Open House (5 page)

7

L
ATE
W
EDNESDAY AFTERNOON
,
A SMALL MOVING TRUCK PULLS
up to the curb.
Promove
. Sounds like someone David might hire. Two men who look as though they must be father and son get out of the truck, talk to each other before they start for the door. I wonder what they’re saying.
Remember—this is a divorce situation,
here. We’ll have to be careful. Don’t say anything to the Mrs.—she might
start bawling
.

I open the door, stand waiting on the porch. “Hi!” I say.
Oh,
God
.

“Mrs. Morrow?” the older man says.

“Yes!”

“We’re here to pick up a few of Mr. Morrow’s things?”

“Yes!” I step out of the way to let them in. “The study is the last room on the right, upstairs. The master is to the left—you’ll find all his clothes at one end of the closet.”

“This won’t take too long,” the man says, and something in the kind tone of his voice reaches my knees. I go into the kitchen, where I will find something to do. I can’t watch them.
We’d gotten
ham and cheese subs for lunch. While we sat on the empty living-room
floor and watched the moving men carry his desk upstairs, David put his
Coke bottle up to mine for a toast. “I love this house,” he said. “We’re
never moving.”

I organize pots and pans, wipe out cupboards, line up spice bottles. When I hear the man call out, “All set!” I come into the living room.

“All set,” he says, again, quietly. Beside him, his son frankly stares at me, three fingers on his hip, football-player style.

“So, if you could just sign here.”

“Oh, sure.” I take the man’s ballpoint pen—it’s greasy—and start to sign my name. And then I drop the pen onto the clipboard and put my hands to my face.

“Oh, boy,” the man says. And then, “I’m awful sorry, Miss.”

I stop crying, pick up the pen, sign my name. Say thank you. Watch them drive away. Go upstairs and regard the empty room.
David, we can’t do it in
here!
Shhhhh! Take off your clothes, we’ll be so
quiet
we
won’t hear us
.

I sit in the middle of the floor and rock like an autistic. There is comfort in it. In the corner, I see a paper clip, and I pick it up and hold it. Then I put it in my pocket. And then I go to the bedroom, look in the closet. Yup. They got it all.

I sit on the edge of the bed, stare at the wall. Then I take the paper clip out of my pocket and put it in the top drawer of the nightstand.

Now. Now I’ll call Karen Wheeler to tell her it’s safe for Travis to come home, and that he can bring Ben, too, if he wants. And I know what Karen will say. She’ll say Oh, well, why doesn’t Travis just stay here for a while? Because she won’t want Ben here. Because what if it’s contagious?

Ben answers the phone when I call. “Hey, Ben,” I say. “It’s Travis’s mom. I just wanted to tell you that Travis can come home anytime. And you can come, too, if you want. Stay for dinner?”

“Oh, okay. Hold on a second.” He puts the phone down and I hear him say, “Hey, T. Want to go over to your house? Your mom says it’s okay.”

Silence. And then Ben comes back to the phone. “He says we’ll just stay here. Okay?”

“. . . Sure. Can I speak to him, though?”

Another moment, and then Ben comes back to the phone again. “Mrs. Morrow?”

“Yes?”

“He’s doing something now. He’ll says he’ll see you later.”

“Oh. All right. Thank you, Ben.”

“It’s just . . . We’re playing this computer game. He’s at the hard part.”

He’s a sweet kid, Ben. He forgives me.

W
HEN
T
RAVIS COMES
home, he asks if the study is completely empty. “Yes,” I say. “Would you like to see it?”

“Why would I want to see an empty room?”

But after we’ve gone to bed, I hear his door open and I know exactly where he’s going. And I know he needs to be alone, going there. My body lies in bed while my mind stands beside him, apologizing, apologizing, apologizing.

8

M
ARIE IS THE FIRST TO ARRIVE
,
READY TO HELP HER MOTHER
move in. It is Saturday morning, a crisp and clear late October day, the sky a rare dark blue. When I went out for the paper, I stood shivering in the driveway for a while, looking up appreciatively until I felt dizzy. Then I came back inside to make banana bread. It’s almost a reflex—every time I feel happy, I need to make something to eat. Also every time I feel sad.

So there is the rich smell of banana bread in the air now, as well as freshly brewed coffee; and Marie sniffs deeply as she takes off her coat. “Smells good!” she tells me. Then, looking around, “Say, this is a nice house! Maybe I’ll move in, too. You know, leave the old man. He probably wouldn’t notice anyway.”

Really?
I almost ask. I show Marie the rest of the house, including the study where her mother will be living. “Perfect,” Marie says. And then, looking at me, “You okay?”

“Yeah!”

“Really?”

“Well . . . Yes. Yes. Thank you.”

And then the Ryder truck arrives, a man driving it who’s been hired to help carry stuff in. There wasn’t much, Lydia had assured me: some bedroom furniture, a few kitchen things, linens. The apartment she lived in before had been mostly furnished.

I stand at the window and watch the man climb out of the truck, note with satisfaction that he is huge. I won’t need to help much. He opens the back doors of the truck and pulls out a brass headboard, which glints magnificently in the sun.

“Boy, that bed is old,” Marie says, sipping coffee and standing beside me. “My mother was born in it. And her mother.”

I see a woman in the bed with wavy, dark hair loosened about her head, perspiring, another woman wearing a long skirt and a white blouse with rolled-up sleeves, standing by to wipe her face with a soft, folded cloth, to speak quietly into her ear, a woman who has had children her self and thus communicates in a higher language.

When I was in labor, David sat beside me eating the dinner the hospital provided and complaining that it was cold. I turned the call light on for the nurse, who, upon entering, asked, “Need something for pain, hon?”

“No, thank you,” I said. And then, pointing to David’s tray, “It’s cold.”

“Oh,” she said. “Okay. I’ll take care of it right away.” She took David’s tray from him, said in a low voice to me, “First things first, right?”
Oh, no, you don’t know him,
I’d wanted to say. But maybe she did.

I see the moving man coming up the walk and I go to the door to meet him. He is probably well over six foot three, and his weight is considerable. He is fat, is the plain truth, and yet I find him extremely pleasant to look at. It has to do with his beautiful black hair, cut in an appealingly shaggy way. And his brown eyes, they’re nice too—golden, almost. He is wearing faded blue jeans, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black suspenders, and red high-top sneakers; no coat. He smells faintly of soap.

“Aren’t you cold?” I ask.

“Nope.” He smiles at me. Nice teeth.

I smile back. Lean against the doorjamb, arms crossed.

“Did you want me to tell him where to put it, Sam?” Marie asks.

“Oh! I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s up—well, here, let me show you.” I lead him up the staircase, conscious of my backside as I always am, leading one damn workman or another upstairs or downstairs. It doesn’t matter who they are: meter man, furnace-repair man, furniture-delivery man: every time I walk in front of them, I can feel them judging my ass. Even if they’re not. But probably they are.

I take him to the study. “This is it.” I move to the window and open the shade. The room fills with light, and, inexplicably, this fills me with a kind of optimism and pride.

The man leans the bed frame gently against the wall, then extends his hand. “My name is King.”

I laugh. “It is?”

“Honest to God. My parents were . . . different.”

“Well,” I say. “I’m sorry for laughing. It’s just, you know . . . Graceland. I’m Sam.”

“So you’ll be Lydia’s roommate?”

“Yes. You know her? Lydia?”

“Just met her. Her and her boyfriend, nice people. They have a lot of class. Something you don’t see much of anymore.” He motions for me to go ahead of him out of the room. “She doesn’t have much stuff. This won’t take long.”

“I made some banana bread, and there’s coffee,” I say. I agree with what he just said about Lydia. Therefore, I will feed him.

Downstairs, I see that Lydia has arrived. She is taking her coat off, adjusting her open-weave cardigan sweater, asking her daughter where the closet is again, and Marie is saying she’s not sure, either.

“I’ll hang that up,” I say, taking her coat, and then, shyly, “Hello. Welcome.”

Lydia smiles, takes my hand between her own. Her hands are warm, strong; not dry and fragile feeling, as I had thought they would be. My hands, however, reflect my nervousness—I know they’re ice-cold. I lead the women into the kitchen, set out cups and plates for them, slice the banana bread.

After we sit down, Lydia pushes a small package toward me. “For you,” she says. And then, when I start to protest, she says, “It’s nothing. Very small.” I unwrap crystal salt and pepper shakers, start to say thank you when I am interrupted by a high-pitched “Yoo-hoo!” At first I’m confused, thinking the moving man has an awfully high voice, but then there is my mother, coming into the kitchen. She is wearing a lavender work-out suit, and her coat is open, car keys in her hand.

“Ma!”

“Well, you never answer the phone. I was on my way back from my aerobics class—” She looks pointedly at Marie and Lydia.

“Lydia, please meet my mother, Veronica Reynolds. Mom, this is Lydia Fitch, my new roommate; and this is her daughter, Marie Howard. It’s moving day—I guess you saw the truck. . . .”

Veronica comes to the table to shake both women’s hands. Her bracelets jangle busily. “Very nice to meet you, what a surprise.” She doesn’t say
surprise
like it’s a surprise. She says it like it’s a dirty trick.

“Banana bread?” Lydia asks, offering her own untouched plate, and Veronica hastily declines. “I’m on my way home, really, just dropped in to see how my daughter’s doing. But apparently she’s doing just fine, isn’t she, got two roommates already!”

“Just one,” Marie says.

“Pardon?”

“Just one, I’m not moving in. I’m just here to help my mother get settled.”

“I see. Where’s Travis?”

“Shopping,” I say. “He went to the mall with Billy Silverman and his mother to find some pants he
must
have. All the rage.”

“You let him buy his own clothes now?”

“I have for some time.”

“Uh-huh. Well! Something
else
I didn’t know.” She looks at Lydia. “Funny, isn’t it, how you can not know so much about those you’re closest to? Okay, I’d better be going, I don’t want to stay too long. Not even invited in the first place, of course.”

“Ma. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. I’m sure you know that.”

“Oh no. Really, I can’t. A lot to do, for tonight. I’m having a man over for dinner. I thought, well, why not lobster, something sort of elegant? And I just found something out about lobster, too. A woman at the gym told me if you slice open their claws after they’re cooked and hold them upside down over the sink, the water will run right out. Then there’s no need for bibs covering up your cleavage.”

A polite silence at the table. Then Veronica tells Lydia, “Well. I hope you’ll be very happy here.” She turns to me. “Want to walk me to the car?”

At the door, we meet King, carrying an armload of clothes and a pole lamp. He nods, smiling, and my mother pulls back to let him pass. “Well!” she says, after we get outside. “Don’t get
him
mad at you! A few pounds getting a free ride there!”

“He’s quite nice, really.”

She climbs into her car, pulls down the visor to check herself in the mirror. “I wonder something,” she says.

“What?”

She adjusts her bangs, leans in closer to the mirror, wipes away a smudge of eyeliner. “I just wonder if you could give me one reason why I couldn’t have lived here with you instead of a total stranger. Who’s
old
.”

Let’s see, I think.
One
reason?

She looks at me. “I mean, your own mother. I just wonder what you could have been thinking that you wouldn’t ask me first.”

“Oh, Ma, this all came about accidentally, all of a sudden. I didn’t plan it. Besides, I don’t know if it’s such a good idea for mothers and daughters to live together after a certain age. Do you, really? I mean, if you need money—”

“I certainly
don’t
need your money! Have I ever asked you for money? Ever? Even once?”

“Well, then, I’m sorry if you feel—”

Veronica puts her hand on my arm, squeezes it. “Oh, it’s all right. I understand. You’re confused right now, honey, doing things on the spur of the moment that you probably don’t understand yourself. You didn’t think to ask me. You probably thought I wouldn’t want to live with you and Travis. Oh now, darling, of course I would. But not quite yet. Maybe a few years from now, all right?”

I straighten, stand silently. What is it that I feel so often around my mother? Amazement? Confusion? Is it anger?

“You know, if I did live here . . . I’ve always thought a little chintz in that family room is all you need. That’s what I’d do. Recover the sofa.”

“Right.”

My mother turns the key in the ignition. Engelbert Humperdinck blasts out a plea for forgiveness, not having known it would end this way. Veronica respectfully turns him down. “Call me, later. There’s someone I want you to meet. This one you’ll really like.”

“Ma—”

She flutters her fingers. “I’ll talk to you soon.” Then she turns the radio back up and pulls away, her right blinker gaily flashing, as it usually is. I head back for the house, irritated at the fact that my mother is right. I am confused.

I
AM DREAMING
that someone is shaking my shoulder. And then I realize that someone
is
shaking my shoulder. “What,” I say loudly, irritated, my eyes closed. Then, sitting up quickly, “What is it? Travis? What’s wrong?”

He puts his fingers to his lips, gestures for me to follow. I look at the clock:
3:07.

“What are you doing?” I change my voice to a whisper, remembering, suddenly, that someone else is in the house. “It’s the middle of the night! Are you sick?” I reach out to feel his forehead.

He pulls away impatiently. “Come with me,” he says urgently, and I follow him down the hall. Outside Lydia’s shut door, he stops, waits. And then I hear it. Snoring. Loud snoring, cartoon variety. I look at Travis, cover my mouth as I start to laugh. But he is not amused. “
Mom,
” he whispers fiercely. “It isn’t
funny
!”

He shakes his head, then goes back into his bedroom, slams the door. I go in after him, sit on his bed. “Travis . . .” He pulls the pillow over his head. I try to take it off and he pulls it more tightly over him.

“You can’t breathe when you do that, you know.”

“Who cares?” His voice is muffled, shaky with tears.

“Come out from under there. I want to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to talk. You’re just
crazy
.” He turns away from me.

I yank the pillow off, turn him over. “Now, you listen here. You listen to me. Don’t you dare talk to me like that. I am your mother. And I am not crazy. I am . . . Things are changing, that’s all, Travis. They are changing because they have to. And don’t you slam doors at three in the morning, either! Some people are trying to sleep.”

He watches me through narrowed eyes, says nothing.

Finally, I say, “Well,
what,
Travis? What’s the big deal? So she snores.”

“She woke me up! I have to go to school tomorrow! I have to get a good night’s sleep!”

I refrain from commenting on this new interest in academic responsibilities, say instead, “Tomorrow’s Sunday, Travis.”

“Well, fine, but she probably snores every night.”

“I suppose she might. But you’ll get used to it. You really will. You’d be surprised what you can get used to. After a few nights, you won’t even notice it.”

“Who wants to get used to it? Who wants an old lady living here, anyway? She’s not even my grandma.”

“No, she’s not.”

“So why is she here?”

“I told you. Dad left. If we want to keep living here, we need a roommate to help pay for the mortgage. Remember, I told you that?”

Nothing.

“Travis?”

“Yes, I remember.” His voice is quiet now, resigned. I hate that he knows what a mortgage is.

“What if she dies here or something?” he asks.

“Pardon?”

“What if she
dies
here?”

“Well, Travis, I’m sure that’s not going to happen.” My God. What if it does? I see myself on the phone, abstractly weeping, saying, “I don’t know her medical history. She just moved in. But I think she’s dead.”