CHAPTER
eleven
Just days after my mother died, Dad went through all of her things. She hadn’t owned much, just a few dresses and a drawer of skivvies, a handful of nearly empty paint jars, and a tiny box of jewelry too cheap to be pawned. He’d gathered it all into a pile, carrying it in his arms down to the dumpster.
I’d snuck around the apartment as soon as he stepped out the door, saving little pieces of her from dresser drawers and cupboards and closets, squirreling them away among my own things so they wouldn’t be lost to me forever. None of it was of any value. Most of it was junk—a tarnished Saint George medal, a handful of mismatched buttons, a stained glove without a mate—but it had been all that was left of her.
At the time, I’d thought my dad was trying to erase her. Years later I realized that he’d just needed something to do about losing her, and that was the only thing he could think of.
It was a month and a day since Norm passed, and it seemed like time to let some of his things go.
I hadn’t told Marvel that I’d chosen that day for the job. She would have wanted to be there to offer me her shoulder if I needed to cry or her strength if I couldn’t manage to find mine.
It was work I needed to do alone, though. She wouldn’t have understood if I’d said that. It probably would have ended up hurting her feelings.
I stood in the basement on Deerfield Avenue that rainy Sunday afternoon, staring down a stack of boxes lined up along the wall. I’d already emptied out Norman’s dresser and most of his side of the closet, not without a good amount of tears. I’d folded his clothes, putting them in paper grocery bags for the Salvation Army to pick up the next day.
Hands on my hips, I approached those boxes that Norman had promised to unpack years before. He’d never found the time, even with my near monthly requests for him to do something—anything—with them.
Kneeling on the cold floor, I regretted ever making such a to-do about those stupid boxes. If I’d only known how little time I would have with Norm, I never would have wasted a minute of it nagging him about something so unimportant.
“Now, don’t dwell on it, Betty,” I whispered, rubbing my eyes. “Norman never held it against you.”
I’d been with the man for the better part of my life and only known him to hold a handful of grudges, and none of them against me. He’d loved me too dearly to entertain resentment for me.
“He was a good man.” I nodded and pushed back a curl that had gotten loose on my forehead.
Blowing dust off the tops of the boxes, I bolstered myself just in case spiders or mice had taken up residence inside. All I found in that first box, though, were old sales receipts from the bakery. I put it to the side in case Stan or Albert wanted to go through it. In the next were our old set of mismatched dishes we’d meant to find a new home for. Those would go with the clothes in the morning.
The third box had been sealed, the layers of tape so thick I couldn’t pull it up with just my hands. In the middle drawer of Norman’s desk—just an arm’s length away from where I knelt—I found a razor blade and slit into the tape, careful not to cut myself in the process.
All I needed was to end up getting stitches and Marvel scolding me for doing this by myself.
Pulling up the folds of the box, I found some old bed linens and a lacy tablecloth. Pulling them out, I piled them on the floor beside me. The box had felt too heavy for just a bunch of folded-up fabric.
Meowing to let me know she was there, Flannery came up beside me, peeking into the box and making like she was going to jump inside.
“No, kitty,” I said, lifting her gently and moving her to the side.
Reaching under a set of sheets, I felt something hard. A book? Pulling it out, I knew what it was as soon as it was in my hand. It had been years since I’d last seen it. In fact, I’d thought it was lost years before.
I touched the cover of it as carefully as possible, worried that it would break to pieces if I wasn’t tender with it.
To anyone else it was just another old family album with black and white photographs of long-gone relatives and ancient homesteads. But it was entirely different for me.
It was my only inheritance from when my dad died. The only thing he had to will. He’d not had a business to pass down and he’d never had the privilege of owning a single acre of land. What he’d had was that album. That was it.
Inside were the photographs that told the tale of our family, as ordinary as it was.
“Is this your way of bringing Clara back to me?” I whispered, not knowing if that informal sentence even counted as a prayer. “Or is this a hint? Am I supposed to go looking for her?”
I thought, but didn’t say, how unlikely that would be.
Not opening the album, I stood and—only then realizing that my foot was asleep—limped my way to the steps, leaving the linens and all on the floor beside the cardboard box.
They’d be fine until morning.
I put the album on the coffee table in the living room where I could look at it later if I wanted to.
Yawning, I thought I’d turn in early. Sorting through all of Norman’s things was wearing work, both emotionally and physically. But when I looked at the clock, I saw it was just a quarter ’til eight. That seemed a ridiculous time to go to bed for the night even if I was exhausted. I decided that I’d put a little cold cream on my face and go watch some television to pass the time before it was reasonable to go to sleep.
Only after I had my face sufficiently slathered did someone knock on the door.
“Of course,” I said to my reflection before trying to wipe it all off on a hand towel, hoping I hadn’t missed any of it.
When I got to the front door and peeked out, I saw Albert on my porch, two glass bottles of Pepsi in his hands.
“Well, hello, Albert,” I said, opening the door.
“Hi,” he answered in the uncomfortable way he sometimes had. Then he wiped at a spot on his jawline. “You have a little something . . .”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” I used my thumb to rub it away, finding a good-sized glob of cream there. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” His lips twitched.
“Don’t you laugh at me, Albert Sweet.” I shook my head.
“I would never dream of it.” He cleared his throat. “Say, Betty, I was wondering if I could ask a favor.”
“It depends on what it is.” I pulled the door open wider. “Why don’t you come in.”
He did, only to stop when he saw Flannery sitting in one of the bags full of Norman’s clothes and gazing up at him.
“When did you get a cat?” he asked, handing me one of the bottles of pop. “And what’s in all those bags?”
“Well, the cat arrived yesterday, actually.” I looked down at her. “Our delightful nephews brought her to me as a gift.”
“Oh.” He went down on his haunches and rubbed his fingers and thumb together and clicked his tongue. She bounded to him, letting him scratch behind her ear. “How nice of them.”
“That still remains to be seen.” I chuckled. “And the bags are some of Norm’s things.”
“Ah.” Albie didn’t turn toward me. He swallowed hard. “Would you like me to help?”
“It’s mostly done now,” I answered, stepping into the living room. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“It seems my television is on the fritz.” He looked up at me and grimaced. “It seems such a silly problem.”
“Not silly at all,” I said. “Do you want to watch Ed Sullivan over here?”
“If it’s not a problem.”
“Of course not,” I said. “Should I get you a glass or do you want to drink right out of the bottle?”
“I’m not particular.”
I went to the kitchen and got two glasses, each with four ice cubes.
Even though he said he wasn’t, I knew that he was indeed particular.
Particular. That was a good word for Albert Sweet.
Albert sat on the love seat, and I in my chair. Our glasses of Pepsi perspired on coasters and we each held a small bowl of potato chips in our laps.
That night, Mr. Sullivan was hosting several acts, but I was most interested in hearing Barbra Streisand sing. When she came on the screen, I inched to the edge of my seat, setting my chips on the end table.
Norman had bought me her record when it came out at the end of February. A late Valentine’s Day gift, he’d said. He’d even pulled it out of its sleeve and put it on the turntable, placing the needle right on the very song he’d bought it for.
“Happy Days Are Here Again.”
Even sitting in my chair in front of the television, listening to that young lady sing an entirely different song, I remembered the grin on Norman’s face when the music began to pour out of our old record player. How he’d pushed the coffee table to the side and insisted that I dance with him.
How I’d laughed as he tried to sing along.
How he’d pulled me close to himself, wrapping his arm around my waist and leading me as we swayed to the slower version of the song.
How, even after twenty-three years of married life, he’d still managed to make my heart beat faster.
I forced myself to remember that Albert was just on the other side of the room and that it wasn’t the right time to dissolve into a mess of tears. As it was, the poor man had borne witness to nearly all of my least flattering moments in the past month.
By the end of the song, though, I had tears in my eyes, as much as I had wanted to hold them back.
Albert didn’t notice.
Either that or he was too much of a gentleman to mention it.
“What a voice,” he’d said, clapping along with the studio audience.
It shouldn’t have surprised me when he knocked a tear away from his own eye with the knuckle of his finger.
“I certainly can’t imagine having such talent in anything.” I drank the last of my Pepsi.
“Me either.” He turned toward me and shook his head. “I don’t think anyone wants to watch somebody bake bread on television.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” I sighed. “But they might want to hear you play your cello.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” he said. “There are plenty of better players than me.”
“Well, I’ve never met them.” I rested my chin on my hand and smiled at him.
“You’re biased.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his lap, letting his hands dangle between his knees. It was a way of sitting that all Sweet men seemed to find particularly comfortable, and it was quite endearing. “You know, Norm used to brag about how good you are at writing.”
“He what?” I put a hand to my chest.
“He said you kept a journal, but not as a diary.” Albert gave a subtle smile. “He said you wrote poems and stories. He said they were good.”
“Do you still write?”
“Nothing I’m willing to show anyone.” I shifted my eyes when he tried to meet my gaze.
“It doesn’t do any good if you keep it secret.”
Lucky for me, the program started back up and we both turned our attention to the television. Had I a need to remember what act came on next, I would have utterly failed. For the life of me, I couldn’t pay attention.
All I could think of was how I most certainly did not want to share what I’d written. Not a word of it. Not with anyone. It wasn’t out of pride or embarrassment. Those writings were the only thing I’d ever had to myself.
Keeping them secret might not have done any good for anybody else, but it did good for me.
It was purely out of selfishness, and I didn’t think that was wrong at all.
Before going to bed I went to the living room to turn out the lights. Reaching for the switch on the floor lamp beside my chair, I looked down at the coffee table and saw the photo album.
I thought about bending my knees and picking it up, opening it to look through the pictures. My heart thudded at the idea of the memories inside that little book. Each snapshot held a story that bound me to something or someone I didn’t allow myself to think of very often.
Knees locked and fingers pinched on the lamp’s knob, I turned off the light.