CHAPTER
seven
I didn’t leave my house for nearly a month after Norman died. When I needed groceries, I called the store and had them delivered to my front door, a luxury I’d never splurged on before. When I didn’t come to church, the pastor and his wife stopped over, knocking on the front door.
I let them think I wasn’t at home and watched out the peephole until they got back into their Ford and drove away.
Normally I would have felt guilty about doing something like that. But I just did not in those days. I simply didn’t.
Marvel came over nearly every day, asking through the locked door if I’d please let her in. I’d just shout from the other side that I wasn’t feeling up to company or that I’d drawn myself a bath or that I’d just put on my pajamas.
The truth was, I’d hardly changed out of my nightie since the days after the funeral. When I did, it was just to put on another one fresh from my dresser.
I collected my mail at night when the rest of the neighborhood was sleeping, opening the front door just wide enough so that I could reach my arm out toward my letter box to grab the contents and sneak my arm back in.
The only envelopes I opened were the bills, which I paid right away, hoping that Norm had left the checkbook balanced before he passed.
Knowing him, he’d kept it to the penny. Just one more thing I had to miss about him.
The telephone went unanswered. I didn’t want to have to explain to whomever was calling that I was still holed up in the house, unable to leave for the time being. I was grieving and I didn’t want to talk to anyone about it.
So, when Marvel let herself in on that Thursday morning using the for-emergencies-only key I kept hidden under a rock in the front yard, I contemplated hiding in the linen closet until she went away. I might have, had she not seen me already.
“Betty,” she said, standing in my living room with hands on her hips, giving me the stern look she typically reserved for the twins and occasionally for Pop. “When was the last time you left this house?”
I didn’t answer her. Merciful heavens, but had she grown up to be like her mother. Direct and bossy. Not that I would have said that out loud, of course.
“My guess is too long.” She looked me up and down from head to foot. “Go get dressed and put your face on.”
“Why?” Oh, how my voice sounded whiny, even to me.
“I don’t know that you can set your hair fast enough.” She crinkled her nose. “It’s not too bad, though. We could just tie a scarf around it if we need to.”
“Why?” I asked again, this time with more insistence in my voice.
“I’m taking you to lunch.”
“No. Today. Come on.” She stepped toward me, her hand out. “Let’s get you ready.”
“But, I . . .”
She grabbed me by the arm, dragging me around my own house. “You haven’t been eating, have you?”
“It’s just . . . my stomach’s been upset.”
“I think all your dresses will be too big.” She pulled me behind her into my room, pointing to the bed. “Sit. I’ll find you something to wear.”
“The black one is clean.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “You need something colorful to wear.”
“But I’m in mourning.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Betty.”
“In the Victorian era widows were allowed to mourn for two years,” I said, plopping down on the bed, slumping my shoulders. “I think I should get at least a few months.”
“Well, in the Victorian era they also sent their kids to work in factories and brushed their teeth with charcoal.” She pushed her lips together and raised her eyebrow at me. “Do you really think they had such great ideas?”
“I suppose not.” I dropped my hands into my lap. “But who’s with the boys? They’re on summer break by now. Surely you can’t leave them alone very long. You should go back home and make sure they’re not lighting each other on fire.”
“Very funny,” she said. “And Pop’s with them. They’re fine.”
I blinked slowly at her.
“They’re mostly fine.” She scowled at me. “Besides, Stan said we can get dessert. Goodness knows we need to get a little weight on you.”
She initiated a staring contest, one that I knew for a fact I could never win.
“Fine. There’s a green one,” I said, resigning. “It’s all the way to the right. I haven’t fit into it for years.”
She pushed the hangers across the rod, reaching for the jade-colored plaid dress, inspecting it before nodding her head in approval.
“Don’t dillydally,” she said, handing me the dress. “I’m starving.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” I answered just before she closed the door behind her.
“And it wouldn’t hurt if you gave yourself a spritz or two of perfume,” she called.
I tried not to be offended.
Marvel insisted that we take a window-side booth at the Big Boy just outside of town. The jukebox was playing “Up on the Roof,” and she hummed along as she looked over the menu. I knew that if I looked under the table, I’d see her toes tapping against the floor along with the easy rhythm of the song.
Oh, how she and Stan had loved going out dancing before the boys were born. The two of them certainly could cut a rug.
Marvel ordered the Reuben sandwich and I asked for the Monte Cristo. As soon as the waitress scribbled it down, I worried that I wouldn’t be able to stomach any food.
Shifting in my seat, I crossed my legs at the ankles.
“I’ve missed you,” Marvel said, taking a sip of the iced tea the waitress had brought her. “What have you been doing with yourself all this time?”
“Not much of anything,” I lied.
The truth was that I had spent an obscene amount of time watching television, hoping to keep my mind occupied so that I wouldn’t think too much about how sad I was. When I wasn’t doing that, I busied myself composing pitch-black poetry that would have made Emily Dickinson look like a member of the Mickey Mouse Club.
But I didn’t need to admit that to Marvel or anyone. Especially since I’d burned all of the awful poems in the fireplace on an unseasonably cold day the week before.
As far as I knew, that was the very thing that could have been expected of the likes of a dime-store Dickinson such as me.
“The twins made cards for you,” Marvel said, rummaging in her purse.
When Marvel had been expecting her first child ten years before, no one had known that there were two in that tummy of hers. Sure, she’d been big, but we all just assumed she’d give us a healthy, fat baby. The greatest surprise of my life was when Stan telephoned to tell us there’d been a bonus boy.
I’d never known that I could love someone else’s children so deep and wide. But those two yahoos had my heart.
She pulled two pieces of paper from her purse. She laid them on my place mat and patted them. The first had a rainbow spanning the front and the words “I hope you feel better soon” in red letters beneath it. Inside was written in careful, ten-year-old-boy handwriting “Love, Dick.”
“Brace yourself,” Marvel said of the second one. “Nick spent a long time on that one.”
“Oh dear,” I said, picking it up.
He must have worn the black crayon down to a nub. The gray one too. Black skies and gloomy gray clouds overshadowed jagged black grass. I was a stick figure in black with a severe red frown. Behind me was a rounded headstone with the letters “RIP” carved into it.
Over my head was a comic strip bubble in which read “I am now a widow.”
“Oh my,” I said, taking in the dark scene with wide eyes.
Slowly, afraid of what might be written inside, I opened the card.
I know you are sad, Aunt Betty, it read. I am sad too. Who will take us fishing in the summer? From Nick.
Holding the card against my chest, I thought of Christmas, when Norman had insisted on getting the twins fishing poles and lures and bait. He’d promised to take them to a pond full of rainbow trout and sunfish as soon as school let out in June.
I put the card down on top of the other, my own stick figure face frowning up at me as if she greatly disapproved of what she saw.
“I’m not the only one mourning him,” I whispered.
Marvel shook her head. “No, you aren’t,” she said. “If you could only see everyone else, how quiet it is at the bakery. Stan says they hardly talk while they’re working anymore. I found Pop crying in his apartment yesterday.”
“It’s too much,” I said, wishing I could block out all she was saying.
“You need to know.” She shook her head. “He said he was worried sick because he called and couldn’t get through to you.”
“I took the telephone off the hook,” I admitted, cringing.
“You cannot do that.” Leaning forward, she reached for my hand, and I gave it to her. “Betty, we’re your family. Don’t close us out.”
“I’m not trying to do that,” I whispered. “This is just really difficult for me.”
“Honey, you may be grieving the deepest, but we’re all hurting. Not only have we lost Normie, we’re scared that we’re losing you too.”
It was the very thing my father had done after my mother died. He’d closed Clara and me out and completely ignored our grief. It wasn’t right. And it was equally as wrong for me to do it to the Sweet family. To my family.
“I am so sorry,” I said, whispering.
“Golly, I’m not trying to make you feel badly, you know.” She put both hands on her place mat palms down. “I just don’t want you to give up on living. It’s okay to be brokenhearted. It isn’t good to let it break your spirit, though.”
“I know.” I used my paper napkin to wipe under my eyes.
“When Mom died I thought I’d never recover.” She rested her head on one hand. “I suppose that’s as close to being depressed as I ever was. You know what Pop said?”
I shook my head.
“He said that he could find joy in losing Mom,” Marvel said. “I thought he’d lost his ever-loving mind.”
Her face broke into a smile, and she huffed out a little laugh.
“What did he mean?” I asked.
“He said that he’d never felt closer to God than in the days after she passed.” She raised both eyebrows. “He said that having a broken heart made God draw ever nearer. His exact words.”
I turned my attention out the window where a shrub had gone untrimmed and a tiny sparrow hopped from branch to branch.
“I admit that I have not felt the Lord draw near,” I said, still watching the little bird and thinking of my Bible collecting dust on my kitchen table. “Maybe it’s because I’ve ignored him.”
“Well, I don’t know that it’s the same for everybody, honey.” She reached across the table and put her fingers on my forearm. “All I know is that if Norman knew you were hiding away in that house all by yourself, giving your life up over him, well, it would kill him.”
I raised both my eyebrows at her, and she slapped a hand over her mouth.
“Bad choice of words,” she said through her fingers.
I could not help but chuckle at that.
Oh, how like coming back to life that felt.
The waitress delivered our meals, asking if we wanted ketchup for our french fries. Marvel did. I looked at my sandwich, hoping I’d be able to eat even half of it.
“I’m not sure that I can . . .” I started.
“It’s okay if you can’t.” Marvel reached across the table and grabbed the salt shaker. “We’ll just get a doggy bag. Nick and Dick will finish off whatever you can’t.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, my throat clenching.
“You’re welcome,” she said, winking.
We ate our lunches and Marvel filled me in on the gossip I’d missed over the month I spent in hiding. She’d ordered us hot fudge sundaes and ate hers and most of mine too.
Eventually the waitress brought the check, which Marvel insisted on picking up.
By the time we slid from the booth, I felt better than I had in weeks.
At home I sat down at my kitchen table with a glass of ice water. I blew the dust off the cover of my Bible. I couldn’t decide what was more shocking, that such a film of dust could have accumulated after just a month or that I’d gone so long without reading a single verse.
Either way, I decided I wouldn’t allow the shame to spoil the good feelings from my lunch with Marvel.
I flipped to a page I’d kept with a clipping of Mom Sweet’s obituary. I held the paper by the edges, careful not to smudge the newsprint.
Her health had failed quickly after the doctor found the cancer. Pop brought her home, setting up a bed for her in the living room so she wouldn’t have to climb the stairs. It didn’t take long for us to realize that even walking across the room was too much for her.
At the end, she had us all circle around her bed and asked us to sing a couple of hymns to her. We did our best, singing past the tightness in our throats. When we’d finished the last song, she smiled.
“Take care of each other,” she whispered, letting her eyes meet each of ours. “Promise me that.”
I pulled the twins’ cards from my handbag, placing them in between the pages of my Bible along with Mom’s obituary.
With a pat of the cover, I got up from the table and retrieved my handbag. Before I climbed into the car I grabbed a pair of garden clippers and a watering can.
It had occurred to me that I’d not yet been to Norm’s gravesite.
It was well past time.