“So your aunt the nun wants to move in with us? And you think it’s a good idea?”
“First off, she’s not a nun, she’s a missionary.”
“Same difference.”
“No, not really. And she isn’t doing the asking. It’s my mom.”
We’re sitting downstairs in front of the flat screen, eating leftover birthday cake with our feet up on the coffee table. Finn has found a way to spread himself so flat that he can rest his plate on his chest, lifting his head to take a bite. The copper stubble on his chin is flecked with icing.
“And that’s the favor you wanted?”
I nod. “My mom dumped it on me this morning. I was, like, whatever, at first—but the more I think about it, the more intrigued I get. I mean, I wonder what she’s even like.”
“Is she old like your mom?”
“Aunt Bel was a teenager when I was born,” I tell him. “So I’m thinking she must be . . . I don’t know, midforties? Not that much older than us.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m still in my twenties, you cradle-robber.”
On the table next to the remains of the cake rest a few more presents Finn brought home with him: a DVD of the Helvetica documentary (which I love), a striped sweater he located by clicking through my Pinterest boards (shows initiative), and best of all, a vintage Minolta Autocord, one of those cool medium-format film cameras with the viewfinder on top, perfect for the kind of portrait and street photography I’m always daydreaming about getting into. A Japanese copy of the famous Rolleiflex Automat, only the copy improved on the original, and is a lot cheaper on the secondhand market.
“It’s serviced and ready to go. The guy at the shop showed me some pictures it took, black-and-white stuff, the real deal. The depth . . . well, they’re completely amazing.”
“You’re completely amazing,” I say, bestowing a kiss. “Sometimes I have my doubts, then you do something like this and I think, ‘He really knows me.’ ”
“Of course I know you.” He gives me his squinty, uncomprehending smile. “I was thinking, you know the half bath in the basement? It would be the easiest thing in the world to blow out the side wall, build it out, and put a worktable in there. You could have your own private photo lab for developing your pictures. You’d like that.”
“Maybe,” I say, envisioning the half bath with no wall, the project abandoned in midstream until he can replace, say, the copper pipes. “We’ll see. I can always have them developed professionally for the time being.”
We watch eating shows on TV. My favorite, chain-smoking chef travels the world, drinking to his heart’s content and showing us his hangovers. Now that’s entertainment. Finn stares over the top of his cake and I watch through the Autocord’s viewfinder, letting the camera dangle around my neck by the strap, fiddling with the silky focus lever until the picture looks razor sharp. After a while, I run upstairs to change into comfy clothes, sweatpants and my favorite T-shirt, a dark gray one a few years old. It fits like a second skin, only this skin comes from my babyhood, it is that soft. On the back in white Futura lettering it says GOOD TASTE. Coming down the stairs, the camera still dangling, I notice a little hole in the shirt, just over my left hip.
“Look at this,” I say, plopping onto the couch.
“Stop picking at it or you’ll make it bigger.”
It looks big enough for my pinkie finger to pass through. Sure enough, I try it and succeed. A vague memory from this morning surfaces. As I made my daily hop into the upstairs bathroom, I bumped the doorjamb and there was a tiny tearing sound. At the time I didn’t know what had ripped—now I do.
“This sucks. It’s not on the seam or I could sew it back up.”
“Can’t you . . . I don’t know, weave it back?”
I laugh. “Right, I should have thought of that. I’ll get out my spinning wheel and fix it right up. I can patch it, or do a Frankenstein stitch, but it’ll look ugly.”
“I’ll get you a new shirt.”
“I like this one,” I say.
“Then leave that hole alone.” He reaches across the couch and pulls my hand away. “Seriously, babe. You’re just going to make it worse. Here, play with your camera some more.”
“All right.”
He turns up the volume on the show, then starts talking over it. “I don’t think Huey’s very happy with me at the moment. He was kind of sulky all afternoon. You know how he gets. Over polite, and then he starts doing exactly what you tell him, being super literal about every little thing. I think he’s ticked off because I didn’t consult him about the press.”
“Hmm,” I say.
“Every time he had to move past it, he would knock up against it and kind of stagger back, making a big show. It was cracking Diana up, but seemed a little dramatic to me. And not in a good way.”
“So what do you think about Aunt Bel?”
“You mean the Nun? I don’t know. You think she’d want to stay very long? More than a couple of days?”
“I have no idea. According to my mom, she has nowhere to live, no money, no job.”
“And you think it’s your responsibility?”
“Not per se. But she’s family.”
“And a missionary to boot.”
“I didn’t know your family was big into missions.”
He waves that away. “They weren’t. But your grandparents were. Right?”
He remembers everything. “Yes. Mom feels like she was always a disappointment.”
“But they loved you a lot, right?”
“Definitely.”
“Well?”
Things are so cut and dried with Finn.
“Mom doesn’t want her around,” I say. “That much is clear. And she made it seem like something funny’s going on with Aunt Bel and my dad.”
“Is there?”
“Finn, Aunt Bel is almost as much of a mystery to me as she is to you.”
He sits up, puts his plate on the coffee table. “Okay, so let me get this straight. Bel ran off on a summer missions trip and never came back. Your grandparents worshipped her, and your mom has never forgiven them, or her sister, for that. Is that about right?”
“As far as I can see. If there’s more, I almost just don’t want to know about it.”
He makes no comment, but I can guess what he’s thinking. If this were his family, we wouldn’t be in this situation to begin with. The Drexels don’t turn up on your doorstep asking if one of their middle-aged siblings returning from overseas can move in with you for a while. For one thing, I don’t see many middle-aged Drexels resurfacing after twenty years. They’re a sensible breed, always looking and planning ahead, aware of their responsibilities and quick to fulfill obligations, not to unload them on others. They exude competence, especially when you stack them up against the Crazy O’Haras.
“This is what you married into,” I say, the thought that a good part of him actually fits in better with my family than his own remaining in my head, and at this moment I want to crawl over there and smother it with affection.
“No, it’s not that. I was just thinking. The spare room upstairs, if we blew out the closet wall and refinished the hardwoods . . .”
Saturday morning I wake up to the smell of coffee. The sheets on Finn’s side of the bed are still warm. I roll over into the heat and breathe deeply of his scent, brushing the hair from my face and stifling a yawn. Padding into the bathroom, I check the mirror over the sink. I rub my eyes. I hear the beat of a pounding hammer downstairs.
I slip on my sweats before going down. The hole in my T-shirt looks bigger to me, but maybe I’m imagining things. In the empty kitchen, I pour myself some coffee and nibble on a piece of toast from the stack Finn’s left on the table. The silver lining when you’re married to a morning person is that breakfast is ready and waiting, more often than not, even on weekend mornings when you’re supposed to be on duty. The hammering sound comes from under my feet. I follow it down the steep basement steps, ducking my head to avoid a collision with the lowhanging bulb.
In the back corner of the basement, illuminated by shop lights, the head of a ball-peen hammer keeps poking through the wall of the half bath. Each crumbling hole spits a cloud of bone-colored dust into the air.
“Finn,” I say.
The hammering stops.
His tousled head appears in the bathroom doorway. “I figured I’d get an early start. The darkroom won’t take long to frame out, then I’ll run out and get some drywall. With any luck, I’ll have everything but the painting done by lunchtime tomorrow. You can pick the colors. I called Chris and got the number of a guy who’ll rent me a sander.”
“A sander for what?”
“The floor upstairs,” he says. “I’ll get it sanded down this afternoon, and then we can refinish. It’ll need to dry overnight, I’m guessing. If you come to the hardware store with me, you can pick out the stain.”
I stand at the foot of the steps in my bare feet, munching toast and sipping coffee, just looking at him, not saying a word.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I say. “I’m going upstairs. You should be wearing a mask to do that.”
“Are you gonna run to the hardware store with me?”
“I’ll let you know.”
You have to love that kind of optimism or it will drive you crazy. And the man looks extra cute with tools in his hands. Is it wrong that I pray the number for the guy with the sander was written down wrong?
In the kitchen, I finish the toast, pour myself more coffee, and start on the weekend edition of the Sun. The hammering continues for another fifteen minutes, then I hear his footsteps ascending.
“Come to think of it,” he says, setting the hammer on the table, “before I go any further on the darkroom demo, I should probably frame out the walls first. Get some two-by-fours and lay out the new perimeter.” He sits at the table and frowns at the empty toast plate. “Although, really, we might want to start with the floor upstairs and see how long that takes. I’ve never actually done it before, but I found a video online.”
He throws on some clothes and heads out in his ancient pickup truck to collect the rental sander. When he’s gone, I dial my father.
“So, you’re entertaining strange women from foreign lands, I hear,” I greet him.
He laughs, and I can picture him leaning back against his kitchen counter, the spiraled cord of the telephone attaching him to the wall by the refrigerator. He’s probably wearing gardening clothes as it’s Saturday, his yard day. And one item is plaid, the other either khaki or navy.
Yes, he has a yard day. A grocery shopping day. An errands day. And an ex-wife living in a tent. Sometimes it’s just too easy to figure out what went wrong in a marriage.
“Somebody has to, Sare. And she helped out on laundry day, so it could be worse.”
From what I remember, Dad and Aunt Bel got along famously.
“Where’s she sleeping?”
“On the sofa.”
After the divorce, he built his home himself, just enough for himself, and nobody but himself.
“Can I talk to her?”
“Why do you want to do that?”
“To invite her over.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yep.”
“Well, just so you know, it’s on your head if something goes wrong.”
“I know.”
“I’ll let her know. Your mother’s coming by tomorrow to pick up something of hers from the storage shed. I can get her to take Bel over in my car. Would that work?”
“If you want. Or I could come get her. I haven’t visited in a while.”
He falls silent a moment. “It would be simpler if Rita just brought her over. It’s a little insane here right now. Bel’s a little . . . off.”
“What do you mean, off?”
“Nothing serious, Sara. Don’t sound so worried. She’s not certifiable or anything—”
“That’s supposed to reassure me?”
“No, no, no,” he says. “It’s the whole family dynamic, you know. I’ve got a ton of questions, and I’m afraid Bel, she just isn’t talking. I don’t think she’s going to either, but that’s just my take.”
She’s just as big a mystery as before. Drat.
“I have to say, doll, that if you took her off my hands, I’d appreciate it. I’ve been a bachelor now for so long, having a woman around . . .”
“Say no more, Daddy.”
He sighs with relief. “You’re an angel.”
“I learned from the best,” I say.
“Speaking of angels, any announcement from you and Finn yet?”
“Daddy . . .”
“Hey, now. You’re my only chance at grandparenthood. I hear it’s a lot easier than parenthood. I’d like to give it a try.”
“I’m sorry I was such a burden.”
“You have no idea, Sare.” He chuckles and I can’t help but laugh. Only my father can get away with this.
“How about this? I’ll take Aunt Bel off your hands and that counts as having a baby. I can only add to the fold at my house so quickly, you know?”
“Ha! You got it. For the meantime. Until you’re adjusted, of course.”
“Deal.” Good. Maybe it’ll buy me another year.
“Hey,” he says. “I’m making my hot milk cake today, doll. I’ll send one over.”
“Thanks. It’ll last about five minutes unless I hide it from Finn.”
“You have my express permission to do so. How is that boy?”
I catch him up on the general scoop, the birthday surprise, my new camera. He’s delighted about everything, promising to come over and watch Helvetica sooner rather than later. Seems we just have a love affair with letters, my father and I.
We ring off and I’m already making a mental list for Aunt Bel’s arrival. I’ve got to get a lamp for that room and wash the sheets for that bed. I wonder what kind of milk she likes? Whole? Two percent? Orange juice or grapefruit? Will she take long showers and hike up our hot water bill? Will she teach Finn to make Kazakh food?
Outside, the city is still on the gray, rainy cusp of spring. According to the forecast, the sun will creep out in the early afternoon, giving the park and the surrounding blocks the brightly scrubbed luminescence that sometimes follows a good drizzle. A nice day to be out on the streets, trying out my new camera, getting the hang of shooting film. I dress upstairs, donning my gray jeans and the striped gray-and-white sweater Finn gave me for my birthday.
Since it’s still wet outside, I trade my usual leather boots for some green wellies and put my raincoat on over my sweater. Then it’s out on the streets, past the colorful row houses and the bakery, past the garage that’s now a bicycle shop and the deli with hand-painted windows. Before we moved into the city, Finn and I lived in a small apartment in the northern suburbs near Cockeysville, where Chris and his parents reside. Out in the country. Nobody in their right mind would ever dream of moving to Patterson Park, which they associated with drugs and street gangs and drive-by shootings.
But they were wrong about our neighborhood. It isn’t spic-and-span. There are still derelict houses, still patches of pavement cracked to hell and back with grass growing up through the gaps. But it isn’t what it was by a long shot. The houses have been reclaimed, restored. People are raising their kids here, starting businesses, living their lives. We have our fair share of hipsters. (You can always tell because, when you use the h-word, people don’t reject it, they simply introduce so many shades of variation that you’re left with the impression you don’t know what you’re talking about.) Don’t get me wrong. Patterson Park isn’t exactly a hipster mecca like Brooklyn, but we do have an open-air market and more tattoo shops than tanning salons, and microbrew pubs, bike transportation groups, and—did I mention?—a letterpress shop. It’s a good place, too, for an aspiring street photographer. Always something interesting to see.
My first capture: a weathered old black man sitting on his front porch.
“What you wanna take my picture for?” he asks, sitting up straight.
“You look cool,” I say.
This makes him smile. “You that little girl over at the old fire station?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You sure prettied up that place.”
“Thanks. Don’t look friendly,” I tell him. “Look severe.”
He laughs, then gives me a scowl. I fiddle with the light metering app on my phone, then make the adjustments and snap away.
“Perfect.”
“Go on, now,” he says, shaking his head in baffled delight. White people.
As I turn the corner in the direction of the park, a lanky kid on a BMX bike pedals along in the opposite direction, his body slumped back, hands hanging at his sides. He’s already past me before I can get him in focus, but I swivel and snap the picture from behind. The Autocord has to be advanced after every shot by a hand-crank of the right side of the camera. I turn the crank and shoot him again, but he’s half a block away by now.
Using my digital camera, I always feel self-conscious taking pictures in public. The clickety-clack of the shutter, the big telephoto lens. Way easier than the manual film camera, but more ostentatious, making me feel like a poseur. The Autocord, because of its leatherette panels and its Flash Gordon–looking double lens, gets a friendlier reception. Instead of aiming the camera at people, looking at them through the camera, I’m resting it against my breastbone, gazing down into the viewfinder. Less intrusive somehow.
“That old thing still work?” a woman in a seersucker housedress of multiple sherbet colors, clearly not one of the newer residents of the neighborhood, calls out from her stoop.
“Yeah,” I say. “Can I take your picture?”
And just like that, she raises her cigarette to her mouth and smiles. Perfect.
By the time I reach the park, a light rain has begun. Faint drops hit my face every now and then and create the occasional pockmark on standing pools of water left from the rain overnight. Over at the basketball courts, some guys play pick-up games, shirts and skins, the squeals of their rubber soles shooting directly from the wet pavement and up my spine. Standing on the edge of the game, I take a few pictures. Once they become aware of me, everybody who gets the ball runs it in for the shot.
“Look at that.” A man on the sidelines comes over, leaning down to stare into the lens. “Is that 3-D or something?”
“No, but it’s film.” I shield my eyes from the emerging sun. Sun and drizzle. I’ve always loved that combination, as if the weather itself is saying, life isn’t always either/or, sometimes it’s both/and.
“So really, you have no idea what your pictures are gonna look like. Not till you get ’em developed. Like in the old days. Huh.”
“Pretty much. Isn’t it a little wet and cold to be playing basketball?” I ask.
“Never,” he says, trotting back to the line.
Arriving home midafternoon, I’m welcomed by the sound of whirring and scraping upstairs. The air in the house tastes gritty. When I reach the top of the stairs, I open the door to find Finn sanding away in the spare room, no mask on.
Before he sees me, I snap his picture. Evidence.
“You think this is a good idea?” I ask.
“What?” He points to his ear.
“I’m not going to shout.”
He cocks his head, then shuts the sander off.
“You’re supposed to be wearing a mask, aren’t you?”
Ever since I can remember, safety has been important. That imaginary friend of mine? He was a real stickler. I heard his voice every time I climbed the sliding board or dove off the high dive at our neighborhood pool. And don’t even get me started about wearing socks on wooden steps. I feel the need to police everybody else’s well-being. Almost needless to say, I was not the most popular kid on the playground at school.
He steps away from the grinder, brushing sawdust off his forearms. “Don’t worry. I rented a machine that sucks up almost all of the dust. But I’ve been thinking. Maybe this isn’t a good idea. Moving the Nun into this room, I mean.” He moves toward me, resting his hands on my hips, pulling me close until my camera pokes his chest. “When you stop and consider, you know what this room should be? Don’t look at me like I’m crazy.”
“You’re getting dust on my lens.”
“Is that a metaphor?” he says, using what he thinks is his sexy voice.
I look at him like he’s crazy. Finn isn’t exactly precise with his metaphors. “No, really. Let me put the lens cap on.”
“I’ll put your lens cap on—”
“Ooh, baby. I have no idea what that entails, but I’m willing to give it a try.” Imprecise metaphor be hanged.
We laugh.
“But you get what I’m saying, right, hon? She can come if she wants, that’s fine with me. We just need to put her somewhere else. I could build out the room in the basement. That could be nice. Like a mother-in-law suite.”
“Finn, no way. She’s coming tomorrow.”
“Wow. That soon?”
“Daddy’s dying over there.”
“No prob, then.”
Finn should have been their child, someone more able to bend in the wind.
“Besides, I’m not sticking my aunt in the basement. What’s wrong with here? If you stop shredding the floor, it’ll be just fine.”
“Okay, but . . .” He makes a frame with his outstretched hands, forcing me to see the room through his fingers. “Wouldn’t this make a great . . . nursery?”
I blink. “We don’t need a nursery, Finn. Not unless you know something I don’t.”
“I’m just saying.” He pulls me back into his arms and nuzzles my cheek. “Maybe it’s time. You’re not getting any younger, after all.”
“Oh, that will convince me.” I push away from him.
“What? You do want kids?”
“Not this minute. Not . . . for a while. What brought this on all of a sudden?”
“Nothing brought it on. We just need to talk about it, that’s all,” he says, following me across the hall into our bedroom. “We’ve been avoiding this discussion for years. Sort of.”
“Look, you married me without the kid commitment, remember? Remember? I said, ‘I don’t know if I want kids or not,’ and you said you were marrying me for just me. Remember?”
“You’ve made sure of it.”
“What is it today? First Daddy, now you?” Suddenly I don’t want to be in the bedroom with him. My heart speeds up as I circle around him back into the hall, then close the bathroom door behind me. My shoe catches on the edge of the no-man’s-land where Finn ripped up the tile, pitching my body forward. Landing on my hands and knees, coming an inch away from banging my head on the edge of the tub, I feel like I’m going to cry. Instead, I slap the side of the tub hard enough that it hurts.
“Are you okay?” Finn calls, tapping on the door.
“I need a second. Can you just leave me alone?”
“Are you sure? I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’ll be out in a minute.”
After a pause, I hear his feet scrape down the hallway, down the stairs. I lift myself up, sitting on the lip of the tub, resting my head in my hands.
Why does the thought of having a child upset me like this?
It’s a bit too much, that’s all. He deserves to have kids, though, and for the life of me, I don’t know why I think I don’t.