Of course, Avis and Eddie never got along. Idella knew he probably made a pass at her, years back. Avis would allude to it. If Eddie got just one drink in him, he could be a fool. Idella herself might get foolish, have a good time, but Eddie got . . . well, she couldn’t hire someone to work in the store that was too pretty or too young.
And yet he was so prudish about his own daughters. It’s a wonder Barbara got married at all, or even managed to have boyfriends, the way he’d carry on. Staying up waiting for her, looking out the window, following her in his car, following her to the movies, even. Going right into the movie theater where the poor kids were trying to watch the show and charging up and down the aisles like a bull. That was so funny that one time. Barbara snuck up the other aisle and came home. Then he came home hollering, and she was upstairs in her bed, giggling, no doubt. To this day he didn’t know the truth of it.
Idella was suddenly aware that the sound of Eddie munching Pringles had stopped. He’d dropped off again—all the pills he took. She sat looking at him, her Eddie. She thought of the other women, real girlfriends. She knew—she’d find little signs, things that got left behind in a pocket or in the car. Once she found her own wet bathing suit in the glove compartment. There was the one—Iris. She found letters from her. To this day she kept them in her top bureau drawer.
Iris lasted for years. All those nights he said he was working late at the showroom, coming home so late, and there she’d be, standing at the stove cooking his supper at nine and ten at night, and she never knew if he was really at the showroom or not. Some of each, she supposed. What could she do? They had the kids. The store. The house. Where would she go? She thought he’d outgrow it. Then she learned to live with it, as best she could.
But that Iris. That was hard. She’d give him things. He’d come home with shirts, and Idella knew where they came from. And she’d be expected to stand there and iron them. Well, one day she refused. She took all those shirts—one was spread out on the ironing board half done, for God’s sake—and she rolled them into a ball and threw them at him. “They make me sick!” she said. “I’m damned if I’m going to stand here ironing them. I’ll be damned!”
“I’m leaving, Idella,” he started yelling. “I’m leaving!”
“Go on,” she said. “Where you going? To Iris? You going to go have a better life with Iris? I know, see. I know all about it. I have the little cards she sends you and you leave in your pockets. You damn fool. Who the hell does all the washing and ironing? Who has to go through your pockets and find everything? Signed ‘me’ in little letters at the bottom. That’s all—‘m-e.’ That bitch.”
And then it came out. She’d kept it from the kids. She’d kept it from everyone. But one night all hell broke loose. Paulette—she was a teenager, and she was out on a date. It might even have been with Buzz. His first sight of his future father-in-law, that would have been. Typical. Well, Paulette and Buzz went out to the airport. People did then—Idella was no fool. They went out there, and they kissed and watched the planes. So they pulled in to a parking space, and Paulette looked over, and who was in the car right beside them but Eddie! With Iris.
Well, the cat was out of the bag then. Paulette came tearing into the house, so upset. And he came tearing in behind her. What an uproar! And he tried to deny! He tried to holler at
her
for being there! What a time! She told Paulette then, told her all about it. She wasn’t going to protect him if he was going to be such a damn fool. She didn’t have the strength.
So she made the best of it, went over to the store every day and raised the kids. And they had their life together. It wasn’t all bad. And he came home every night. He always came home. But it was in her somewhere, the knowing. A certain sadness, always there.
The part that Avis could never understand was that she loved him. She did. She was his girl. That’s what he used to say, “You’re my girl.” He was no prince, God knows. He’d drive any person crazy. But he wasn’t scary—not like Dad.
When they first met, when they were young, well . . . they were in love. She didn’t think it was possible for someone to fall in love with the likes of her. Skinny old Idella. It was Avis the men went for, with her figure and thick hair and sassy ways. Men about dropped down in front of her—and she’d step right over them and move on to the next. But when Idella found Eddie . . . well, that was all she wanted. He was very attentive then. He couldn’t get enough of her. Big blue eyes and dark hair and that smile. She was quick to marry him, warts and all. Those came popping out later.
And they’d been through so much. Over fifty years. And he worked hard, all those years selling cars. And he didn’t drink—not like she was used to. Avis hated him from day one. And she loved him.
When Idella looked up, Eddie was still asleep. She tried to wake him, but he was too far gone. She hated for him to miss her visit by sleeping. He got himself wheeled in hours before she could ever get there. That broke her heart. Claire told her. She was nice to Edward. He liked to be teased about his blue eyes. It made him feel like some part of him was still attractive.
She guessed eyes don’t lose their color. Seemed like we lose so many things. It all gets taken away, fades away. She was surprised eyes keep hold of their color.
She heard two beeps—Agnes Knight come to pick her up. She thought she’d write something on that board for him to see. So she wrote, “Idella was here.” That way he’d remember she’d come. Poor dear, she thought. I’m lucky. I can still go home and feed the birds, make my own cup of tea, fix a little dinner. I can still do for myself, as long as I don’t do much. I’ll be glad to get home and have a nice cup of tea.
July 1987
Eddie stirred in his chair.
Well, he thought, I guess I’ll ring my bell. Claire give me this steering wheel for my birthday. Goes with my bell, for my wheelchair here. No gas pedal. Then there’s this little car, my Cracker Jack prize. Idella left it for me the day she died. Heart attack. Left it for me, then went home and died.
Remember them bus trips we took, Idella? Maine Line Tours. Never thought I’d want to go somewheres if I wasn’t the driver. But them buses had good drivers. We’d go up to the White Mountains or to Popham Beach. You was always the last one back to the bus. “Here comes the caboose,” I’d say, “the end of the line.” We went to nice restaurants on them bus trips, whole busload of us. We’d get deals—all you can eat. Get your money’s worth, that’s what I liked. Yokum’s we’d go to a lot, down to New Hampshire. Nice restaurant. And the Silent Woman up to Waterville. There’s a name. The sign had a woman holding her head out in front of her on a plate. “That’s a good name,” I said to Idella. I tried to buy one of them signs in the gift shop, but she wouldn’t let me. She wanted me to be silent. She’s silent now. . . . Christ . . . she’s silent. But I hear her in my head. All them years, listening, you keep hearing, like a radio in there.
That chair there, that green one—she sat there. Her throne. Queen Idella, she’d say. I fall asleep in this goddamned wheelchair. They drug me. I used to wake up and look over there at that chair, and she’d be sitting in it. She’d smile and wave to me. “I’m here, Eddie,” she’d say, “I’m here.” Now when I wake up, I look over and I still see her. I talk to her. I tell her I love her. I never said it, ’cause she was. Just was. Over fifty years.
I met her first at the Grange. They had dances out there. She was a wallflower—shy, but pretty. Sitting in the corner with her hands on her lap. She never knew I paid Raymond Tripp one dollar to ask her to dance so I could cut in. I thought she’d like that, me cutting in. I arranged it, see, made a deal.
Next time I seen her, I was selling whiskey out at Old Orchard. The Prohibition. I’d come out on the pier to sell pints, and she was sitting there with Avis. “Eddie Jensen,” she says, “what a surprise!”
Well, we got rid of Avis. Avis was mad! I got Idella saltwater taffy. She wanted to try it. We stood on the pier, waves coming down below. Made me sick to my stomach, but Idella liked watching them come in under us. Then we walked under the pier, in the shadows by the pilings. Idella wasn’t so shy there. We had ourselves some fun. Taffy kisses. We walked along the water. I don’t like getting my feet wet, but Idella was in past her knees, all wet and happy—pretty. We walked till we come to a place with no lights. Must’ve been Pine Point. The lights from Old Orchard was way down the beach. Like diamonds, she said. Like I give her all them diamonds to look at, them lights twinkling.
We sat in the dunes. It was nice. Real nice. Nice as it gets. Didn’t need no whiskey that night. I had all I needed the whole time. That dollar to Raymond Tripp was the best deal I ever made.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My deep thanks go to a number of writers and editors—true allies to Beverly and to me—who were devoted to bringing Beverly Jensen’s work to the world after her death. Especially generous were Beverly’s writing teacher, the novelist Jenifer Levin; the novelist Howard Frank Mosher; the editor and author Katrina Kenison; my old friend Larry Richman, founding editor of the Sow’s Ear Press; Stephen Donadio, Carolyn Kuebler, and Joshua Tyree at the
New England Review;
Stephen King and Heidi Pitlor, who selected
2007 Best American Short Stories;
Michael Eckersley of Digital Design; our agent, Gail Hochman; Christopher Russell at Viking Penguin; and finally Carole DeSanti, our editor, who recognized this book’s potential and guided it to publication.
Our children, Noah and Hannah, made many contributions big and small, and other friends played important roles: Jennie Torres, Beverly’s college roommate; Andrea Vasquez, Beverly’s cousin and fellow writer; and above all Beverly’s sisters, Barbara, Donna, and Paulette.
—Jay Silverman