It was past twelve and they hadn’t come back yet. Emily needed to stop reading and get something to eat, but the day was too pleasant, as was the silence she and Arlene had achieved. The radio was playing a Mozart piano concerto, a big ice-cream sundae of a piece that went with the view of the lake, the shadows on the dock. It was a perfect day for golf, and she wished she and Kenneth could go again. But then, it would be an absolute zoo today, the beginning of the weekend. Maybe it was just as well.
Henry’s shoes. She should get them before they slipped her mind.
She had to remember the salt and pepper shakers, and the tumblers for Margaret. The red Fiestaware pitcher. She hadn’t decided about the teakettle, and she was sure she’d find things in the drawers—old church keys and nestled sets of measuring spoons that summoned up memories. There were beer cartons in the garage she could use to pack everything, wrap the breakables in newspaper. And that was just the kitchen. She hadn’t even looked at the upstairs yet.
It was easier to lose herself in the high sky, the clouds blooming heroic above the hills, very Hudson River School. Any urge to move dissolved in this vision, her inertia sharpened and sweetened by the Mozart, and then her book seemed foolish and uninteresting, a waste of time. She needed another week here without the children.
She wished Mrs. Klinginsmith would call already. She’d hoped— vainly—that the septic guy would come and do his thing while everyone was out, but no, she would be spared nothing. All the more reason to savor these peaceful minutes before the storm.
She thought she was calm, considering—too calm, possibly. Her worry all along had been that she would regret selling the place when it was too late, but that wouldn’t happen, she already regretted it. She almost wanted the septic guy to find a problem—if not for Margaret.
Beside her, Arlene shifted and her cushion farted. Rufus raised his head a second, then subsided. Emily tried to remember where she’d found the cushions, and why she’d chosen the blue roses (it was probably all they had at the Jamesway). Their faded ugliness touched her, and for a moment she thought she could use them at home, a little bit of Chautauqua in the backyard. Not seriously though—there was no room in the car.
A breeze stirred the trees, sent leaves fluttering into the lake. She felt like a nap, but there was too much to do. She wasn’t tired, just scattered, distracted by so many loose ends and the inevitability of leaving.
There were peaches in there that needed to be eaten, and meat from last night, and a pitcher of lemonade the children hadn’t touched.
She couldn’t forget Henry’s plaid thermos, the one he took with him fishing—probably out in the garage. She dreaded having to burrow through that mess. It would be easier to ask Kenneth, since that was his jurisdiction.
She remembered seeing a TV movie around Christmastime about a widow who found a cigar box of old love letters while she was going through her husband’s things, and in learning his secrets, discovered herself. Nothing like that had happened to her. Henry had been reliable to the end. He’d had time to go over their finances with her, the insurance and how the taxes would fall out. Later, talking with Barney Pontzer, it all proved true, rounded off to the nearest thousand.
She hadn’t gone through Henry’s office or pawed over his workshop yet, though occasionally she’d flick on the lights and walk through them, admiring his blotter and his circular saw (both immaculate, just as he’d left them), as if touring the house of someone famous. During his life he was steady in his enthusiasms, and they had been modest. His idea of a great treat was taking the whole family out to Poli’s or Tambellini’s, announcing it at breakfast so she wouldn’t start dinner before he got home. The only time Henry had surprised her was by dying, and she had not suddenly become a stronger person, just alone.
From the road came the sustained squeal of brakes, a lull, then a tap on the gas, a lurch forward and the brakes again. Rufus didn’t move.
“Mail’s here,” Arlene said without looking up from her book.
“He’s early. Remind me to stop it tomorrow.”
She stepped over Rufus to get to the door. The station wagon was down by the Loudermilks’, the man leaning out of his window. She approached the box slowly, as if it might explode. She wasn’t expecting anything, unless Louise had written her on her own. Overnight a spider had spun a web around the flag, trapping it against the side. She looked up and down the road, then jumped back as she opened the door.
Nothing, just the mail—glossy coupons, dueling flyers for the Golden Dawn and the Quality Market, and the fall issue of The Navigator, the high school newsletter they received for paying their taxes every year. She ducked her head, double-checking for ants, then slapped it shut. Let the new owners worry about them. They still had to schedule a termite inspection. Maybe they’d find something then.
Walking back to the house, she remembered taking care of her parents’ place in Kersey before it finally sold. The realtor had suggested taking up the carpet to highlight the oak floors, and the day Emily visited (she and Henry stopping by the cemetery first), she’d found it ripped up and discarded in the backyard with the old kitchen cabinets, as if the house had been skinned. She could see what they’d do to the cottage—gut it, maybe even tear it down and build new. The lot was more important, with its frontage. The buyers came from Cleveland construction money. They’d put in a new dock, probably have a massive cabin cruiser.
“Anything interesting?” Arlene asked.
“The Navigator, that’s it.”
Emily took her seat again, then wished she hadn’t. Mrs. Klinginsmith had told her the cleaning service would take care of everything, but she had to at least defrost the fridge and scrub the cabinets, do the bathrooms. It wasn’t how she’d planned on spending her last afternoon here.
And she’d been so worried about the stove. She should have just left it alone. The buyers would want a new one. In a month, all these things she fretted over would disappear, leaving her mind free—for what? Was that why she was stalling now, afraid of facing those lonely hours? She felt tricked, even if she was the one who had engineered the deal.
The Mozart was over and something mawkish and overwrought was on. Tchaikovsky, she thought, making another sugary appeal to the heart, like that horrid movie. It was enough to drive her inside.
“Ready for lunch?” she asked Arlene.
“In a minute.”
She’d forgotten the melon, but she could finish that at breakfast. The children would eat the cold cuts and the yogurts, the bagels and cream cheese. For some reason Lisa had bought two jars of pickles; one of them was still unopened. She actually looked forward to throwing away the ranked condiments in the door, God knew how old some of them were— the salad dressing that had separated, the chili sauce clotted like a scab around the cap. She’d have to get Kenneth to haul the garbage out to the road before he took off.
In the living room the phone rang—Mrs. Klinginsmith—and she shut the door to get it. As she suspected, Arlene hadn’t budged.
“I’ll get it!” Emily said.
“Thank you!”
The answering machine—she hadn’t even thought of it. It was practically new. She’d have to unhook it tonight, make a diagram of the wires.
“Hello,” she said.
“Emily, hey,” a man said, happy to catch her. “How’s it goin’ up there?”
“Hi Jeff,” she said, and wished she’d let it ring. “Good, good. How are you doing?”