“Well, I’ve . . . been hearing things,” I said.
“Uh-oh. What kind of things?”
“Voices. A man’s voice. Not all the time, but sometimes. At night.”
She leaned back in her chair and sighed. “Well, I am sorry. Lydia told me she’d left a radio there up in the attic. But I told her I’d found no such thing. The truth is, I couldn’t climb all the stairs there, as you recall—I didn’t go into the attic or the basement. I’ll bet you anything it’s turned on and you just don’t hear it in the day.”
“I hope that’s true. If it is, I’ll feel very foolish. And very relieved!”
Delores looked at her watch. “Let’s go see. I’ll go with you. If it’s there, I’ll bring it to her. But I’ve got to hustle—I’ve got two clients this afternoon. I guess Ed Selwin’s show gave my business a jump start—I’ve had more calls than I can handle lately. I don’t like it one bit.”
I pulled down the ladder to the attic, then climbed up. I supposed it was an omission of sorts that I’d never been up there, but I’d never needed to be. I had enough room for storage in the basement, and I’d never liked climbing ladders into attics: going up was one thing, but coming down was difficult. What if I fell? I was alone now; I had to think about such things.
The attic smelled of dust and old fabric, and even with the light turned on, it was dark. But in a far corner, I saw it—an old brown radio. It was on top of a box, next to a chair stationed by the one window. And as I walked closer, I heard it. It was half tuned in—only the low sound of static now. What had Lydia done up here? Sat alone, listening to the radio? Why, when she had the whole house, did she isolate herself further in this way? I turned the radio off, unplugged it, and carried it down to Delores. “So you’re going to bring it to her now?” I asked.
Delores looked at her watch and sighed.
“I’ll do it,” I said, taking the radio back.
“You don’t have to do that!”
“It’s no problem,” I said. I’d see if there was anything in the box the radio sat on—Lydia might want that, too.
I walked Delores out to the car and waved as she drove away. Mystery solved—I wouldn’t be hearing that voice anymore. But I was going to rent Matthew’s room anyway—I’d made that decision the moment I found the radio. I really wanted to stay there once in a while. I’d get to fulfill my Snow White fantasy, and they’d get some much needed income.
I climbed back up the ladder and opened the box the radio had been sitting on. Letters. Two high stacks of them. I opened the one on top, dated December 2, 1942, and written in blue ink on tissue-thin stationery:
My own Lydia,
Say, you should have seen the fellows fighting over those things you sent! I shared some of the hard candy and the fudge, and I’ll pass on the paperback books after I read them. But the salami is mine alone, and of course the scarf you knit, too. Thank you sweetheart, but you shouldn’t have spent so much money—I know how hard you work.
You cannot imagine what it is like here, how far away I am from you and our life in New York. Farther than miles. It truly is a kind of hell, all smoke and redness, and full of things I could never describe to you, nor would I anyway—I have, after all, vowed to love and protect you and I mean that. Oddly, there are times of extreme boredom here, and it is then that I relish thinking of you, of what you see and do every day. I imagine you in your classes, your quick mind, what a fine teacher you will be! (And what a privilege it was to teach you!) I think of your proud independence in your very gait, your hats and gloves, the high sweetness of your voice. I miss talking to you so; we do not enjoy any women’s voices here.
Sweetheart, I must tell you I seem to have lost a good thirty to forty percent of my hearing—from the guns, the doc said. I hope you won’t mind so much. Sadder to say, I have now lost all five of the five friends who came here with me—Lester was killed yesterday, not thirty feet from me. What was good about his horrific death is that it was instant. I will miss him, that short boy who loved telling tall tales. And you know he had a keen appreciation of you—he often told me how much he admired your forthrightness. Stubbornness, you mean, I once joked, and he became quite serious and said no, it was a valuable thing to have a partner whose words you could always trust.
When I come back to New York, I want to get married right away. I know we said we’d wait a little while, but Lydia, it took so long for us to find each other and I, as you, truly believe we are the only ones for each other. Anyway, if I’ve learned anything from this war, it’s that people must not delay doing anything good.
So often, I think about the day before I left, our clothes in a tangle under the apple tree, how golden the light was against your body, how you, too, tasted of apple. I wonder, should I tell you something else? I will, but you must promise to never mention it again after we are at last—at long last!—reunited. I would be very much humiliated to have you bring it up again, face-to-face. But here, where even day is night, I feel a need to say everything to you, it is my consolation and my greatest joy. So I will tell you, Lydia, that every night before sleep I make a fist in a certain way and I pretend that two of my fingers are your mouth. And I kiss it, imagining
My eyes filled and I stopped reading. We are the only ones for each other; I knew exactly how that felt. I let the letter close along its softened folds and slipped it back into the envelope. I checked the postmark of a few more letters, all of them in order and dated before this one; this had been the last. I ran my fingers over the fine script on the outside. Miss Lydia Samuels. The woman she used to be.
I put the letter back on top of the pile and closed the box. I looked at my watch, took in a deep breath. Next week, when I could take the time I wanted to, I would bring it to her—right now, I had to get ready for my friends. I looked out the little window onto the street below and saw children playing, a woman walking a dog, cars passing, the white clouds against the blue sky. I saw my true age and circumstances; my great, great luck.
When I came home from shopping, I filled the house with roses—a bouquet for every room. I put out fancy wines: white, red, Merlot, Syrah. I’d also bought cold cuts and cheeses, fancy spreads, five pounds of mixed chocolates, beautiful breads, and I’d gotten Patricia Locke bracelets for all of us—Locke was a Chicago designer whose work was sparkling and beautiful and celebratory—what could be more fitting?
When the doorbell rang, I stood still for a moment, then opened it wide. There they were. It was stunning, really, how little it had taken to create such a grand moment. We stood on the porch, squealing and embracing, and then they came inside. A mix of perfumes. Nice-looking coats and purses thrown onto the sofa, luggage piled in a heap in the middle of the living room floor. We were all of us talking at once, and we moved as a group to the kitchen and took our places as though we had been there last night. I had imagined showing them to their rooms, giving a little tour of the house and the town, then suggesting we go into Chicago for a show or dinner. What could I have been thinking? I wondered.
Three hours later we were still at the table, on our third bottle of wine. Lorraine was dressed entirely in black: slim pants and a cashmere turtleneck sweater, her hair piled on top of her head and anchored with a silver barrette. Susanna, her straight and still-thick chin-length hair dyed a beautiful auburn, wore jeans, a low-cut turquoise sweater, and three necklaces: a single pearl, coral beads, and a long rope of crystal. Also two silver bangle bracelets and a large oval turquoise ring. Maddy was in a long brown skirt and a flannel shirt over which she wore a wide brown belt. She had not dyed her long hair: it was streaked with gray, like mine, but permed.
We were talking about what failure really meant, because I’d brought up the idea of my store, and had told them all my fears about failing, the biggest one being that I would squander all my money and then have to worry about how to make a living. If I did nothing, I’d be able to live comfortably for the rest of my life.
“But it would be boring!”
Lorraine said. “You have to keep taking risks or you die inside!”
“Well, there are many ways of taking risks,” Maddy said. “You don’t have to open a store to take a risk.”
“Yeah, but listen to her idea,” Lorraine said. “This isn’t just a store store.” She looked over at me. “Tell them!”
I shrugged. “Oh, it’s just . . . I wanted to have a store that would be all different stuff that women love. Beautiful things, but unusual, too. Like antique birdcages with orchids growing in them. Designer jewelry, handmade paper journals. Vintage linens . . .”
“Aprons?” Maddy asked. “I love aprons. Could you have some bib aprons?”
I saw that my friends were all genuinely enthusiastic, and I began warming to the idea all over again. “I’ll have bib aprons,” I said, “and I’ll sew a good-luck charm inside them so everything you make when you wear them will come out perfectly. But you know, I want more than things. I want a place where women can just come and hang around. Maybe we could have readings.”
“Tarot card readings,” Susanna said. “Voice recitals. Performance pieces. Use little kids, like the old backyard plays kids used to do. The blanket curtains, some dog playing a part. My dog, Pepsi, used to always be a wounded soldier. We put catsup on his head and then wrapped toilet paper around it. I’ll be a partner with you; I’ll go in. This is a good idea, Betta!”
“I’ll go in, too,” Maddy said. “I want to help buy things. I want to be in charge of polka dots. I love polka dots. I’d put in polka-dotted plates. And socks. And dog beds. Okay?”
“I already told her I’m in, too,” Lorraine said.
“Okay, okay,” I said, laughing.
“It won’t fail,” Susanna said. “You’ll just have to be willing to put the time in.”
I leaned back in my chair and nodded. “I’ll think about it.”
“If you decide yes,” Susanna said, “I want you to have one thing in there for me. Little legal contracts that your customers have to sign, saying if they buy something for themselves, they’ll use it! Not store it away because it’s ‘too good.’ ”
“Who’s hungry?” I asked, because I was. Also, I wanted to stop talking about something I wasn’t really quite ready for yet.
Maddy looked at her watch. “Let’s go get lobster.”
“I don’t know of any place to get that here,” I said.
Susanna started for the phone. “Then let’s order out. You do have pizza here?”
“Of course!” I said.
“Well, I mean, it’s so little,” Susanna said. “I wish you wouldn’t have mentioned lobster, Maddy. Now I want lobster. These small towns are cute, but . . .”
I suddenly felt my throat tighten. John and I at Bay State Lobster, picking out our dinner. Later, him sucking the meat from the tiny lobster legs, laughing and saying I was crazy not to. A napkin tucked into the throat of his shirt.
“Oh, God,” Susanna said, “did I offend you? I didn’t mean to offend you. Wait, did I?”
“No, I just . . . still rocky.”
Maddy got out of her chair and knelt beside me, took my hands into her own. I stared straight ahead and then into her warm brown eyes. Lorraine and Susanna sat silent. After a moment, I smiled and said, “Okay. Pizza.”
Lorraine said, “While we’re waiting for it, let’s watch a movie. I brought Strangers in Good Company. It’s made by a woman, and the cast is all women and it’s fabulous. You need to stock it in your store, Betta.”
When I turned off the television, there was a collective sigh of appreciation. “ ‘I’m not gonna die; I’m gonna catch some fish!’ ” Susanna said, in perfect imitation of one of the characters in the movie. She was always like that, able to imitate almost anyone, able to enter fully into whatever emotions were required for any scene, even if it was only something she’d witnessed at the drugstore and then come home to act out for us in our tiny living room. She could move her body like a ninety-four-year-old or a toddler; her face had its own extensive vocabulary. I’d seen her star in so many productions in college, and inevitably I’d heard the people behind me whisper about how good she was, who was that? And then she became a lawyer. Now I said, “Susanna, why did you not pursue acting? You were always so good!”
“I was, wasn’t I, darling?”
“No, but you really were!”
She shrugged. “The truth? It was too hard.”
“Being a lawyer can’t be easy.”
She laughed. “Compared to acting, it is! But who ends up doing what they thought they’d do anyway? I wonder about that all the time. Although I have to tell you, once I was getting a manicure and I was watching this woman do my nails, she was about forty-five, and I was feeling so bad for her, her crappy polyester blouse. And I said, ‘Hey, Denise? What did you want to be when you were a little girl?’ And she looked up from sort of dreamily filing my nails and said, ‘I wanted to do nails. My aunt Chichi used to come over every Friday to babysit us, and she’d bring this little overnight bag just full of nail polish and she’d let me do her nails. Red, pink, sparkly silver. I just always loved doing nails. Did my little friends in elementary school, did my high school friends. It’s peaceful; you make people happy—I’m telling you, I volunteer one day a month at a women’s shelter and one day a month at a nursing home, and I am Miss Popularity! And this job, you go home at the end of the day and you’re done, you know? You can just enjoy your family, read a good book, watch TV.’ Then she said, ‘Why do you ask?’ and I said something like, ‘Oh, just wondering,’ because I wasn’t going to tell her I’m the elitist asshole that I am, thinking nobody wanted to do work like hers. So then she said to me, ‘What did you want to be?’ and I said, ‘An actress,’ and she got this really sad look on her face and very quietly and sincerely said, ‘I’m sorry.’ I said, ‘That’s okay,’ and then I spent the rest of the time just looking at the little picture of her family that she keeps on her station, looking at how happy they looked and feeling like an idiot. I thought, This woman is one everyone famous does everything for. You know?”
“I wanted to be a priest,” Lorraine said, and quietly, nearly respectfully, belched.
“What?” Susanna said, and Maddy said, “You did not; you weren’t even Catholic.”
“I know, but I wanted to be a priest.”
“Why?” asked Maddy.
“Because they were the only ones who could touch the host. Remember when only priests could touch the host? I wanted to touch it, too.”
“What did you want to be, Maddy?” I asked.
“I’m being it,” she said.
“Even when you were little, you wanted to be a nurse?”
“Yeah. I went around the neighborhood, saving things. Baby birds fallen from the nest, a kid who scraped his knee. I still like being a nurse, too.”
I yawned hugely, and Lorraine said, “Betta wants to sleep. But what did you used to want to do?”
“Be married,” I said.
Lorraine snorted.
“Really,” I said. “And have a bedroom where all it was, was bed. Like, you’d open the door and it would be wall-to-wall mattress. And a refrigerator built into the wall.” I thought for a moment, then said, “I didn’t think I’d end up here.”
Later, after we had all gone to bed, I heard my bedroom door open. Softly, Maddy called my name.
“I’m awake,” I told her, and she crossed the room and climbed into bed with me. She shook the bed settling in, making exaggerated movements. It made me laugh.
“Hi,” she said, her nose right up to mine.
I smiled at her in the moonlight.
“Are you okay, honey? You were crying pretty hard during the movie.”
“Not as hard as Susanna!” I said.
“Well, for God’s sake. What did you expect? Forever the drama queen. I love being around her because she gives you permission to let it all out. No matter what you do, it won’t be as much as she. Everything she does has to be a big production. Remember whe
n she used to bring her boyfriends home? Remember how loud?” She began making rhythmic grunting sounds.
“I remember.” We giggled together quietly.
“Lorraine was crying, too,” I said. “I was pretty surprised.”
“She’s having a lot of trouble,” Maddy said. “She hardly gets work anymore, and she’s slipping in other ways that . . . well. She’ll tell you about it, I’m sure. She probably hasn’t yet because your plate is pretty full. How are you doing, Betta? Really.”
I sighed. “I don’t know. It depends on the day. Depends on the hour of the day. I feel like I’m walking around carrying a really full—overly full—bowl of water. When I don’t look at it, nothing spills.”
She reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. “Is this okay? The light?”
I nodded.
She lay on her side again, her face close to mine. “I just want to tell you . . . I think it’s bad for you to have too much free time.”
“I need time, Maddy. This is a big deal, what’s happened. I need time to understand all that it means.”
“Yes, but you need some structure, don’t you think? Your store idea is good. We’re all willing to be partners. Why don’t you go ahead and—”
“Oh, I don’t know if I really want to do that. I think I do and then I think I don’t. It makes me really nervous to think about really doing it. Sometimes things feel so . . . unreal right now. Flighty. I think I just need to grieve. I’m entitled to a year of grief, according to the etiquette.”
“How about a year of pleasures, instead?”
“Right,” I said.
“I mean it. So many people who lose someone think that they need to behave in a prescribed way. Of course you’re hurting! But what if you determined to find one thing every day that you—”