“Don’t be so judgmental about a woman who just died,” Renie says. “And stop snooping.”
“We can look,” I say. “Dennis told us to look. I’m going upstairs.”
The first room I come to is his mother’s bedroom, a study in blue: the walls, the curtains, the quilted bedspread. There’s a long dresser with a perfume tray and framed photos. One is of Dennis, his high school graduation picture, I think. He was a handsome boy with a Beatle cut, and an I’m-so-getting-out-of-here look in his eyes. There are two framed photos on the wall that I think Dennis might have taken. One is a candid of his parents at the edge of the Grand Canyon: his father is pointing, his mother has her hand over her mouth. The other is of a group of boys at an A&W gathered around the open hood of a ’57 Bel Air, staring mesmerized at the engine while behind them a pretty spectacularly endowed waitress on roller skates holds a tray of burgers and mugs of root beer high in the air and is ignored.
There is a powder-blue velvet armchair in the corner of the room, a scrapbook propped up against it. In it are photos of Dennis’s parents in their youth, then many of Dennis as a baby, riding his rocking horse, sitting in a high chair with birthday cake plastered all over his face, triumphantly atop his father’s shoulders. At the back are love letters, I think, sent to his mother in 1943; letters from the front, judging from the APO return address of SFC Carl Halsinger. They’re bound in blue ribbon, the ribbon so old it’s fragile now. I know Dennis’s parents are both dead, but I don’t open even one.
There’s a separate envelope, no stamp, and a single line as an address: To Dennis’s future wife.
I swallow, then untuck the flap to see what’s inside. There are several pages of recipes, and the note on top says:
Hello there,
If you are reading this, I am glad of it, wherever I am. I always thought I’d dance at my son’s wedding, but life has its own agenda. I’m awfully sorry not to meet you and to tell you in person what a wonderful man you’re getting, but then I guess you know that. Here are a bunch of recipes for Dennis’s favorite foods that I used to make for him. It’s a tradition in our family that the new wife gets some old recipes and I’m very glad to pass these on.
It is also our tradition to pass on some words of wisdom about how to have a happy marriage. I know a lot of people say things about don’t go to bed angry, start and end each day with a kiss, be together but also spend some time apart, that sort of thing. For me, I guess it can all be summed up this way: Pay attention. The rest falls into place with that, I think.
I hope you live in happiness for a very long time. My husband and I sure did.
Very best wishes,
Janet Halsinger
I page through some of the recipes: Italian spaghetti, Captain’s Chicken, Pudding in a Poke, Cheesiest Macaroni and Cheese, Lemon Icebox Cake, Tricolor Macaroni Salad.
I put the recipes and the letter back into the envelope. The blue ribbon holding the pack of letters from her husband has slid to the end and I move it carefully to the middle, then tuck the letters back into the scrapbook. I put the scrapbook back beside the chair.
I wonder if Dennis’s mother sat here and looked at this album, her mind released from whatever failings she was experiencing and returned to her days of being a young mother in a print housedress and red lipstick, pulling the shades and putting her baby down for a nap, then going down into the kitchen to pore over her Settlement Cook Book for new ideas. Or returned to an even earlier time, when she was a young woman whose man was overseas, and she lay on her bed each night with her eyes closed tightly, her rosary in her hands. So strange: you uncap the pen and put down some thoughts in your head, some feelings in your heart, never thinking about what they will become so many years later, not understanding that you’re making such a treasure out of ink and pulp. I wonder how recently she wrote the letter to put in with the recipes.
The next bedroom, the one overlooking the backyard, is Dennis’s. There are a couple of shirts and a pair of jeans on the bed, probably what he chose not to pack or couldn’t fit in his suitcase. I pick up the jeans and look at the waistline; he hasn’t gained any more weight than I have. There is a tripod in the corner, and a large black bag that I assume holds more equipment. I pick up one of the shirts and smell it: only detergent. I sit on the edge of the bed, and then lie down cautiously, as though there’s another person there whom I don’t want to awaken. I close my eyes and a kind of comfort comes to me, like a cat curled up on my belly. I miss him suddenly, this man I’ve not seen in so many years, miss him deeply and sorrowfully. He feels, suddenly, so known to me. The pictures I saw of him here, I suppose. I knew a woman whose marriage was in big trouble, and when they went to a counselor she suggested they each look at photos of the other as children.
I move to the windowsill Dennis told me he used to watch his parents from and stand there with my arms crossed, looking out into the yard where azaleas and hydrangeas and Stargazer lilies bloom. I wonder how old Dennis’s parents were when they moved here; if they stood in the backyard shading their eyes against the sun to look up at these windows and thought, This is our house, we’ll never leave it.
By the time I get back downstairs, Renie has gone to the car and come back with her computer. She goes into the living room and stretches out on the sofa. “I’m going to work for a while. I need to address someone who’s fifty years old and suffering the junior high–level abuse of a co-worker who used to be her friend. The rest of you can dishonor a dead person.”
“It feels more like honoring, to me,” I say. I start to tell her about the photo album, but then don’t: I want to keep it to myself.
“There’s cold cuts and rolls and potato salad and beer in the fridge,” she says. “Thank God. Oh, and there’s a bag of Oreos in the pantry with a big ribbon on them.”
“Because they used to be my favorite,” I say. “I used to offer him some every time he came over.”
Joni and Lise come up from the basement. “She canned,” Joni says. “It’s unbelievable what’s down there. Asparagus and beets and green beans and corn and cherries and peaches and pears. And sauerkraut. And pickles. And peppers. All those jars, all lined up. God, they’re beautiful.”
She moves to the little kitchen table and sits down, looks around. Then she slams her hand on the table. “That’s it. I’ve made the decision. I’m ready.”
“Ready for what?” I say.
“I want to give people what was offered here. Comfort food. In warm surroundings, none of that pretense. I want to open a restaurant and serve food inspired by what I’ll bet was cooked here. I want my own restaurant, and I’ll have the kinds of things I make for you guys, at home.”
I think about the recipes I just saw. When I see Dennis, I’ll ask if Joni can have copies.
“Oh, I can’t believe it, I’m so excited! I’m going to do it! I have money saved and I’ll take out a business loan and I’ll find a good location and I’ll do it!
“And it will be so much fun. I want it to be like it’s in the fifties and you’re going over to a house like this one and my Aunt Tootie’s, where you’ll sit down and eat meat loaf and mashed potatoes and apple pie only it will be turkey meat loaf and lighter mashed potatoes and apple pie. All those bib aprons I’ve found at the Goodwill? I’m going to cook in them. And all those embroidered tablecloths I’ve collected—I’ll put one on every table. I’ll have mason jars of fresh flowers on every table, too. All the dishes will be different, all the silverware. I’m going to put a television in front so if you have to wait for a table you can watch reruns of old shows like Father Knows Best and Leave It to Beaver.”
“Call it Aunt Tootie’s,” Renie says.
Joni looks at her. “Nope. I’m calling it the Tomato Soup and Toasted Cheese Café.”
Renie shrugs. “I’d go there.”
“You want some quilts to put on the wall?” I ask.
“Yes! And the sign will have two round faces, a boy with a cap turned sideways and a girl
with a big bow in her hair, and they’ll be licking their chops.”
“Want a part-time waitress who’ll work for food?” I ask.
She looks at me, grinning. “Really?”
“Really.”
She grabs her purse. “Let’s go. I’m going to find things for the restaurant in every town we go through, from now on. I wish I’d gotten every funky salt and pepper shaker we saw.”
“Oh, there’ll be more of those,” Lise says. She looks at her watch. “Should we get going?”
“Let me just check my email to see if they had any problems with the column I sent yesterday,” Renie says. She brings it up and says, “Oh wow, my daughter.”
She looks up at the rest of us. “I’m not sharing.” She reads it, nods. “It’s good.”
BEFORE WE GET BACK in the car, I volunteer to take Riley for a walk in one direction while the others go the opposite way. They want to speed-walk, and Riley’s pace is more … contemplative. When you’re in a hurry, it can get on your nerves. When you’re not, it’s enjoyable.
I am almost back to the house when my cellphone rings. When I answer, there is a long pause, and then I hear, “Cece?”
“Dennis?”
We both start laughing and then together say, “How are you?”
“I’m glad you’re alive!” he says.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call.”
“Hold on,” he says, “can you hold on?”
“Sure!”
I stand still, waiting for him to come back to the phone. I’m so excited. His voice sounds exactly the same to me. Dennis Halsinger.
“Cece?”
“Yeah!”
“I’m sorry; I guess I shouldn’t have tried to call. I have to go. They don’t give me one second, this shoot is murder. I’ll call you when I’m back in the States. Answer that time!”
“I will,” I say. “And Dennis?”
Nothing. He’s gone.
I put my phone back in my pocket, and it rings again. Good. Now I can see if he can give me a time frame.
But the number that shows up is the Arms, and I answer saying, “Michael?”
“It’s Annie,” she says. “Are you able to talk for a minute?”
I stop walking, then, dry-mouthed, say, “Yes.” Don’t say he died.
“I’m calling to let you know that Michael and Phoebe are getting married tomorrow.”
“What?” I say, laughing. This information collides so hard with what I feared that at first I can’t process it.
I can hear the smile in Annie’s voice when she says, “It turns out that Phoebe is pregnant. That’s why she was so insistent about seeing him; she wanted to tell him, and to give him the option of giving the baby his name. He really wanted you to come, and in fact he was going to wait until you returned and ask you to come for a visit, then surprise you with the ceremony. But he’s … Well, he’s decided to go ahead and do it tomorrow. He didn’t want to tell you, he didn’t want to interrupt your vacation. But I thought I would let you know in case you wanted to come.”
“What time will it be?”
“Six o’clock tomorrow evening. That’s as soon as the minister Phoebe likes can get here.”
“I’ve got frequent-flier miles; I’ll come home as soon as I can.”
“Good. Shall I tell him?”
“I don’t know; what do you think? I’d kind of like to surprise him.”
“Do that, then,” Annie says. “And I’m so glad you’re coming. He credits you for his getting back with her, you know.”
“He would have, anyway.”
“Perhaps. It will be good to see you, Cece. I’m so glad you’re coming.”
“Me, too.”
I snap the phone shut and stand still on the sidewalk for a while. There are instances when everything around you grows suddenly more vibrant and precious, and this is one of them. I am so happy for the postcard Dennis sent me: look at all it has brought me. I’m so much more alive than I’ve been; I’m so much happier. I realize I am looking forward to things in a way I feared I never would again.
“Let’s go,” I tell Riley and head back to the house. I’ve loved being on this trip, but now I want to go home and go to a wedding.
AT THE AIRPORT, after I get through security, I arrive at the gate fifteen minutes before it’s time to board. I sit next to a young mother whose little girl, maybe three years old, would apparently rather be anywhere but here.
After the little girl emits a shriek that comes close to shattering the plate-glass window behind us, the woman apologizes.
“It’s okay,” I say, but naturally I’m thinking, Oh, please don’t let me have a seat anywhere near hers.
“I’m going to let her run for a few minutes,” the woman says. “Don’t let the plane leave without us.”
“Okay,” I say, as if I can really do anything much about that, and watch the woman carry the little girl out to the walkway. She puts her down, says, “Here I come!” and the girl stops crying and takes off running.
After a few minutes there is the call for boarding and I look to see if I can find the mother, but she is nowhere in sight. I tell the gate agent who scans my boarding pass that a young mother and a little girl have taken off down the walkway, and they are on this flight. She shrugs.
“So …” I say.
“Pardon me, please.” She reaches around me for the next passenger’s boarding pass. I look behind me once more, then move toward the jetway.
Once inside the plane, I settle myself into the window seat. The two seats next to me are empty, and I’m pretty sure I know who will sit there.
Right. I hear a familiar screeching, and here comes the mother rushing after the daughter, saying, “Lindsey, come back here!” She grabs her daughter by the arm and half drags her to my row.
“Oh, hi!” the mother says.
I try to respond equally enthusiatically.
Lindsey gets put in the middle seat. And apparently she would prefer that her seat belt not be put on her. The decibel level rises and people all around are muttering and scowling. “Want me to try?” I ask, and the poor mother nods.
“Hey, Lindsey,” I say, and she stops screaming long enough to regard me suspiciously.
“Did you know this belt is magical?”
No response, but at least the screaming has stopped.
I lean in closer. “If I put it on you, this airplane will lift right up into the air and you will get a surprise. But you have to sit down and let me put it around you.” Surprise, I’m thinking, what can the surprise be? I decide I’ll give her the SkyMall catalogue and tell her to find something she really really wants and who knows, she might just get it.
She sits down, and I snap the seat belt around her. Then I say, “Tell your mommy to wipe your nose, okay?”
She does. Then the plane starts to taxi and I close my eyes and wonder what Joni and Lise and Renie are doing. For the first time since I made the decision to come off the road, I regret it. I think about Lise and the glittery star-shaped sunglasses she found in a travel mart a couple of days ago and has worn since she bought them. I think about the sign we saw advertising PUPPIES FOR SALE, and how we had such a good time playing on the lawn with a litter of seven-week-old goldens. “I have to tell you we’re not going to buy one,” I told the woman who owned the dogs, and she said, “That’s all right, they need the socialization.”
I think of the time we watched a local production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream that was performed outdoors, of the garden party that Renie said she was sure we could wander into unnoticed, but we were noticed, all right. And asked very nicely to leave.
I feel a tapping on my arm. “Where is my surprise?” Lindsey whispers.
I look over at her mother, who appears to be asleep.
“It’s coming,” I whisper back, thinking that if I give her the SkyMall catalogue now, a howling protest may follow. “In the meantime, how about we just have a little conversation?”
“ ’Bout wh
at?”
About what? Good question. I lean in closer to her. “Do you think everyone is carrying a heavy burden?”
“No. I’m not. And needer are you.”
I stare into her face. I try to imagine what she’ll look like when she gets older. “Do you have crayons in your backpack?”
“No. I have glitter markers. And I have coloring books and only one doll who is Cassandra and M&M’s and Go Fish.” She sighs then, a deep and dramatic sigh, as if someone has asked her to relieve Sisyphus.
“Well,” I say. “Would you like to color?”
She nods, and digs in her backpack for markers and her coloring books. “Do you want farm animals or fairy princesses?” she asks.
“Farm animals,” I say, and she says, “Good, because I want the fairy princesses because the farm animals are boring.”
“Okay, let me ask you this: Do any of your fairy princesses have four chambers in their stomachs?”
“What is chambers?”
“It’s like little rooms.”
“Nothing has little rooms in its stomach.”
“Cows do.”
She looks over at my coloring book, at the cow page I’m on. Then she continues coloring the jewels in her fairy’s crown, which, I have to admit, looks like much more fun to color than this cow, which is looking out from the page like it’s my responsibility to think of everything. A lock of Lindsey’s hair is hanging in her eyes, and I reach out to gently tuck it behind her ear. This makes for a familiar pain in my four-chambered heart, acknowledgment that I will never have a child to raise, or grandchildren to spoil. I look out the window for a moment, then ask Lindsey if she has a black marker.