Good Grief (8 page)
I told her I’m afraid of men and rivers and jobs, but she urged me to come ahead anyway. “Hang out. Hunker down,” she said.
A car pulls up behind me. Stepping on the gas, I veer up a ramp toward more parking. My tires screech. An oncoming car swerves to avoid me, the driver glaring and making a “What the hell?” gesture.
Level three. Maybe Ruth’s right. What’s the point of staying in Silicon Valley? It doesn’t make sense for a jobless English major to live in a place with the highest cost of living in the country. I could help Ruth with Simone, cook them dinner every night. Homemade macaroni and cheese.
Level four. While I don’t want to impose on Ruth, I know I would urge her to come and stay with me if our roles were reversed.
Level five: the roof. Sun blasts through the windshield. I flip down my visor. Plenty of parking up here. I pull up to the wall facing the airport, turn off the engine, and watch the planes take off.
It’s exhilarating being at the airport, surrounded by the possibility of traveling anywhere. At the same time, it doesn’t feel right being a thirty-six-year-old woman with no place to be on a Wednesday morning. No job or children or husband. I could pack up and rattle off across the country, no one knowing for days where I am or whether I’m safe.
Another plane rumbles overhead, its bright silver belly tipping and turning over the bay. Actually, I
do
have someplace to go: the mall. Not a very glamorous destination. No passport required. But I need to shop for curtains, decorative throw pillows, and houseplants, so I can stage and sell my house, then leave Silicon Valley.
“I could live here,” I told Ethan the last time we visited Ruth in Ashland. We sat by the Rogue River on a hot August afternoon, reading Shakespeare aloud and eating cheese and apples with wine.
“No jobs,” Ethan said.
“No
high-tech
jobs,” I said.
I imagine giving my new throw pillows decisive karate chops, creating
House Beautiful
creases Melanie would approve of.
I turn the key over in the ignition and reach for my parking ticket.
One bright February morning Melanie shows up with a buyer for my house who looks as though he walked out of a men’s underwear ad. Broad shoulders, square chin, shelf of sandy blond hair.
“Steve Cunningham,” his deep voice rumbles as he steps through the front door. His handshake is warm and firm, and suddenly I’m glad that I fussed over contact lenses, mousse, and Juicy Tubes lip gloss. “Love the place,” he says.
“Thanks.” I feel myself blush and wonder how it’s possible to be both lonely and terrified of social encounters at the same time.
Steve has made an offer on the house that matches the asking price, and Melanie says we’ll soon be on our way to escrow. Steve just wants to have another look. He rattles on about how he loves the neighborhood and the proximity to the freeway. I agree, smiling and nervously spinning my wedding ring around my finger with my thumb. He says this will be an easy commute to Whatevertech, where he’s VP of sales.
After Steve takes measurements in the living room for his wide-screen TV, Melanie tells me to show him the garden. She nudges the two of us into the backyard. I point out the hydrangea, roses, wisteria, lantana, and salvias, all of which are dormant now. The “mow, blow, and go” guys have been by, but I haven’t done any yardwork for months.
“It looks like the Addams Family lives here now,” I tell Steve, bending over to pull up a weed, “but I promise it’ll all come back in the spring.”
Steve smiles, looks at my hair. For some reason it hangs in silky ringlets today. For the first time in months I feel attractive. Even
female.
For so long I’ve felt like an androgynous lump. Grief on a stick.
“Now that I’ve found a place, I can get back to skiing on the weekends,” Steve says. “You ski?”
“Not lately. Used to.” Used to before Ethan turned into a work slug and we had to go to a marriage counselor just to get him to come home on Saturday for a few hours, let alone go skiing.
“I could take you sometime,” Steve offers.
“Ha!” This response comes out involuntarily, like a sneeze. I peer through the kitchen window for Melanie, wishing she’d show up to nag me about some decor blunder. I look at Steve, who’s studying the spindly peach tree. Maybe I should wear a placard around my neck that says:
WIDOW, KEEP BACK
.
I tell Steve that the tree will look better after it’s been sprayed in the spring.
“You shouldn’t be so apologetic,” Steve says, laughing. “It’s a beautiful yard.” After feigning interest in the calla lilies, he asks if I’d like to go to dinner some night to celebrate the sale. “That is, if you have a free spot on your calendar,” he adds.
“Uh . . .” I don’t want to tell him that I’m all free spots. Shrink visits and free spots. My PalmPilot retired with my pumps and panty hose, cell phone battery not even charged. Dinner sounds good. Someone to eat with. Since Dad and Jill left, I’ve grown to dread the dinner hour again, choosing to slurp a bowl of cereal over the kitchen sink rather than sitting down alone. Still, I should explain that I’m not really available, that my mental health is hanging like a loose tooth.
“Sorry. That was too forward,” Steve says.
“Sure,” I tell him. What’s the harm, since I’m moving away? I realize that I’ve been staring intently at the azaleas, as though trying to will their fuchsia buds to bloom. “Sounds great,” I add, looking up at Steve. Green eyes. Pressed shirt. Dinner date. Where the
hell
is Melanie?
She steps through the French doors onto the deck and winks at me. Then she points out the view behind us of the Santa Cruz foothills. As Steve turns to look, she mouths the word
divorced.
Melanie’s always selling something.
Heading back into the house, I fret over the fact that I’ve agreed to go to dinner with a guy I’ve met only once. Isn’t lunch more appropriate, especially since we haven’t even gone into escrow yet? What if he’s the bogeyman? Am I being paranoid? I don’t remember how to be single.
Dear Ethan: Not only did I sell our house, I’m going out with the guy who’s buying it.
This is not a
date,
I tell myself, tell Ethan, driving to meet Steve at a French bistro in Mountain View. For most people, a big step in life would be a promotion or a new baby or a bigger house or corrective eye surgery. For me, it’s eating dinner with a man other than my husband.
Steve has a just-showered allure that’s intoxicating: a citrusy clean smell and glowing skin, blond hair damp around the edges. I’m a little dizzy as I scan the menu. The choices, which don’t include Cap’n Crunch or Eggos, are overwhelming. Steve conspiratorially consults the waiter over a bottle of wine. It’s probably fancy and expensive. Everything in the restaurant makes me nervous: the crisp white tablecloth and single red rose in a vase, the direct eye contact with Steve. The possibility of running into friends who might wink and nudge each other when they find me splitting escargots with a male underwear model.
Relax!
I can hear Dr. Rupert and the grief books on my shelf at home chide.
Already, I dread the awkwardness of the bill and who’s going to pay. Then there’s the potential kiss good night. What was I thinking, agreeing to this? I’d rather just be friends with Steve. Maybe we could rent movies and order pizza and he could tell me about his dates with other girls. I could be the sisterly buddy.
As the waiter pours a Cabernet, Steve explains to me how wine doesn’t really breathe in the bottle. It should be poured into glasses first and allowed to rest, then swirled a bit to provide aeration. Many people don’t realize that the narrow neck of a bottle doesn’t allow enough oxygen for the wine to “breathe.” Steve makes air quotes when he says “breathe.” He’s a talker who covers Silicon Valley topics with ease: wine, technology, cars.
His face is boyish, his blond hair falling over his green eyes. How come he doesn’t already have a girlfriend? Maybe it’s the weird way he doesn’t really look at you when he talks but stares at your forehead, sort of talking
at
you. You don’t feel as though you’re having a conversation, more as though you’re listening to a book on tape, the title
Steve the Sales Guy Goes on a Dinner Date.
He’s had a rough week, he confesses, digging into his salad and finally asking the dreaded question: “Where do you work?”
“I’m sort of unemployed.”
“Did you cash out and retire, or are you between gigs?”
“Between gigs, I guess. I kind of lost my job.” I wish I could add something interesting, like I love to windsurf or I’m planning a backpacking trip through Thailand.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Steve says sweetly, leaning across the table toward me. “I had no idea.”
Of course not,
I think, since you haven’t asked me about myself. But I find that oddly comforting. Companionship without having to be the center of attention is a relief. If someone took my hands in his, looked straight into my eyes, and asked personal, getting-to-know-you questions, I’d run.
“We need marketing people,” he offers.
I shake my head. “I’m taking a break.” This seems like the best way to sum up my twice weekly shrink visits and my struggle with the produce section. “I’m going to move up to Oregon.”
Steve looks disappointed. “To do what?”
Good question. I shrug, embarrassed by my lack of a plan. Everyone in Silicon Valley has a plan.
“Well, this is great,” he says, cutting into his steak. “I usually eat alone on the run.” He explains that he’s recently divorced, which is why he needs a new place to live.
“I’m sorry about your divorce,” I tell him, pretending that nosy Melanie didn’t already tell me. “Kids?”
He shakes his head, pauses, chews. Despite all his enthusiasm, there’s something sad about him, shadows under his eyes and a line of worry indented in his handsome forehead.
Over glasses of port and a shared chocolate soufflé, we exchange wistful memories of marriage and confess to each other that we’re both lousy date material at the moment. We just want our spouses back. Steve’s sweet, treating me with a sibling reverence a fraternity guy might have for his “little sister.”
“Here’s to a great house,” he says, raising his glass.
I thank him. Our glasses clink. Now I can check a huge item off my to-do list: sell house. Who knows, maybe checking off this big task will make littler tasks easier, such as buying produce and packing for Ashland.
“What sold you on the place, anyway?” I ask. “The tapestry pillows? Melanie said those were
essential.
”
Steve looks up at the ceiling, thoughtful. “The place just has a
vibe.
” He looks at me. “A happy vibe.”
“Seriously? I look at that house and all I see is cancer.”
“Did your husband die there, at home? I mean, it doesn’t matter—”
“No.” I shake my head. “Hospital.”
“Well, I’ll bet you guys were really happy in that house.”
Before we struggled to get pregnant, and before Ethan’s diagnosis, we were happy there. I’ve almost forgotten that.
“You’re right,” I tell Steve, grateful for his company, grateful for the sleepy, full feeling after a good meal. “We were.”
The day after I sign the closing papers to sell my house to Steve Cunningham, I’m sorting through my dresser drawers and packing for the move up to Oregon when I come across the empty urn that held Ethan’s ashes. I’d hid it under my jeans while Marion was in the garage during the Big Pack-Up, afraid she’d confiscate it.
“Urn” seems too glamorous a word for the container. It’s plastic and square and the color of eggplant. More like a box for recipe cards or miscellaneous screws. Why did I settle for this Kmart urn? Probably because after someone dies it’s hard enough to decide what socks to wear, let alone choose a receptacle for their remains.
I barely recall making the arrangements after Ethan’s death. I do remember the salesman at the funeral home, how one of his hands was small and withered. Polio, maybe. I wanted to reach out and cover the hand with mine. I also remember how alarmingly heavy the urn was. I expected the ashes to be light, ethereal, but when I picked up the urn it felt as heavy as a half gallon of milk. I let out a yelp and dropped it on the table, and the salesman asked if I wanted to sit down.
I could barely talk during the weeks after the memorial service. “Herg,” I’d stutter when people asked how I was doing. They would touch the small of my back or gently cup a hand under my elbow. They would not say, “Honey, ‘herg’ is not a word.” Instead, they’d smile and speak softly, as though I were going to be all right, as though I weren’t wearing one navy and one black loafer. As though I weren’t driving down the street with my purse on the roof of the car or leaving the oven on preheat all night.
Now, it’s hard to imagine that this urn is all that’s left of Ethan. I wish there were a grave to visit. A place to plant flowers. Sure, I can go to the beach at Half Moon Bay where we scattered his ashes. But the ocean always seems so irritated and preoccupied, as though it has better things to do than comfort a widow.
I shake the urn; it clinks and I shudder. What’s in there? A shard of
bone
? The lid is stubborn and won’t come off. Finally I wedge it open and peer inside to find Ethan’s wedding ring at the bottom. A simple gold band. I slide the ring over my middle finger, but it’s too big; so I slide it over my forefinger, where it’s still too big. I remember the safe feeling of being the smaller one. The ring fits on my thumb, but it looks silly there. I pull it off and place it in my jewelry box beside my mother’s sorority pins and her docent nametag from the museum and a folded piece of yellow lined paper. I unfold the paper and find that it’s a note from Ethan:
Gone to Home Depot. Be right back.
Dizzy, I lose hold of the paper. It drops and floats like a leaf over my pearls.
I squeeze my eyes shut, open them. After carefully refolding the note, I tuck it under the amethyst bracelet that my father gave my mother in junior high when they won a dance contest. Then I close the jewelry box, patting the top.
Picking up the urn, I sniff the inside. Nothing. No odor. No smudges or flakes.
I carry the urn downstairs to the kitchen and set it on the counter while I mix up a batch of martinis. The martini shaker is cool in my hand. Ethan loved martinis on the weekends. When he got sick he couldn’t drink anymore, but he still nibbled olives out of the jar.
I decide to have one last drink with him.
I twist the lid off the martini shaker, pour gin into the urn, and swirl it around. Now the urn smells like something, like a party. Closing my eyes, I inhale the cocktail party smell and imagine fresh vacuum marks on the carpet and ice tinkling into glasses. Jazz piano music rumbling on the stereo. I hear the doorbell ring and see our friends standing on the front porch, their faces flushed, expectant.
I drink my martini from the urn, its square edge sharp against my lips. Everything in the room begins to soften, and moving up to Oregon doesn’t seem so scary.
After a few more sips I carry the urn out to the backyard, swirling the martini as I go. I swirl and swirl until there’s a vortex of swirling martini, then I spin my whole body in circles, my arms outstretched, the martini flying out of the urn in an arc across the lawn. I am some kind of crazy gin sprinkler. I hear myself laughing as the sky spirals overhead: clouds, then trees, then roof, then clouds trees roof, and then just grass as I tumble down, the earth cold and squishy beneath my hands and knees. I topple into a fetal position, clutching the urn to my stomach. The lawn smells sweet, like summer. Our house towers above me.
I remember that when I got home from Ethan’s memorial service I couldn’t believe the house was still
there.
How could the clocks tick? How could the air-conditioning run? How could there be mail in the box? The relentless soldiering on of the world hurt my feelings.
As I roll onto my stomach, grass tickles my neck. Maybe Ethan would have preferred a beer to a martini. “Grab me a beer?” he used to holler from the living room. I spot a chunk of broken china in the grass—pointed, like an arrowhead—and remember smashing all of my dishes. It’s a relief now, not to have to pack them. I kneel, the mud beneath the lawn seeping through my jeans. Then I crawl up onto the deck and scramble back into the kitchen.
Behind a snowy box of chopped spinach in the freezer, I find an old package of cigarettes. This is where people who don’t really smoke but might need a smoke once a year to remind them why they don’t smoke keep their cigarettes. I tap one out, light it on the burner, pour another martini into the urn, then head for the yard again. The lawn furniture is stored in the shed for the winter, so I sit on the deck, the wood splintery beneath my jeans.
The cigarette doesn’t taste good. It burns the back of my throat. But its forbiddenness is somehow right. I remember that Marion longed for a smoke on Ethan’s birthday. The other day, when I called to tell her that I was moving to Ashland, she was oddly complacent.
“That’s nice, dear,” she said. “Who’s Ashland?”
“It’s a town,” I told her. “In Oregon. Where the Shakespeare festival is? Ethan and I visited there a few times.”
“That’s nice,” she repeated. I almost yearned for some of her bossy advice:
Now, Sophie, you must purge all of those ratty paperback novels before you move. . . .
The deck creaks as I shift my weight. I’m glad I’m not going to have to worry about renovating it, as Ethan recommended. He wanted me to tear out and replace the wood with flagstone and add lights. For what? For whom?
I hope Steve Cunningham will be happy in our house. Maybe he’ll remarry and fill the rooms with new memories—kids charging through the halls on Thanksgiving with black olives stuck on their fingers.
I stub out the cigarette. Rinse the gritty feeling off my teeth with the last bit of martini. When I move up to Oregon, I’ll start taking better care of myself. Jog. Try soy milk.
Back in the house, I wipe the urn dry with a paper towel, then work the lid back on. I turn off the lights in the kitchen but leave the radio on low. I like hearing the distant murmur of voices.
In the bedroom, I pack the urn and my jewelry box into my suitcase with my clothes and toilet articles. I’ve sold most of my furniture to Steve and hired the neighbor boy to help me load my boxes into a rented U-Haul, which I’ll drive up to Ashland. Dad offered to fly out and drive up with me, but I don’t want to make him travel again, so I insisted I’d be fine. Still, I have terrible U-Haul anxiety. Dad says not to worry, those things aren’t so hard to maneuver. (I certainly won’t parallel-park on the way!)
I wrestle open a dresser drawer that bulges with socks and panty hose. I close the drawer. Tomorrow. I’ll pack my socks and shoes and dresses and books tomorrow. Start again on starting over tomorrow. Finish packing and move up to Oregon and find a new job and maybe a little Victorian house to rent and plant some flowers out front. Daisies and delphiniums. Something sturdy and easy at first.
