Through an open window, p.5
Through an Open Window, page 5
Leaning to the right and looking across the lawn, Kitty shook her head. “I can’t see who you’re talkin’ about, but it doesn’t matter, I can tell you my mama’s not here, thank the Lord. She was gonna come, till she heard there weren’t gonna be any men here. Always on the lookout for stepdad number five. Or is it six? I swear to you, I can never remember. I think she was on her third one back when you and me were in school together. It was number four who moved us down to Ocala.” She leaned toward Mouse like a good friend. “God, I had so many dads. You know, she told me the real one ran off and joined the circus, but I found out after he died, he’d just been living in Tuscaloosa with a woman who owned a couple of alpacas. Mama thinks this baby is a fabulous idea, by the way.” Kitty’s laugh came out like a yodel.
The breeze that was casually drifting through the sunlit yard suddenly picked up speed as if to remind everyone that it was really October, not May. Out on the green lawn, a couple of women rubbed their bare arms vigorously in the chill. Mouse’s eyes went back to the spot where the old lady had stood and found her right where she’d been, still smiling over at Mouse. Returning her smile, Mouse suddenly shivered as the wind wrapped back around to where she and Kitty were sitting. Unrolling the sleeves of her black shirt, she buttoned them tight at her wrists. When she looked back up, the old woman was gone, and Mouse suddenly felt colder than ever. Then, without plan or preamble, she said, “I’m scared my husband’s going to have an affair if I don’t get my act together.”
Mouse spoke so softly, almost in a whisper, but Kitty heard her words like a shout. She didn’t laugh this time. She just stared at Mouse for a long moment before turning back to look at her guests, her eyes sweeping the lawn till she found Paris standing by a border of monkey grass with her left hand outstretched, showing off her ring.
“Well, shit, Agatha honey,” Kitty whispered, slowly shaking her head as she gazed at her daughter. “In my book, one cheatin’ husband equals one pregnant bride any day. Seeing as how we’re old friends, you and me need to have lunch.” She reached over and patted Mouse’s arm. Mouse felt tears sting her eyes.
“Call me Mouse,” she said, and Kitty Goldsmith laughed loudly again.
4
Margaret
No matter how much time had passed, Po’boy the basset hound remained a pungent presence in Margaret’s old Volvo. Today, his long-buried smells were reactivated by a noon sun that shone straight down on the top of the car; they greeted her as soon as she opened the door. “Poor old Po’boy,” she said, her words carving a path in the fuggy air. With his droopy ears and despondent expression, this had been how she’d always addressed the basset hound, even in his puppyhood, and as she pulled on her seatbelt and backed out into Albemarle Way, Margaret told herself, once again, that she really should get another dog.
The row of crepe myrtles that marched down the median of the street was now ankle-deep in faded pink blossoms that swirled into the air as the Volvo rolled past. Margaret could remember the year everyone on the street had contributed money to have these trees planted, an effort indicative of the neighborhood’s spirit. Margaret had loved living here since those long-ago days when she and Lawrence had been the youngest couple on the block.
Albemarle Way was part of a cluster of streets that had been threaded through this forest of Southern hardwoods long before neighborhoods had associations to ensure uniformity of architecture and conduct as most did today. When people moved in, they didn’t have to sign any sort of form guaranteeing never to fill their front yard with plastic flamingos. The Searcys had fifteen in theirs. There had never been a ban on flags or garage sales, nor was there a limit on the number of cats one could own, which was a comforting point for Corinda LeCraw, who was up to eight at last count. The houses had sprung up organically, as had their inhabitants, each one unrelated to the others in personality, structure, or style, and this left the door wide open for a potpourri of individuals, none of whom had ever been inclined to formulate opinions on the tastes or proclivities of their neighbors. Even ghosts were obviously welcome in here.
Turning up Dornoch Lane, Margaret couldn’t help but grin when she spied the window boxes full of plastic flowers outside Harriet’s neat little white house. Harriet, who was circumspect about her age—though she had to be knocking on eighty by now—was unmarried and childless and had, at one time or another, babysat nearly every kid in the neighborhood, some of whom were now so settled into adulthood they should probably be called middle-aged. She’d always had too much shade to grow anything colorful, and since discovering the unfading reliability of plastic, had completely given up trying. If you discounted the fact that the flowers weren’t real, Harriet’s window boxes were some of the prettiest in Wesleyan.
Waiting her chance to pull into Meridian Street, Margaret turned the radio up and put the car window down. Reaching behind her, she pulled her hair from the clip that was holding it back, and the wind lifted it up off her neck. She stretched her arm out on the edge of the open window. No longer thick with summer, the light bounced off every surface with a buoyancy Margaret couldn’t help but catch. She breathed in the cool autumn air, her sleepless night forgotten. If today had to be her birthday, she couldn’t have asked for a prettier one.
Cars poured out from the various streets surrounding Griffin Park, and soon Margaret was part of a slow-moving line clearly bound for Wesleyan Square. Even if she hadn’t known what day it was, the traffic would have told her it was Saturday. It wasn’t that there was more of it than on any other day of the week but that it seemed less hurried, more relaxed. People leaned against parked cars in conversation, kids jumped around in backseats. Cherry-tongued dogs hung their heads out car windows, pretending they could fly. Couples ambled along the sidewalks, licking ice cream cones, holding hands. This was the day for long, gossipy lunches and leisurely shopping, the kind of day at which small towns in the South generally excel, especially in the month of October.
The Wesleyan Wasps had obviously won their homecoming game the night before, as several players were out strutting the sun-dappled sidewalks in their neon-yellow jerseys, followed by entourages of adoring classmates and admiring alumni for whom a homecoming win still retained the power to inordinately cheer the soul. Sitting at the red light on the corner, Margaret tooted her horn and waved at Buster Yozzo, her city councilman’s son—sixteen years old and already as big as a Maytag refrigerator—and received a two-armed, fist-pumping wave back from the grinning defensive tackle, along with an ursine roar of residual triumph unique to the high schooler who’s just won his first homecoming game. “Buster, you’ll remember this weekend for the rest of your life,” said Margaret out loud to the empty car as Buster lumbered off toward Mama’s Way Cafe, trailed by a covey of fawning young females who’d no doubt pay for the large piece of pie he was about to order.
Margaret didn’t mind change. We’d all stagnate without it, she thought. Still, it gave her a warm feeling to see those kids going inside Mama’s Way. She’d eaten chicken salad plates there with Aunt Edith and Ida Mae on countless summer afternoons, the three of them sitting on those same leatherette stools at the counter, back when Margaret’s black-and-white saddle shoes still dangled high above the linoleum floor. So many of the old places were gone now, it made the ones that remained seem precious somehow.
Inching between red lights, she stopped in front of the spot on the corner where Ryman Dewberry’s paint store had once been, replaced five years ago by Emlynn’s popular, pretty shop. From the get-go, everybody agreed that had been an improvement. With no son to pass the place on to, Ryman had grown grumpy as he aged. He’d stopped stirring the paint properly a good three years before he finally sold up. Most of the cans had gone rusty.
Spying the red brake lights on a silver Honda parked just to her right made Margaret stop short and flip her turn signal on. This spot wasn’t necessarily convenient—she’d have to cross the street, then walk several blocks to Micheline’s—but you couldn’t be choosy on a Saturday afternoon. Feeling lucky, she whipped in the minute the Honda pulled out.
Taking her place in the flow of pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk, Margaret crossed at the light and passed through the gates of the square, its brick pathways shaded by ancient live oaks. Up ahead in the sunlight, the waters of the large marble fountain swayed and swirled in the wind, landing on her as mist as she neared them. She stopped briefly, lifting her face, enjoying the sensation of coolness on her skin.
Wesleyan had always been her home. She loved it here. How could Aunt Edith want her to leave? And why now? Margaret thought about the photo of the little cottage hanging on her refrigerator door, sighed, and hitched her purse higher up on her shoulder, continuing on till she reached the other side of the square, crossed the street, and turned right.
The noonday sun soaked through the awnings of Micheline’s Restaurant, painting long ruby-red rectangles beneath the tall trees. From twenty feet away, Margaret spied a free table and quickened her pace. She reached it just as a couple of teenagers were about to sit down, but on seeing Margaret, they looked at each other and offered the table to her. This was something she would normally have refused on principle, but it was her birthday, so she just gave them a grateful smile and sat down, pretending not to notice the disappointment clearly written on each of their faces. She ordered a bottle of prosecco and positioned her chair to better see when Harriet arrived.
Despite her years, Harriet Spalding was still a tall woman—Margaret always felt a bit skimpy beside her, as she did around those people with whom she had to stand on her tiptoes to look in the eye. Harriet’s height only added to the authority she wore as casually as people wear shoes. A card-carrying member of that dwindling class of old Southern women who’d possessed the witchy sort of wisdom that told them the things nobody else knew, Harriet Spalding could spot four-leaf clovers from ten feet away. She knew her phone was going to ring a good seven seconds before it did. Thirty-one years ago, she’d told Margaret she was having twins long before the doctor was certain himself, and last March, Harriet had shown up at the house five minutes after Margaret found Lawrence slumped at his desk, snatched away by that very last heart attack. “I just had a feeling,” she’d said.
Harriet was the person to whom Margaret turned whenever she felt overwhelmed, and she was inordinately happy today as she caught sight of the old woman’s head bobbing along above the crowd on the sidewalk, her Chihuahua, Gatsby, leading the way on a short leash. The dog went everywhere Harriet went. Margaret let out a deep sigh, smiled, and pushed a chair out with her foot.
“Heigh-ho, the birthday girl,” said Harriet, bending down to kiss Margaret soundly on the top of her head as Gatsby let out a series of effusive barks. “You don’t look a day over whatever age you want to be.”
“I have no idea what age I’d pick,” said Margaret, reaching down to pat the Chihuahua and earning a small warning growl for her trouble. “Do you?”
Harriet put her large handbag under her chair and Gatsby immediately jumped right inside it, settling down with his fist-size head on the handle. She flipped her napkin out onto her lap. “Me? Well, let’s see. I wouldn’t be a kid again if you paid me. As pudgy and soft as pluff mud back then, before I grew into myself. And mean as hell when I went through the change. You remember. Honestly, you may not believe me, but I’d say I’m fine with the age I am right now. There’s a lot to be said for getting old, if you can keep a good hold on your health, that is. And you don’t have a whole lot of beauty to lose.” She grinned.
“You’re fishing for compliments, aren’t you?”
The old woman laughed. “No, ma’am. I just cheerfully accept facts.” Harriet’s face bore the irrefutable evidence of a lifelong disregard for either the injurious power of a Southern sun or the remedial power of potions and creams. It was as brown and wrinkled as a wadded-up paper bag. She placed her right hand over her heart. “Darlin’, I am well aware of my assets. I can be downright charming when I want to be. I can enjoy a tipple or three in the evening and still walk a straight line to bed. I can sing harmony. I can do the Times crossword in under ten minutes, and in ink. But beauty? Beauty is something I never had and never wanted. Just look at the women who had it. They’re the ones so upset about getting old.” She raised her glass high in the air and winked. “You never miss what you didn’t have,” she said. “Write that one down.”
Margaret laughed again. “First chance I get,” she said. “But I still say you’re fishing.”
They both ordered Prosciutto di Parma with melon, then Harriet reached under the table and held up a green-and-white shopping bag. “Sorry I was a little bit late. Book club ran long. Cora Lynn was there again today, and you know how that woman loves to argue. Then I hotfooted it over to Emlynn’s and, I swear, I think I bought out her entire stock of honeysuckle bubble bath. Could not resist. That stuff is inspired. Here…Happy Birthday!” She rooted around in the bag, came up with a pretty glass jar tied with white silk ribbons, and slid it across the table to Margaret. “Of course I got some for me, too,” she said, and grinned.
“Oh, Harriet,” said Margaret, pulling the beribboned jar toward her. “What a treat! Thank you.” She opened it up and took a deep breath. “That smells divine,” she said. “I’ll use it tonight.”
“You have big plans?” asked Harriet, settling back in her chair.
“Just dinner with the kids. At Jessamine. I considered cooking for half a minute, but when Tommy suggested the country club, well, I just thought, why not? They gave Lawrence full privileges years and years ago, and we never used them nearly as much as I’m sure they expected us to. But now, of course, as luck would have it, Nick’s on call at the hospital and Tom’s wife, Meghan, is up in Virginia visiting her parents. So, it’ll be a small group. Which is fine. It’ll be good just to have all my kids around the same table. You know, I don’t think those three hardly ever see one another. We haven’t all been together since the funeral.”
“Well, I’ll be seeing one of them Monday morning. Gatsby’s due for his monthly nail trim, and he won’t let anyone touch his paws but Lawrie.”
Margaret looked under the table where the little Chihuahua was asleep in Harriet’s handbag. “I want another dog,” she sighed.
“You need one,” said Harriet, firmly. “When you have a dog, it becomes conversation when you talk to yourself.” Margaret laughed.
A soft breeze floated down through the oak trees, the gray moss swaying like clothes on a line. Harriet crossed her legs and closed her eyes. “What a day for your birthday,” she said. “Sublime weather. The only thing that could make it better would be the sound of the sea. I swear, for as long as I can remember, I’ve threatened to leave this town when the weather turns malarial in the summer, but then fall comes, and I forget all about it. Better enjoy it while we can, though. I heard it’s supposed to start pouring down rain tomorrow.”
They sat in stippled sunlight sipping their wine for a good minute or so, both enjoying the companionable silence. Finally, Margaret said, “You wouldn’t ever do it, though? Ever leave here?”
“Oh, no,” said Harriet, eyes still closed. “I’m just like you. This is the only place I’ve ever lived. How could I possibly leave?” The waiter sat a basket of hot bread on the table and Harriet reached for a slice. “No, I imagine I’ll kick the bucket right here in Wesleyan,” she said, putting her knife in the butter. “There are worse places.”
“Hmmm,” said Margaret, running her finger around the rim of her wineglass. “I guess. But sometimes, oh, I don’t know. With Lawrence gone, you know…sometimes I wonder if…”
Harriet lifted her eyes and stared straight at Margaret. “What? Don’t tell me you’re thinking about moving, Margaret Elliot. You’ve lived here all your life. It’d be easier to uproot one of these oak trees. Besides, where on earth would you go?”
“No…I’m not really…I’m just talking,” said Margaret, turning to watch the people passing by on the sidewalk. She could sense Harriet’s stare like a sharp ray of light. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, sighing heavily. “Maybe it’s just this birthday. One more year till Medicare, Harriet! Who knows how much longer I’ve got to make a big change.” She turned up her glass, finishing the wine in one gulp. “Don’t listen to me,” she said. “Like I said, it’s probably just my birthday. Making me think all sorts of unacceptable things. And I haven’t been sleeping all that well lately.”
“Hmmm,” said Harriet, eyes narrowed. “I can tell.” Margaret looked over at her, frowning. “And between you and me,” Harriet continued, undaunted, “it’s beginning to show. You’re got some dark circles under your eyes, dear, and people notice that on someone as fair as you are. Don’t you glare at me. It’s only been seven months since Lawrence died. That can’t have been easy. Is there anything you want to talk to me about? You know, something specific?”
The waiter brought over their lunches and Margaret stared down at her plate, seeing only Aunt Edith’s face. She would never have told any of her other friends; she knew them all too well. Kendra Mitchell would look at her the same way she’d done back in first grade when Margaret told her the truth about Santa Claus. Josie Peterson would laugh so hard she’d wet her pants, and Connie Washburn, who’d never managed to keep a secret for more than five minutes, would stand up in Wednesday night prayer meeting at Solid Rock Church of God and request that everyone “please pray for Margaret.” But sitting here in the sunlight with Harriet Spalding, somebody who’d always been older and wiser than her, telling her secret just seemed like the right thing to do.
