Sister-in-Law

They blamed the house fire on the chimney and the brush fire on the wind, but knowing how it started didn’t undo the harm.  When the ground had stopped smoking, when the neighbors had wandered homeward, Vesta Marshall stood at the edge of the burn, looking at the only thing left standing, the long brick pipe that had made the mess.

At her side, her sister-in-law was crying quietly, her face dark and sooty, with clean, creamy rivulets marking the paths of her tears. She worried a hole in her sweater pocket and trained her eyes on her feet.  “It ain’t real,” she said again.  “It just can’t be real.”

Vesta shook her head.  “Well, it is, Katie.  Stop saying it’s not.”

She stepped away from the other and walked the burn line.  It was just a little amazing how the char met the tender spring grass.  Here is where calamity ran out of steam, she thought, and it was not so blurry a line.  What would they do now?  That house, a dried up tinder box after all, was all that she and Katie had in the world.  Until now, the two aging widows had twelve acres between them and a crooked tin roof to keep the rain off their heads.  Now all they had was the acres.

“There’s no money to rebuild,” she said to the field as much as to Katie.

Katie didn’t have words to answer, but Vesta hadn’t expected any.

She dug in her apron for her pack of cigarettes, then recalled she’d left the match book on the kitchen table earlier.  Staring down the barrel of her last smoke, she felt laughter welling inside of her.  Letting her head drop back, she opened her face to the sky and let it come.

____________

Back at Christmas time, they were invited to a party in town, at the house of Alan and Lena Metrie, whom they had known since childhood.  It was a time-honored tradition; the Metrie’s loved to have folks over, to hear their piano put to use, to serve rich foods and sweets.  The widows were dowdily dressed, but they always felt most welcome.  Lena Metrie had a gift for kindness that never smelled of pity.  Her husband was plump and pleasant, making little jokes that were never as funny the next day, but made for rounds of laughter in the moment.

A lady writer from Richmond who was a cousin of the hostess sat amongst the circle of old friends, smiling as they retold all their stories.  She found Vesta fascinating and watched her keenly through the night.  After the last guest had inched carefully down the snowy walk, she helped Lena clean up the kitchen while Alan went through the rooms, putting out lamps and gathering stray plates and glasses.

“The widow from out in the county,” the lady writer said. “She’s quite marvelous.”

“Katie?” Lena said, climbing onto a stool to put away the punch bowl. “She was so pretty when we were girls.  Such a softness to her, those long lashes.”

“Oh, no.  I meant the other one. The taller one with the widow’s peak and the black hair.”

“Vesta,” Lena said. “I always thought she was the prettier one, too, but not everyone can see it.”

“She has a strong, intelligent way about her.”

“Count you to notice that,” Lena said.  She put the stool back in its place under a table near the back door.  Taking up a cloth to dry more dishes, she said, “They are an odd pair.  Katie’s husband, Hargrove, had asked for Vesta’s hand first, but she turned him down and told him he ought to ask Katie instead.  As I heard it, he asked her why and she said Katie was sweeter and would make him happier.  I guess he wasn’t so much in love with Vesta, after all, because he took her advice.”

The cousin clucked, but said nothing.

“Then, within the year, Vesta married Katie’s brother, Reese.  Hargrove was pretty well off at first, but when the market crashed, he was soon as poor as most people around here.  He and Katie made an apartment of sorts inside his father’s old house.  It was too much to try to keep a grand old place like that warm in the winter.  They got thinner and thinner, which almost made Hargrove handsome for a while.  It didn’t make him any kinder, though, and most of the town knew the way he was treating Katie.”

“How do you mean?”

“He was beating on her, not that she would tell a soul.”

They were silent for a while, stacking plates on the counter, emptying the drainer one swipe of the cloth at a time. Alan came into the room with a jovial, foolish smile on his face, but sensed that something weighty was hanging between the two women.  He slipped a few glasses into the dish water as quietly as possible and left them alone.

Lena said, “When Reese found out, he was livid.  They’re family was as poor as dirt and a little ornery, too, at least if they got riled with any liquor in their bellies.  But they never mistreated their women.”

“What happened?”

“Hargrove got met by the Marshall boys in a side street one night, got taught what a kick in the ribs feels like, a boot in your back.  They worked him over good.  He got pneumonia soon after that, though no one said it was because of the beating.”

“Is that what widowed her?”

Lena nodded.  “Vesta insisted Katie come live with she and Reese out at their place on Coolidge Road.  Just a little cottage and a handful of acres.  They put up a wall to make her something of a room and she brought a bed from the old mansion.  I remember working my garden and watching Reese’s truck roll past with that big mahogany headboard dangling over the side.  If it didn’t fall off before he got up the mountain, I said to myself, it would be a miracle.”

“Vesta must have loved Katie a great deal to share her house with her.”

Lena shrugged, “It’s just what family does, especially if times are lean.”

The lady writer glanced away, an odd smile twisting her mouth.  “Well, I suppose that didn’t occur to me.  I’ve been taking care of myself for a long while and I am a little selfish with my privacy and my space.  What seems like a sacrifice to me is probably not a thought to other folks.”

Lena studied her cousin a moment. “Well, I can think of a lot of women who’d like that kind of life.  To come and go as you please and have no one to consider.”

“It’s lonesome at times, but mostly I enjoy it.”

____________

Katie wiped her face with the back of her hand and moved to stand nearer to Vesta.  Buttoning and unbuttoning her sweater pocket, she said, “Ray said we could spend a few nights with them while we sort things out.  We ought to start down now before it gets dark.  I don’t like his woods at night.”

Vesta smiled, “You child, you.”

Katie blushed.

“Well, I don’t care for them much, either, truth be told.  But I think we ought to stay only tonight.  I don’t care to owe Ray much.  You know how he likes to go on about people in his debt.  He had plenty to say about that plow last year, forgetting how many times Reese used to repair it for him.”

They turned away from the ruins of what had been their life earlier in the day.  In the slanting light, the oaks along the drive were burnished gold and rose.  A breeze flirted with the leaves, carrying still the scent of fire.  Folding her arms over her stomach, Vesta said, “What about that place of yours in town?”

“Hargrove’s place?” Katie sounded frightened.

Tensing for an argument, Vesta said, “Yep.”

“I can’t imagine we could save it.”

“It was built to last and the last time I saw it, the roof still looked good.”

“But the windows. The porch is rotting off.  I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Katie paused, adding, “Reese always wanted me to sell it.”

“So you’d have some money.”

“But you always said no.”

“Because you’d never have made what it was worth.”

The sun lowered as they entered into the neighbor woods, but the path was well worn and well known, so the kept their pace. Vesta’s pale features shone in the shadows, a sturdy beacon as they had always been to Katie.  She hung her head, considering her sister-in-law’s suggestion.  It terrified her to think of going back to that house.  She found herself stifling a sob.

“Oh heavens,” Vesta said.

“I’m sorry.  I’m afraid it’ll be haunted.”

“Any ghost you find there, you’ll have brought with you.”

They walked on in silence as the woods lost the light.

“That wasn’t fair,” Katie said at last.

“I lived under that crooked, leaky roof back there for twenty years with plenty of my own ghosts,” Vesta said, scowling into the darkness. “I know what I’m talking about.  The ghosts are just ourselves doing the haunting.”

____________

Lena Metrie and her cousin were not sleepy after cleaning up the Christmas party.  They took saucers of cake up to the guest room.  It was a cheery little place, centered on a sloping dormer, with rosebud wallpaper and a pink chenille spread.  As they did in girlhood, they kicked off their shoes and settled in on the bed.  Leaning out to grab her purse off a chair, the cousin held up a polished silver flask.

“Will you have a pinch with me, Lena?”

Noting that the shades were already drawn, Lena smiled and took the flask.

They ate their cake in silence, letting the quiet spell of the little room charm them.

“My feet were killing me,” Lena said.

“You were at it all day. I’m not surprised.”

“We love having the Christmas party.”

“You have a lot of friends.  It makes a merry gathering.”

Lena smiled, letting her gaze list to the bedside lamp.  It gave a soft peach light.

“So how did the other one become a widow?”

Lena gave her cousin a glance.  “Well, Reese enlisted after Pearl Harbor.  He went over almost immediately and then one day they got the news he was dead.”

“How old would you say Vesta is?”

“I suppose she’s about forty.  She was a little older than me and Alan, but Katie was in our class.  I hadn’t thought of that – her being older than us – in quite a long time.  It used to stand out when we were kids.  In truth, we used to invite her and Reese along just because of Katie.  Not that we didn’t like them.”

She sat her saucer aside on the nightstand.

“Over time, it became like Katie and Vesta were one and the same.  They’ve come together every Christmas the same as all the husbands and wives.  Or I suppose like blood sisters.  One rarely says one name without the other.  You run into a person at the market and they ask how Katie and Vesta are getting along.”

The writer raised a brow, “It surprises me a bit they haven’t remarried.”

“Does it?”

“Doesn’t it you?”

Lena shrugged, “I suppose I never thought about it.  But, you know, there really aren’t as many men to choose from these days. I mean men of an age.  There are plenty of boys.”

“Well, as I said before, I think the tall one, Vesta, is rather interesting.  She’s more handsome than pretty and she has an air about her.”

“I’ll take note next time I see her.”

The cousin straightened her legs and rolled onto her side.  “You ought to,” she said. “Sometimes queens walk among us and no one is the wiser.”

____________

In the morning, they offered to feed the hogs and chickens.  The thin, sallow woman who was Ray’s missus watched them from her back porch as they carried buckets toward the barn.  Her hands made raw, homely fists at her sides.  Glancing back at the woman, Katie said, “She makes her husband look almost jolly.”

“Makes that place of yours in town look a little nicer, too, doesn’t it?”

Katie sighed.  “Yes, I think it does.”

After they fed the hogs, they stood in the shade of the barn for a moment.  Katie asked, “How would we make it work?”

“I think we see if old Collins will give you a loan against the house.  We could fix it up into apartments.  I bet we could get two on the ground floor and three more each on the second and the third floors.  You and I could live downstairs and collect rent from the other units. It would make us enough to pay on the loan and to make ends meet.”

“That sounds like a lot of work.”

“Well, there’s plenty of men we know we can trust to do it fairly.”

Vesta felt around in her apron pocket for a match she’d grabbed from the kitchen.  She struck it against the barn to light her cigarette, took a puff and handed the smoke to Katie.  They passed it back and forth a few times.

“It’s the right answer,” Vesta said. “I can feel it.”

“Well, I trust you.”

As they walked back to the house, Vesta said, “I’ll miss the air out here and the trees, but in town, we’ll find new things to cherish.”

The words made Katie feel hopeful.  It was a kind of magic Vesta had always possessed, a way of weaving dreams big enough for the two of them.  In that way, even when they each were widowed, they never really were left alone.  Last Christmas, after the party at the Metries, they drove home in Reese’s old truck.  The engine rumbled as they inched their way through the laying snow.  Vesta talked about things that were said at the party.

Emboldened by sherry, Katie said all in a rush, “Reese told me once you had a way of making people feel like you’d put them in your pocket.  I think he was right.”

Vesta paused.  “Wonder what he meant by that? What do you mean?”

“You make people feel covered and safe.”

Her sister-in-law never had known what to do with compliments; she stared out onto the snowy road, driving in silence.  Yet there was an air of happiness between them in the toasty truck cab.  It smelled of diesel and vaguely of perfume.  A deer wandered into their path, but Vesta kept her cool and eased off the pedal.  They just missed hitting it without having to trust the brakes.

Birthday

A writing from last year that still resonates with me.

Story Grinder

The landscape of my childhood is not honey colored or bright with rosy reds. There were stormy blues and sleepy yellows.  If I colored it with crayons, it would be the hues children leave in the box.

In photographs that have faded as much as memory, the fields around our old house are paler than boiler onions.  All the winter walks have become one remembered walk, our breath blowing out ahead in thin clouds, the ice on the bent grass crunching under foot.  Let the snow birds break the air, startled out of the underbrush. Let the dogs make chase, each cry bold and bright and startling.  They are a part of this magic and cannot disturb it.  But we would walk gently, let no words pierce the air.  If I want her to hold my hand, I need only to reach up and my mother will curl her warm…

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Wayne

From my alter ego a couple of years ago, a story I still like a lot.

Cindy Smoot

When I was thirteen, someone new came into our lives, upsetting the apple cart but leaving behind a few genuinely sweet memories.  Wayne Sowers was tall and paunchy and wore so much Old Spice it was like the whole cast of T.J. Hooker had come over to watch women’s volley ball.  Mamma met him at the bowling alley where he was a manager.

One Friday night she dropped me and some cousins off there to entertain ourselves while she went to get her drink on with my aunt Sheila.  This didn’t happen too much, but when it did we just rolled with it.  Of course, two hours in we were already starting to draw some notice from the management.  In my family, returning to wolf pack state is a short trip, so when cousin Dawn proposed a seek and destroy of this drama club girl who’d said ‘nice banana clip’…

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Apricot

The hydrangeas were the color of sunshine in crayons.  Wavy sprigs of stock, as purple as a king’s cloak, felt like tissue paper flowers when he pressed his finger against them.  The tulips were a beautiful shade of apricot.  They looked like they might not last the weekend, yet he shrugged off the thought and bought the bouquet anyway.  It would be nice to have a little color in the flat.  When Bryce moved out, he took everything bright and bold with him.

Image

They had only been together a year, yet they had quickly meshed together their lives.  When the rooms were reduced again to only what he had before, Bennett was astonished to discover that on his own he was quite drab.  His friend Alison brought over Thai food and beer the first night and they sat together on the tan sofa, staring at the wall where a collection of paint by numbers had hung the Saturday before.

“It looks like the first, sad half of an allergy commercial,” Bennett said.

Allison said, “It’s like if ‘mid-century morgue’ became a thing.”

They laughed a short bray, something they did to make fun of themselves being funny.

“Well, anyway,” Allison said, digging through her dinner.

“Yep.”

It became a joke among his friends, how dismal his place was without Bryce.  People said it was funny, they didn’t remember it being so colorless before.  Had he given some of his things away?

“I never thought Bryce was that dynamic,” his friend Sharp said as they walked Washington Square one morning. “But it really is like the first five minutes of The Wizard of Oz now.”

Bennett laughed, but the joke had started to wear thin.

Bryce had liked thrift store art in mad shades.  If he found a scrap of ribbon on the sidewalk, he brought it home and tied it around a cabinet knob.  He was a cheer scavenger.  He loved summer bright shoes and coats, so there was always some of that around, too, peaking out from under tables or spilling over the sofa arm.

They had grown apart quickly, once the early magic of sex and common loves was mined.  If he were honest, he would say they had only been sharing home for a couple of months when it stopped feeling right.  By Christmas, they were eating together in near silence, like old couples in diners, without the years to make any sense of it.  It was no shock when Bryce announced he wanted to move out when he got his tax refund.

“Okay,” Bennett said.

“Is that it?”

“I guess so. Is it?”

“Yes,” Bryce said. “I guess.”

They were stiff with each other for a while, then friendly again – one small kindness at a time – until one day they were as happy to see each other as when they were in love.  Except that now they weren’t.

“It’s like we should have just stuck to dating,” Bryce said one night, as they walked home from a movie.

“I know.”

“We really are a lot alike in some ways.”

“It’s true.”

Later Bennett had to smile when he thought about the two of them being a lot alike.  How could it be true, he wondered, when everything that was lively went out the door with Bryce.  If his world was charcoals and Bryce’s was Crayolas, could they be that much alike?

It was hard to fall asleep the first few weeks alone.  He missed the warmth beside him in bed, the brush of elbows or thighs as he rolled over in the middle of the night.  The pillows were no longer to his satisfaction; the streetlight peeking through the blind seemed brighter than before.  Maybe they had changed something about it.  He drank a little heavier to sleep deeper and it worked, though he felt groggy for much of the mornings.

Sundays were drab and lonely, so he made himself get up early to go for long walks.  He took pictures of things with his phone, stopped at cafes to drink coffee for far too long.  He was really quite bored when he wasn’t doing things.  When he was done avoiding the flat, when he could stand being out no more, he made his way back home.  It was usually early afternoon.  He always passed by the flower vendor without a glance until today.

When he put the arrangement on the coffee table, the flowers seemed small, their color swallowed by the vast, beige room.  They had looked so promising down on the sunlit corner, tucked in among the tiger lilies and the irises.  Shrugging, he flipped on the TV and said to the blooms, “Welcome to Kansas.”

There was nothing on worth watching, he decided in seconds, but he flipped through the channels for another fifteen minutes at least.  Finally he turned off the set and closed his eyes, shutting out the sunlight and shadows, the wall where Bryce’s paintings had hung, the pathetic little bouquet in the mason jar.

He opened his eyes a moment later because his nose picked up a memory smell, something that reminded him of the first place his folks had ever owned.  A ranch house huddled on a windy cul-de-sac, it had brick walls the dull, dark red of old scabs.  It was a little place with big shrubs, shy on sunlight, neighbored with old people.  The floors had dog piss stains in the wood.  His father couldn’t sand them out.

He hadn’t thought of that place in years and the memory smell was not of dog piss nor of wood dust.  It was the odor of fresh paint, which his mother had used everywhere to chase off the gloom of a house his father regretted from the beginning.

“It looked so much better with their stuff in it,” he said on moving day.

“Bullshit,” his mother said. “We’ll make it work.”

He remembered the weeks that followed, the stacks of boxes, half opened.  His father wanted to set everything up and tackle the changes later, but she wouldn’t hear of it.  When Bennett got home from school each afternoon, she had a roller or a brush in her hand. There was always a Virginia Slim hanging out of her mouth and a crease in her brow you could have lost a dime in.  He changed into cutoffs and a tee and took over while she started supper.

“Your father is a pessimist,” she said one day from the kitchen doorway.  “Don’t ever be a pessimist.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it now.”

Bennett sat up and looked around the flat, surprised by the memories.  It was funny that he should smell paint like that, opening up a forgotten afternoon with his mother.  He could even remember what they had for supper.  Salisbury steak, TV dinner.  It had always been his favorite.

“Well, paint,” he said.  “That’s funny.”

Then he glanced at the bouquet again, thinking about color and wondering why he never had before.  Maybe fifteen years of rentals, of wanting to get back deposits, had made him dull.  Was beige a pessimist color?  He shrugged.  It didn’t feel like it fit him very well, in any event, not that he’d ever questioned it until now.  Well, to be bold, he’d have to simply leap without a second guess.

“Apricot,” he said to the room, reaching for his shoes.