Family Blessings

  “Summer leagues,” she replied. “Much better than hanging around the dreary house.”

  “How about you? You just hanging around the dreary house?”

  “I’m going back to work pretty soon. I figure I’ve let Sylvia carry the load long enough. Christopher, about Sunday though . . .”

  He waited, standing with his feet planted firmly in thick-soled black regulation shoes.

  “The kids can’t help me that day. Joey wants to go up to the lake with Denny, and Janice just needs some time yet before she can face the job. So we’ll have to do it some other time.”

  “I’ll help you,” he said.

  “But you’ve helped so much already.”

  “I was planning to help anyway. If you want to go ahead, the two of us can probably handle it all ourselves. If you want to wait for the kids to be there with you—well, that’s fine, too.”

  “It’s not an easy job,” she told him. “I’ve done it before, after Bill died, and it can be devastating.”

  “Then we could spare the kids, couldn’t we?” After a beat he added, watching her very closely, “But I imagine sometimes you get a little tired of sparing the kids and wish they’d spare you.”

  How intuitive, she thought. For a man so young, he could read her with amazing accuracy. Sometimes when she had such thoughts she felt guilty, but hearing him put voice to them filled her with a sense of relief and excused her of the guilt.

  “How did you know?” she asked.

  On his radio a voice came through, sputtering like arcing electrical current. “Three Bravo Eighteen.”

  “Just a minute,” he told Lee, plucking the radio from his belt and nearly touching it to his lips. She had never before noticed what beautifully sculpted lips he had. “Three Bravo Eighteen.”

  The crackly voice said, “Eight two zero west Main Street. Apartment number G-thirty-seven. Report of loud voices. Possible domestic in progress. No one to be seen.”

  “Copy,” he said, then to Lee, “Sorry, I’ve got to go.” He slipped his sunglasses back on. “Let me know about Sunday. In my opinion you should wait for your kids, but if you decide to go ahead we can get it done in three hours. Then you can stop dreading it.”

  She nodded and found herself following him to the door of the squad car, waiting while he got in and scribbled the address on a legal pad beside him on the front seat. He reached for the dash radio to report his car number and the time. “Three Bravo Eighteen en route. Eighteen-oh-nine.” He replaced the radio on the dash, put the car into reverse and said out the open window, “You look tired. Get some sleep.” A simple farewell, but with a familiarity that unexpectedly stirred a reaction deep within her. It was the kind of blandishment a husband might toss out, the kind that implied caring that went much deeper than the words.

  She crossed her arms and watched him leave. She’d seen Greg do it dozens of times, slinging an arm along the top of the seat and craning around to look through the rear window as he pelted backward at ten miles an hour. The car bounced off the concrete apron at the end of the driveway, and he lifted a hand in farewell as he roared away down the street.

  Long after he had disappeared she stood in the driveway looking after him.

  SHEreturned to work later that week to the blessed balm of routine. Opening the store at 8 A.M., brewing coffee, watering all the arrangements in the cooler and checking their care cards to see what day each was made—the familiar motions brought ease, though often she found herself staring into space. Sylvia asked often, “How are you doing, sis?” Their hired arrangers, Pat Galsworthy and Nancy McFaddon, also showed concern, but Lee found herself answering by rote, rather than expressing what she really felt: that she was absolutely dreading Sunday, when she had to face Greg’s possessions. By Sunday she had put a full nine days between herself and Greg’s death, but it helped little in light of the duty that lay ahead. She awakened early, with four hours to spare before church. At 6:30 she was out in the backyard, kneeling on a green rubber pad, pulling quack grass from between the daylilies and wishing it were tomorrow morning and today was behind her.

  By two o’clock the temperature had risen to eighty-five degrees and had five more to go. She put on some faded green shorts and a misshapen cotton shirt, forcing herself to move, step by step, get the truck from next door, drive it across town and face the place where her son had lived. She left the truck in the hot parking lot and struggled up to his apartment with a bunch of nested cardboard boxes bumping against her bare leg. Christopher answered the door wearing cutoff blue jeans and a white T-shirt. Gloria Estefan was singing quietly on the radio. No country music today to remind her of Greg.

  “Hi,” Christopher said, taking the boxes from her, sobered as she was by what they had to do today.

  “Hi,” she answered, remaining on the threshold.

  “Hell of a thing to have to do on a beautiful day like this, isn’t it?”

  He saw her battling self-pity, but it won and her face began to crumple. The boxes hit the floor and suddenly she was in his arms, being held hard against his sturdy chest. After a moment he said, “I think you should have waited for your kids.”

  “No, I’ll be all right. I promise I will.” She withdrew and took a deep breath.

  “You sure?”

  She nodded hard, as if convincing herself.

  He’d known this moment would be difficult for her and had done all he could to make it easier. “I’ve got his bed all taken apart and I’ve sorted through our CDs and got all of his put into one box.”

  She sniffed once, ran a hand beneath her nose and said, “Good. Let’s get to work then.”

  They went directly into Greg’s bedroom, where his mattress and box spring were leaning against the wall.

  “I washed his bedding and put it in that bag.” He pointed. “And the stuff wrapped in newspaper is everything that was on his wall and on top of his chest of drawers—pictures, certificates from the department. His shoot badge and merit badges and all that stuff are in here.” He squatted and touched a shoe box. “I took care of returning his gun to the department, and his cuffs and radio and whatever had to be turned in.” He lifted his gaze to her before rising slowly to his full height, his palms to his thighs like an uncertain suitor. “I hope I did the right thing. I thought it would make it easier on you.”

  She touched his bare arm in gratitude. “It does.”

  They went to work, she turning to Greg’s closet, he carrying the bed frame out into the beating heat and loading it on the pickup.

  When the contents of the closet were boxed, they carried them out together, followed by the heavy chest with its drawers still full, the mattress and box spring, lugging them down two flights of stairs and onto the bed of the pickup. By the time they finished they were sweating profusely and wiping their foreheads.

  Back inside, the air-conditioned halls felt heavenly. In the apartment the venetian blinds were closed on the west windows. The radio was still playing and Lee turned on the kitchen faucet.

  “How about a Sprite?” Christopher asked, opening the refrigerator door.

  “Sounds good.”

  He found two cans, two handfuls of ice, and had the soda glugging into a pair of glasses when he turned around . . . and stopped pouring.

  Lee was tilted over the sink, scooping handfuls of water onto her face and neck, stretching the collar of her knit shirt and running her hands into it. The hair on her nape was wet, stuck together into short brown arrows. Her green shorts had sneaked up in the back, revealing a rim of white underwear. She turned off the single-lever faucet and began drying her face with both palms. He snatched a hand towel and touched it to her left arm.

  “Thanks,” she said, grabbing it blindly, turning to him with her face covered, pat-pat-patting at her skin the way men didn’t. By the time her eyes appeared above the towel he was pouring their drinks again.

  “Hot out there,” she said.

  He handed her a glass. “This will cool you down.”
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  She took it and drank. He did the same, keeping an eye on her over the rim of his glass. Her face was red from exertion, the hair around it standing out at angles. Her white shirt was damp to the first button.

  He pulled a short black comb out of his rear pocket. “Here,” he said, handing it to her.

  “Oh . . . thanks.” She used it without the slightest self-consciousness, and without the need for a mirror, then handed it back to him.

  “You want to go through the kitchen next?” he asked.

  “I suppose.” She looked up at the cabinets. “What’s in here?”

  “An electric popcorn popper.” He opened a bottom door. “He bought the toaster when the old one went kaflooey, and a set of glasses he said we needed. He brought a few dishes from home, I think—these green ones here, and that pitcher. But most of the dishes and silverware I already had when he moved in. We shared the cost of the groceries, but we had an agreement that we’d each buy our own steaks whenever we wanted them. There are a couple of his in the freezer yet. Rib eyes, I think.”

  He’d been opening and closing cupboard doors as he spoke. When he finally stopped, she said, “Listen, Christopher, this is silly. I’m not going to take his groceries, and these are all things you can use. The few dishes he took from home were just old junk, no family heirlooms, I can assure you. I have no need for anything.”

  “Not even the popcorn popper?”

  “I have one.”

  “Or the toaster?”

  “Keep it.”

  “How about the rib eyes?”

  “You can bring them over on the Fourth of July. Everyone’s bringing their own. I’ve changed my mind about doing the turkey. That was Greg’s favorite.”

  “You mean you’re still going to have the picnic?”

  “I suppose we could pretend we died right along with him, but I’m not very good at acting like that, are you?”

  “No.”

  “A picnic will be good for us. Play a little volleyball again, get some barbecue smoke in our eyes, go out to the park and watch the fireworks. You’ll be there, won’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  They raised their glasses and drank again, filling a void that had inexplicably jumped between them as soon as the room grew silent.

  “Well,” he said, clacking his empty glass on the counter. “I’m going to go sort through the stuff in the bathroom. Why don’t you take a look at the living room?”

  She went into the room where the radio still played. On the sunny side of the apartment it felt warmer, in spite of the closed blinds. A box of tapes and CDs sat on the floor before the open glass doors of the entertainment unit. The potted tree she’d sent from the shop as a moving-in gift looked healthy, its branches weeping above one end of the sofa. On the wall the crisscross wooden rack held twenty-odd caps, with two pegs empty.

  She stood with her thumbnails poking into her thighs, gazing up at it, daunted by it, feeling the suffocation begin, damning it when she’d thought she’d make it through today with flying colors. She steeled herself and selected a cap—a white one with a large maroon A above the bill: Anoka. From his high school days. She carried it to the bathroom doorway and stood for a moment watching Christopher drop things into a black duffel bag balanced on the small vanity top. Quietly, she said, “I’m not sure which ones are his.”

  Chris stopped pulling things from the drawers and turned to look at her. Her mouth was trembling and her rusty eyes looked vulnerable. She put the cap on her head, dropped one shoulder against the door frame and stuck her hands into her front shorts pockets. “This is a test,” she said. “Get through the afternoon without breaking down and bawling . . . because he’s never coming back.”

  “Yeah, I know.” His voice broke a little. He was holding Greg’s toothbrush and toothpaste in his hands. “This is a hell of a job, too. His hairbrush, razor, after-shave—” Angrily he threw the handful into the duffel bag and braced both hands against the vanity top like a runner stretching. “God, this room even smells like him.”

  It struck her how self-centered she’d been, considering only her sorrow, not his. “Oh, Christopher, I’m sorry.” She moved into the small room, pulling the cap from her head, holding it in one hand while laying the other on his back. “You miss him, too,” she whispered. Abruptly he straightened, spun and embraced her. In that white-tiled room with its nostalgic scents of male cosmetics, they closed their eyes while the mirror reflected the two of them locked together, drawing strength from one another, she with Greg’s cap still in one hand.

  “No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s hard enough for you without remarks like that.”

  “But it’s hard for you, too, and if we can’t be honest with each other about our feelings . . .” She didn’t know how to finish.

  “God, what a pair we make, huh? Stumbling along and hugging each other every five minutes like this is the end of the world.”

  “I did so well all week, I thought I could make it through today without this happening. But the caps in the living room . . . somehow I just couldn’t handle them.”

  She opened her eyes and saw herself in the mirror, in Christopher’s arms. His head was bent over her far shoulder, his hands clasped on her spine. Their stomachs and bare legs touched and though she realized most hugs of commiseration would remain more guarded, she stayed where she was.

  He broke the contact first, drawing back and ordering, “Here, give me the cap.” He squeezed the bill into a nice curve, put it on her head and turned her to the mirror, standing behind her with his hands on her shoulders. “There. Look at that. It’s a mother in a bill cap and there’s not a damn thing wrong with it, okay? Matter of fact, you look pretty good in it. You ought to wear one more often.”

  He grinned, coaxing a responsive smile from her. She raised both hands and tipped the cap back a little, then grabbed a big, deep, restorative breath and blew it out fast. “All right, I can get through it now. How about you?”

  “Me, too. Let’s get it done and get the truck over to your house. One thing though.” He dropped his hands from her shoulders and his mood changed.

  “What?” She turned to look up at him.

  “There’s this kid I know. He’s sort of teetering on the brink—not much hope at home, no family life to speak of, both parents druggies trading in their food stamps for money so they can buy their next fix. If you don’t mind, I’d like to give him one of Greg’s caps. This kid respects cops. He’d like to think he doesn’t but he does. A cap could make a difference.”

  “Sure. Give him any one you want. Give him two.”

  They got the caps sorted and the bathroom items divided and sifted through some of Greg’s papers that were stored in a kitchen drawer. About the living room furniture, Christopher said, “I had some, and we bought some together, but I’d like to keep it all. I have receipts and I’ll pay you a fair price for his half of its value. That is, if it’s okay with your kids. If they want anything, it’s theirs.”

  “For now, let’s leave it here.”

  “You should take the fig tree though,” Christopher said.

  “Oh, come on, I can get a dozen more like it wholesale any day I want to. It belongs in that corner.”

  “All right,” he said, “I accept. If you had taken it I’d just go to your store and buy one exactly like it anyway. Thank you.”

  They shut off the radio, carried the last load out and worked together lashing down the mattress and box spring so they wouldn’t blow off. Christopher had put on his sunglasses. Lee’s eyes were shaded by the visor of Greg’s cap. Heat waves zigzagged off the blacktop.

  Christopher tied the last knot and asked, “You okay driving this truck with all that stuff on it?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “All right. I’ll be behind you.”

  He followed her to her house and they unloaded everything into her garage. Janice would be moving back to the U of M c
ampus when school resumed in the fall, and she’d use Greg’s bed and leave her own room intact for weekend visits.

  By the time they finished and returned the truck to Jim Clements, they were hot and sweaty.

  Christopher asked, “Do you know how to swim?”

  “Sure.”

  They were standing in the shade of the garage roof with the overhead door wide open.

  “You want to go? Cool off a little bit? We could drive over to the public beach on Crooked Lake.”

  “Gosh, that sounds good.”

  She went in, put on a suit and oversized shirt and came back out wearing thongs and carrying two towels.

  “Let’s go.”

  He drove.

  She clambered into his Explorer and said, “Wow, I like this.”

  “So do I.”

  “Did you get the rattle fixed?”

  “Yup.”

  They talked all the way to the lake. About cars. And her business. And how she’d chosen the name Absolutely Floral because it would appear first in the yellow pages, and how Sylvia said Lee was crazy to want a name like that, but her psychology had worked—most of their first-time business came from the yellow pages.

  At the lake the beach was crowded. They stripped off their shirts, ran in among children playing in the shallow water and swam out to a diving board. They dove some, swam some, hung on the side of the float and talked some. About surfing, which he’d been watching on TV, and Hawaii, where neither of them had ever been but always wanted to go. They recounted where they’d each learned to swim when they were kids, who they’d swum with. A volleyball plopped into the water ten feet from Chris. He pushed off the raft to return it and they found themselves involved in a game of waterball with a bunch of fun-loving strangers.

  They laughed.

  And tired.

  And worked up a roaring appetite.

  When he pulled the Explorer into her driveway she said, “I have some leftover spaghetti I could nuke.”