When I got to the door, I saw that the house was indeed empty. I looked around to make sure no one was watching, then moved cautiously over to a large front window to peer inside. What I saw took my breath away: egg-and-dart molding, a fireplace with a carved mantel, polished wooden floors in a tiger oak pattern. The stairs curved around to go up; at the landing was a large stained-glass window in the striking form and colors of Frank Lloyd Wright. I pulled my cell phone out of my purse and noticed that my hands were trembling—out of fear or out of eagerness, I wasn’t sure—but I dialed the number on the sign and prayed that someone could show me the house, now.
I asked the receptionist who answered for a Realtor—in fact, was Mr. Henckley there? I asked. I wanted the owner of the company. I thought that was probably the way to do it. “This is Mrs. Henckley,” the woman said, “and I am the Realtor. The only one.”
“Oh!” I said. “I’m sorry, I thought you were the receptionist.”
She laughed. “There’s no receptionist here! It’s just me and the cat. What can I help you with?”
I took in a breath. “I’d like to see a house you have listed. It’s a white Victorian—”
“Oh, the Samuels place. Three-eleven Maple?”
I looked at the number beside the door. “Yes, that’s it. I’d like to make an appointment to see it.”
“Well,” she said, “how about now? Do you want to see it right now?”
I nodded vigorously, then realized what I was doing. “Yes!” I said. “Please. That would be great.” I sat down on the top step. “I’ll just wait right here. I’m right here on the front porch.”
“It’ll take me about fifteen minutes to get there,” she said. “Take a walk around the place. Look at the garden in the back. There’s not much there now, of course, but you’ll get an idea. Lydia Samuels made a bargain with the devil to get a garden like that one. I’ll show you pictures of it in bloom when I get there. What’s your name, anyway?”
I told her, then added, “I’m from Boston.”
Silence.
“But I’m moving. Here. Maybe. I mean, I am moving, for sure. I just don’t know if it’s to this house.”
A moment, and then, slowly, “Well, of course you don’t, hon. You haven’t even seen it yet. You just have a look around and I’ll see you soon. I’m Delores, okay?”
So much for not seeming deranged.
I looked through the window a while longer, then headed for the back of the house. There was a narrow strip garden along the side, but in the backyard was a magnificent plot, gently curving in and out, taking up fully half of the yard. A white stone birdbath was stationed in the center, the pedestal plain and solid, the bath in the form of a shell. Dried leaves had accumulated at the bottom, and I brushed them out with proprietary license. At the far end of the garden there were two birdhouses stationed side by side, one slightly taller than the other. They were sturdy and handsome and huge, made from a dark green metal. Judging from the cobwebs, they’d been long without seed; I hoped this meant the house had been empty for some time. Then the owners would be more eager to sell.
There was a garage, painted the same cream color as the house, with a multipaned window complete with shutters and a window box. I looked through the glass and saw rakes and shovels neatly lined up, flowerpots stacked high on wooden shelving, plastic bags full of something I couldn’t identify, freestanding pieces of latticework, tightly bound piles of garden stakes in all sizes. This was not a backyard garden, I thought; it was the Kennedy compound! I couldn’t possibly take care of it. But I wanted it with the fierce longing and determination of a child fixated on a toy behind glass. It was more than the beauty of this house making me want it. It was that I thought acquiring it would somehow empower me to do more of what I needed to do. There was so much more I would need to do.
I went to the middle of the yard and stood before the barren garden, imagining myself here in the summer. I saw myself lying on a chaise on a warm afternoon, drinking lemonade, a fat novel open in my lap. Bumblebees, weighted with pollen, would fly from blossom to blossom, drunk-looking with their loopy flight patterns. Or I would lie out at night, watching fireflies; there were fireflies in the Midwest.
And then I realized I was having this fantasy thinking that John would be there, too; in my mind’s eye, I’d seen the end of the chaise he lay on, his ankles crossed, his feet bare and tan.
I sat down on the ground and wrapped my arms around my knees. “What do you think?” I asked. Overhead, an airplane flew by. The pilot did not dip his wings. A breeze did not caress my cheek. A bird did not land on a bare branch and sing a song of pointed assent. No whispered words came into my ear, made-up or somehow real. But I did not need such assurances to know what his answer would have been. I had not lost him that much.
I went up to the door on the back porch, hoping I’d be able to see the kitchen, but faded yellow curtains covered the glass completely. And then I heard the sound of someone calling, “Yoo-hoo!”
I’m taking it, I thought. Yoo-hoo, indeed.
A heavyset woman with short white hair came around the corner. I put her in her late sixties, early seventies. She wore an ill-fitting mustard-colored Realtor’s jacket over a black-and-white print dress—you could see that a patch had been removed from over the front pocket of the blazer. Her shoes were red and badly worn. She had been a good-looking woman, in her time; she had beautiful, widely spaced, dark blue eyes and a generous mouth, deep dimples. “I’m Delores,” she said, and pressed her hand flat against her chest. “Whew!” She was apparently out of breath from her short walk from the car.
“Betta Nolan.” I held out my hand to shake hers. Her grip was surprisingly strong, nearly painful. “Glad to meet you,” I said, and had to work hard not to massage my hand.
“How do you like the place?” she said. “Isn’t this garden something? I mean, you can just imagine what happens in the summer. Did you see the Miss Kim lilac bushes in the front? Right up next to the front porch?”
“I saw bushes,” I said. “I didn’t know what they were.”
“Well, they’re Miss Kim lilacs, and you know they’re the ones with the most potent scent, knock you right on your keester. I have them myself, just love them. I believe she’s got mountain laurel somewhere back here, too; I’m not real sure where.” Delores moved over to some bare bushes, frowned at them through the lower part of her bifocals. “This might be it, I don’t know. But let’s go inside, there’s some pictures of the yard in there.”
I started toward the back door, and Delores said, “Oh, no, let’s go in the front. I like to do it that way.”
I followed her around to the front and then up the steps. She was puffing hard by the time she reached the door and began digging in her purse for the keys. “Do you smoke?” she asked, turning around and sizing me up as though she might find the answer by looking.
“No,” I said.
“ ’Jever?”
“Nope.”
“Well, you’re smart. I finally quit. I’ve got the lung capacity of a flea on account of those things.” She unlocked the door, then pushed it open. “Go ahead,” she said.
I stepped into the front hall. There was a musty smell, but it wasn’t bad. It reminded me of the old library I’d gone to as a child, so the association for me was one of pleasant anticipation. There were art-glass windows in the entryway that I’d not noticed before. They were lovely, but much simpler in style than the one by the staircase.
“Let me give you the tour,” Delores said, stepping around me.
I followed her through a formal dining room, complete with shoulder-high wainscoting. The kitchen had not been updated; the stove and refrigerator were old, and I saw no dishwasher. But why would I need one, for myself alone? The truth was, I had always enjoyed the meditative quality of washing dishes, the scent of soap and the squeak of the sponge, the goings-on outside the kitchen window. Anyway, there was a fine farmer’s sink and a generous-sized pantry, both back i
n vogue.
Upstairs were four relatively small bedrooms with fading cabbage-rose wallpaper—again, old enough to be new. There was a very large bathroom with vintage tiles and a claw-foot tub. In my mind, I was already placing my things. Here would be a library, there an office, there my bedroom, and there a combination guest-and-television room.
“Did you want to see the basement?” Delores asked as I stood before the bathtub, imagining myself shoulder-deep in bubbles.
I knew what this question meant. Only serious buyers went into the basement. I wondered what I’d look for. John was the one who knew about electrical systems, heating systems. For one long, wavering moment, I thought, What am I doing? I can’t do this! I need a condominium with water views and a grocery store on-site and a balcony with a container garden and a man wearing a tool belt who’s only a phone call away. I need neighbors on the other side of a wall so that I won’t feel so alone. But that fantasy, though it felt safer, also felt lifeless. And so I said yes, I would like to see the basement.
We started down the stairs, Delores ahead of me and gripping the handrail tightly. At the bottom, she turned, smiling, to ask, “How many’s in your family?”
“It’s . . . just me.” I felt terrible, suddenly. Greedy and foolish.
Delores stared at me. “You would want a house this size all by yourself?”
“You know, it looks bigger from the outside,” I said.
“Well, that’s true.” She stood hesitating for a moment, then said, “Now, listen. I’m going to send you into the basement by yourself for one reason and one reason only. And that is that I can’t walk up the dang steps. Would you mind going by yourself?”
“Not at all.”
Delores directed me to the door and flipped on the light, and I went down narrow wooden stairs. There was a strong scent of earth; this was an old basement.
Off to the right was a finished laundry room with a high window. There were wooden storage shelves and a deep divided sink. That would do. To the left and beyond were the furnace and the electrical box. I went over to them, my arms crossed over my chest. I had no idea what to look for. Well, there’d be an inspection. That man would know what to look for. I proceeded no farther in the dimness; I wouldn’t be needing the space except for storage of the most basic kind.
I came back upstairs quickly and nodded at Delores. “Looks just fine,” I said.
“You know what you’re looking at down there?”
I laughed. “No.”
Delores smiled, a kind and sympathetic smile. “I didn’t think so.” She reached out to touch my arm. “You divorced, hon?”
“No. I’m not.” I moved away from her, into the living room, then to the bottom of the stairs, where I focused on the art glass there, willing myself not to cry.
From behind me, I heard Delores say, “Not a thing in the world wrong with being single. You ask half the married women in the world, they’ll tell you that. Probably more’n half, let’s face it!”
I turned around, and before I could speak, she said, “Oh. I see.” She moved one step closer, then two. “When did he die?” she asked, and when I told her mid-October, she inhaled sharply. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said. “This is way too soon for you to buy a house.”
“No,” I said. “It isn’t. Can we go to your office now?”
“ ’Course we can,” she said, though she made no move at all. I walked past her, out the door, then waited for her to follow me. After a few moments, she did. She closed the door and locked it, checked to make sure it was secure. Then, “You just come along with me,” she said. “It’s not far. It’s easy. Just stay right behind me.”
I got in the car, wiped away two tears, only two, and pulled away from the curb to follow her ancient white Cadillac. I looked back at the house in the rearview, and claimed it.
My husband, John, age fifty-five, was handed his diagnosis of liver cancer by a newly graduated doctor—John’s own had just retired. “As I’m sure you know,” the young man had blushingly begun, and John said simply, “Yes.” We walked out of the office holding hands and cold to the marrow.
Near the end, I started looking for signs that the inevitable would not be inevitable. I watched the few leaves that refused to give up their green to the demands of the season. I took comfort in the way the sun shone brightly on a day they predicted rain—not a cloud in the sky! I even tried to formulate messages of hope in arrangements of coins on the dresser top—look how they had landed all heads up, what were the odds?
I prayed, too, in the way that agnostics do at such times. Sorry I doubted you; Dear God, help us now. I stood shivering on our back patio in the early mornings with my mug of coffee and told whatever might help us that now would be the time. I tried to believe with all my heart that a miracle would come—I knew I needed faith to stand alongside belief. I thought of how after John recovered I would tell everyone that I never gave up hope, and see? But my dreams betrayed me: John, shrunk to the size of a thumb, fell from my purse where I’d been carrying him and was stepped on. In another dream, I took a walk around the block and when I came back, my house was gone.
Three days before he died, John wanted to go to the hospital. In his pleasant private room with a river view, I sat beside him or lay in bed with him, leaving him only to shower or to use the bathroom. The sky stayed gunmetal gray; clouds hung low and threatening; birds flew by in formation, on their way to a kinder climate. Much of the time, John slept, and I studied him as I might a painting: his high cheekbones, his thin but sensuous lips, his overly large earlobes on which he’d once clipped old-lady rhinestone earrings as a finishing touch to his Halloween costume. I watched the subtle play of light on the folds of his blue pajamas—he’d insisted on wearing his own rather than the silly patient gown offered him on admission. In sleep, he kicked off the covers as always, and his winter-white feet were so innocent-looking. I felt fiercely protective of John but utterly helpless as well; when they came to draw blood, my only protest was to look away.
When he was awake, John was lucid, and he returned again and again to making a certain request. He wanted me to move to the middle of the country, to drive on the back roads to a small town I’d never heard of, and start over.
It was something we’d talked about doing together, and just before John got sick we’d invited a Realtor over to our Beacon Hill brownstone for what turned out to be a thrilling appraisal. We’d been ready to put things into motion, and we were excited in some fundamental way we’d not been for a long time. We appreciated the rich contentment of a good marriage and old habits; but there was something evocative and irresistible about our new plans; even the minor anxiety we felt about leaving Boston, where we’d always lived but for our college years, was more compelling than disturbing.
All of this had been my idea originally; born of what I’d call midlife stirrings. By that I mean there’d been no crisis, just a growing awareness that there were other ways of living that I longed to explore. I’d had my head down for a long time, doing something satisfying but ultimately repetitious. Now I wanted to go in a different direction. John had similar feelings and so had warmed quickly to my idea. We agreed that he would give up his psychiatric practice, and I would stop writing children’s books. We had both done well in our careers; we could afford to retire early if we wanted to, or we would find something altogether different to do.
We knew little about the Midwest—we had confined our travels to either coast and to Europe. But we had always been charmed by the people we’d met from there, and it seemed the right place to start a new life: exotic, at least to us, but not as difficult as, say, Prague. John confessed that he’d always wanted to own a little neighborhood grocery store and be on a first-name basis with all the customers—the Midwest seemed the right place for that. For my part, I told John I’d always fantasized about owning a store with a wide variety of beautiful and disparate things: unusual jewelry, handmade quilts and pottery, beautiful cookware and vintage kitchen linens
, ultra-luxurious bath products, journals made of handmade paper, and small watercolors, exquisitely framed. What a Woman Wants, John suggested I call it. He leaned back in his chair that night, smiling and dreamy-eyed. “Maybe we really will open stores,” he said. “Or maybe we’ll sit around on some great big front porch and do not much at all.” Either sounded good to both of us.
John wanted to be sure I did what we’d talked about, even without him. “Follow through on this; it’s a good idea,” he told me. “It will be right for you. You’re going to have all kinds of people giving you advice. You’re going to be tempted to follow some script, to show some sense of propriety. Don’t do it. It will give me peace to know that what you will do is exactly what we talked about.” I began to cry and he took my hand and looked into my eyes. “You’re stronger than you know, Betta; you can do this,” he said. “I’ve seen it happen so often where one person dies and then the other dies in spirit. Don’t let that happen to you.”
“I won’t,” I said, though I did not exactly believe myself.
“And Betta? Try hard to make friends in the new place.” He lay back against his pillow and sighed. “I took you away from people. We kept too much to ourselves. I let you neglect your need for others.”
“No, you didn’t,” I said. But he put his hand over mine and said emphatically, “I did.”
I reached up to smooth one of the wild hairs in his eyebrow and said softly, “I didn’t mind it so much, you know.”
On the last morning in the hospital, when we lay together in his bed holding hands and watching a glorious sunrise, he said, “I want you, even in sorrow—especially in sorrow—to find joy. Will you try?”