the next, Frances Hatch’s empty house was in a flash full of the happy chaos of a child’s birthday party, but none of it surprised me. I simply watched and accepted it.

One little boy in a crooked party hat stood in the middle of the hall watching the party whirl around him. He wore a white button-down shirt, stiff new blue jeans, and zebra-striped sneakers. He looked like a miniature Hugh Oakley, even to the color and texture of his long hair and the broad grin on his face. A smile I knew so well now and loved. This had to be Hugh’s boy.

He looked directly at me and did the most wonderful thing. Slowly closing his eyes, he shuddered all over. I knew it was from delight at the party around him. For it was his party, his birthday.

His name was Jack Oakley and he was eight years old. He was the son Hugh and I
would
have when we lived together in this house. We had already talked a lot about having children, joked about what their names would be. Jack and Ciara. Saint Ciara of Tipperary who put out fire with her prayers. And now here was our Jack Oakley standing in front of me, eight years old today, looking like his father. There was some of me in him too. The high forehead and upward curve of the eyebrows.

I didn’t move, scared if I did, this gorgeous vision of our future would go away. The boy looked at me and, still smiling, threw his small hands in the air as if they were full of confetti.

“Miranda?”

Startled, I jerked my head to the left. Hugh walked toward me, smiling just like his son. Our son. I looked back to where the boy had been standing. Everything was gone—Jack, the kids, the party.

“Are you okay?”

“We have to live here, Hugh. We
have
to live in this house.”

“But you haven’t even looked around yet! You haven’t moved from this spot. Come on, I’ve got to show you something.” He put his arm around my shoulders and gently pushed me along. I went but looked back once, twice, just in case Jack was there again. The little boy, our little boy, come to show us how wonderful it would be for all of us here.

THE TARZAN HOTEL

I
STOOD AT THE
bottom of the stairs and took a long deep breath. Thirty-four steps. After thirty-four steps I could stop and rest awhile. Just in time too because my arms were beginning to feel like pieces of chewed gum. I was holding a heavy cardboard box. Across the top was written “Sky Average.” Don’t ask what it meant because the contents of the box were Hugh’s. Already that morning I’d taken “Pontus Harmon,” “Tarzan Hotel,” “Ugly Voila,” and now “Sky Average” up to the room he would use as a study. The first time I’d seen him writing those strange phrases onto boxes in New York, I’d looked at them, at Hugh, then at the boxes again.

“Am I missing something? How do you know what’s inside?” He capped the thick marking pen he was using and slid it into his back pocket. “I’m a mood packer. Free form. Things go in a box that connect with each other, but leave enough room for surprise when I open it again and discover what’s there.”

“So what does ‘Tarzan Hotel’ mean?”

“I made it as a kid. I took a Buster Brown shoe box, cut it up, and painted it. I was seven. I made it into a hotel for some of my favorite toys.”

“And you kept it all these years?”

“No.” He looked at me and shrugged.

“Sooo, the Tarzan Hotel
isn’t
in your Tarzan Hotel box?”

“No.”

“Hugh, I think we’ve left the highway here. Should I put it into four-wheel drive?”

“No. Hand me that tape, willya? The Tarzan Hotel was where I kept favorite things. So inside
this
box are some of my favorite things. My pocketknife collection, fountain pens, some great books. That novel you gave me—
The Story of Harold.
Other stuff too, but I didn’t write it down so I’ll be surprised later.”

“You’re a strange fellow, but I like you.”

Hugh made packing up my apartment bearable. I had never liked moving. Who does? But his company and unbroken enthusiasm made the work tolerable and sometimes even fun. Frequently I would get manic and feel we had to have everything done/packed/finished in this or that period of time. He was much more relaxed about it and that mood calmed me down. Often he came to me holding some object—a lamp, a figure, a pair of German binoculars—and wanted to know the story behind the thing. He wasn’t snooping or asking me to disclose any secrets; he wanted to know me through the things I owned. Frequently I found myself telling him in long detail the story behind them and, in doing so, relaxing and pleasantly reliving past times. When both of us were exhausted and dirty, we would take a bath together and then go out for a meal. Invariably we lingered at the table talking about what life would be like in Crane’s View. And not only that. We talked endlessly about what life would be like together. One night after dinner he took a slip of paper out of his pocket and read a poem to me. I kept the paper and had it framed. I must have said the poem to myself hundreds of times over the years:

If I get to love you, please enter without knocking,

but think it over well:

my straw mattress will be yours, the dusty straw,

the rustling sighs.

Into the pitcher fresh water I’ll pour, your shoes, before you leave, I’ll wipe clean,

no one will disturb us here,

hunched over, you could mend our clothes in peace.

If the silence is great, I will talk to you,

If you are tired, take my only chair,

If it’s warm here, loosen your collar, take off your tie,

if you are hungry, there’s a clean sheet of paper

as your plate if there’s food,

but leave some for me—I, too, am forever hungry.

If I get to love you, enter without knocking,

but think it over well: