The Hungry House (7 page)

CHAPTER TEN

Parting a drape, Frank surreptitiously watched as Paul hugged Vicky, tenderly kissed her forehead, and left the cottage. He had been overjoyed with relief that the gorgeous girl seemed to feel she was far too busy for dating. Well, now here it is--what I've dreaded all along: a young, good-looking man. Frank quickly walked out the front door and into the yard and pretended to be examining the front hedge while Paul got into his car. As the car drove away, Frank hurried to the street so he could write down Paul's license plate number.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I
went out with Paul a second and a third time, each more thrilling than the last. On our second date, we went out for Chinese food, and the third time was dinner and the theatre.
Long Day's Journey into Night
was on tour in Portland from Broadway. After the serious subject matter of the play, we went out for coffee and dessert and spoke of light-hearted things.
For our fourth date, Paul invited me to dinner at his apartment.

I finally found
a parking space on the street. As I walked to the building I texted Paul: I'm a block from your building.

He texted right back
:
Okay. Buzz P. Olson, and I'll let you in. I'm in 203 on the second floor. There's no elevator.

When
I arrived at Paul's building, he buzzed me in after a cheery "Hey you. Come on up."

His apartment wa
s in a 1930's building in Southeast Portland. Four stories high with white stucco on the outside, it had been meticulously maintained. I walked up the carpeted stairway and found his apartment. When Paul opened the door, he looked very happy to see me and kissed me on the cheek.

"Welcome to my humble little abode
. I've got hors d'oeuvres on the table. My lasagna is almost ready to come out of the oven."

On the table sat a gorgeous platter of salami, cheese, olives, mushrooms, red peppers, and dates.

Pa
ul poured a small amount of sparkling water into a wineglass and handed it to me. I took a sip and set the glass down.

"I ju
st have to try one of these."

I
wrapped a small slice of light cheese around a date and took a bite.

"This is heavenly. It's antipasto right?"
I asked.

"Yeah. I kind of fudged on the dates. It's supposed to be figs, but they're not in season right now." Paul said.

"I love dates. They're one of my secret vices."

Pa
ul brought the platter and our water and placed them on the coffee table in front of his sofa. As we munched on little items from the platter using toothpicks and sipped our water, I looked around the apartment. A desk and chair sat in one corner next to a large bookcase full of texts on film. A small flat-screened television hung on one wall. A dark-stained chair with a beige-colored cushioned seat sat next to the sofa. It looked as if it might have been a dining table chair in another life. The floor was hardwood and much of it was covered with a large floral-patterned rug.

"Do you sleep on this sofa?"

"No." Paul gestured to the large closet doors on one wall. "There's a Murphy bed in there."

"Oh really.
My mom and I lived in an apartment with a Murphy bed once. I really liked the idea that you could get rid of the bed and clear up space so easily." I said.

Paul smirked.
"Yes--it's what all the best people want in their homes."

"Oh, it's not that bad
, you teaser."

The oven dinged, and it was time to eat lasagna at Paul's candlelit table, listening to light jazz in the background. We talked of many things, and we laughed. When we had finished, I started to take my plate towards the kitchenette.

"Oh, no you don't." He took the plate away from me. "You go sit back on the sofa. I'll get everything soaking and come join you."

Back in
the living room, I began to examine the framed movie posters on Paul's wall. He came up behind me and put his arms around me as I looked at a
Breakfast at Tiffany's
poster featuring the inimitable, always glowing, ever sophisticated Audrey Hepburn. Where Paul touched me, it seemed my body was on fire with an overwhelming, pulsing need.

I forgot where I was, forgot everything, as I turned toward him
. We hungrily kissed and quickly began removing any items of clothing that came between us. Suddenly, I felt it was all wrong.

"Let's stop," I said. "Everything is going a little too fast."

"Yeah, maybe you're right," Paul answered.

We redressed and Paul carried me to the sofa where
I sat on his lap. Tears rapidly covered my face.

He took my chin in one hand and wiped my cheeks with the other. "What's this about? What's wrong?"

"I feel like I'm falling back into another broken heart."

Paul made a "more" motion with his hand. "Tell me."

So I told him about good old "popular Dave"--how attracted to him I had been and how horribly everything had turned out. I had vowed to myself that I would never jump into sex like that again. Now, I had almost done it again. It had felt so right but now felt so wrong.

"I'm so sorry. If I had known about all this, I would not have
tried to make love to you. I'm just so attracted to you that I didn't think. It was great for a minute though, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was great. But I don't want that to be the only thing between us. I want everything to be right or not at all for me, from now on."

"Let's hold hands and kiss and have an old-fashioned romance. We'll get to know each other. Deal?" Paul held out his hand, and we shook.

"Deal." I said.

"But it's not going to change a thing. I'm always going to want to marry you, and I'm always going to want you to have my children. Oh crap!"

"What?" I asked.

"I sound just like Mary O'Malley! Now, you'll avoid me like the plague. I can't believe I said that."

"Did you mean it?"

"Yeah--yeah I did."

"Good.
Because I might hold you to it."

Then, I put my head on Paul's should
er, and he put his arm around me. We sat that way for some time. I felt so happy, blissful in fact. I thought to myself that I didn't care what happened after this, because it would be worth it. I didn't know enough to be careful what I thought or what I wished for.

CHAPTER TWELVE

B
y the second week of mom's chemotherapy, I began to feel horrified about the whole process. Mom went to bed early the night before her treatments and then the following morning I drove her to the hospital where she received intravenous therapy as an outpatient. How I wished I could be the one to endure the treatment, instead of her. For several days afterward, Mom would be tired and listless. She endured painful vomiting that seemed to wrack her thin body almost beyond the point of endurance. Gradually, she seemed to lose her appetite, so I bought special drinks loaded with calories to keep up her strength.

I
rearranged her room so that she could see the yard from her bed and filled her room with plants. The plants seemed to revive Mom and draw her towards them, coaxing her out of bed to tend to them with water mixed with plant food or to prune leaves or stems that needed removing. Every day, the first thing Mom did upon arising was to speak to each plant in low, encouraging tones. I offered to bring a television into her room, but she declined one, opting instead for library books. She sat up in her bed or on the La-Z-Boy in her bedroom, reading and dozing while Ravel played in the background. Father Riley brought communion to her every evening and sometimes they sat and talked.

Dr. Rutherford
maintained that Mom was improving and that the malignant mass would shrink, but I had doubts. Something seemed to be working on her, transforming her in some essential way. Formerly, she had been the type of woman who could never be still for long, no matter what her health problems might be. Even though often tired, she had always needed to be working on a patchwork quilt, sewing a dress, baking a pie, or cooking a meal. Now, she had turned into a different person, a person who had become quiet, passive, and thoughtful. She was now content to sit gazing out through one of her bedroom windows for long periods of time. She hardly ever ventured into the other rooms of the cottage. I began a campaign to ensure that she left her room each day by taking her on a short walk around the paths of the yard or in front of the house, with my arm around her back to give her support. Mom passively acquiesced to the walking routine, just as she silently agreed to everything else those days.

Frank's dinner plans had to be rescheduled for a later date, because he kept changing his mind about the details
. The guest list had been changed several times. He could not make up his mind about which catering company he wanted to use or even which stationary company to use for the invitations. I patiently edited guest lists, interviewed caterers, and collected stationary samples and price lists. I discovered that if I gave him too much information at once, he complained that he was doing my job, so I prepared summaries for him. Sometimes, he looked at the summaries and stated I was not giving him enough information.

I
quickly began to resent his antics, and at times felt like strangling him but felt I deserved an Oscar for the way in I actually handled Frank. I complimented him, teased him, and smiled at him until my lips ached. I laughed at his usually inane jokes and repeated to myself over and over:  He's helping me take care of my mother. I had resolved to make the dinner plans work, no matter what I had to do.

###

One Saturday afternoon found me at the desk in the small library office working on a presentation that included an edited guest list, stationary and caterer summaries, and price lists. I had created a folder for each presentation, folders that included all the summaries and details. Once gain I thanked God for the office experience I had gained at my after school job in high school. I was intent on forcing him to make a decision tonight, before my date with Paul, if at all possible.

Some
one knocked at the cottage door. It was Margaret. "I'm coming over to visit your mom. Mr. Armstrong wants to see you for another round of party planning, you poor thing." The last three words were whispered.

I
headed to the library and sat down to wait for Frank. He walked into the massive room, shutting the door behind him, which was unusual. I sat on one of the leather sofas, files in hand. I noticed that Frank was dressed to the hilt, wearing his custom-made leather shoes, his tailored shirt and slacks. For some reason, he had made an effort to be presentable. He lit a cigarette and then abruptly put it out in the ashtray.

"I think I have everything you want now, and we can really get this done tonight
. Don't forget, I have to leave at four o'clock."

"I don't think it will be possible for you to leave at four o'clock today."
Frank answered.

"But, you told me I could
. Don't you remember? Last week?"

"Actually, I don't remember
. But can't you reschedule time with your girlfriends for tomorrow? This is really important to me, you know."

"Well
, I've planned this for a while." For some reason, I found I did not want to say the word "date."

"It would really mean a lot to me if you would reschedule it."

"All right. I'll reschedule it." Suddenly, I almost felt as if I would start crying. Looking forward to seeing Paul had kept me together all week.

"U
nless you don't like your position here. I think I've been more than fair." Frank was gearing up to be self-righteous.

"No
--no. I like my position here. Let me go over to the cottage and reschedule."

"You can do it right here."

"No. I'll be right back. Don't worry."

"As you wish."

When I returned to the library, Frank was still sitting in the same place. He smiled encouragingly. Paul had been disappointed but understanding. We had arranged to have Sunday brunch together. I felt as if my legs were made of lead. I wanted to run out of the library and never return. I longed to see Paul.

Nevertheless
, I choked back my tears, smiled, and picked up the first file. "Here, I have a summary of the plans I would go with and why. Then, if you need more details of the plans, I have those too." This time I covered everything--the stationary, the entire dinner the caterer would prepare, even what the servers would wear. If he did not like those, then I had the details of six other caterers and a sample engraved invitation for him, with wording provided by Margaret.

I
got out the completed stationary. Then, Frank did a strange thing. The two leather sofas in the library sat across from each other perpendicular to the fireplace. He arose from his seat across from me to come and sit by my side. The skin on the back of my neck tingled.

"There's no reason for you to have to keep getting up and handing me things.
" He moved close to me and placed his arm behind my back on the sofa.

It is only so he can see better
. I must be calm, I thought. I noticed Frank stunk of scotch and cigarette smoke. He had always seemed to smell this way, when he walked near me or I happened to smell his breath, as if his very pores constantly reeked of cigarettes and booze, but sitting so near the smell was especially loathsome and oppressive. I had noticed he always kept bottles of scotch labeled The Balvenie in his room, in the library, and on the downstairs liquor tray. I had rarely seen him drink any other kind of alcohol.

I handed him the sample
invitation. He examined and read it.

"This does look nice, now th
at I see it. Good work. I think we can go with this one." Frank said.

His breath made
me feel weak with nausea. He laid the invitation on the coffee table and lit another cigarette.

I opened the file containing
the dinner menu and a pamphlet with photos of the server's uniforms. "This is the caterer and menu that
I
would choose. Of course, I have information about other caterers as well." I turned to look at Frank and saw that he was not looking at the materials but at the top of my head. Instinctively, I reached up to see if something were stuck in my hair. I began to explain the menu and felt something. Turning toward Frank I realized he was kissing my hair. I felt a fierce revulsion

With his ha
nd, he pawed one of my breasts through my blouse, as he kissed my hair and whispered, "So beautiful."

My
stomach turned, and I felt bitter acid rising up to my throat. I ran toward the bathroom, hardly seeing where I was going and slammed the door shut behind me. I knelt before the toilet and heaved up the contents of my stomach. Finally, I was able to stand. I studied my image in the mirror, watching the tears slide down my cheeks. I had to get away from the house.

I
ran out of the library, with a greatly alarmed Frank at my heels calling after me to come back. I ran out through the garden to the cottage. Fortunately, Margaret and Mom were in her room. After grabbing my keys and purse, I pushed past Frank, who blocked my way out of the front door. I ran to the Volvo and got in, locking the doors and closing the windows. Then after putting the gear in reverse, I raced away down the street. Tears streamed down my face. My head and breast seemed to burn with shame where Frank had touched them. I wanted to shave my head of the hair he had kissed. I drove, wiping away the tears that blinded me, until I found myself at Mt. Calvary Cemetery where my father was buried. I walked to his grave sinking down on the grass on my knees and looked around. Thankfully, no one was in the area. I remembered Mom had always taught her that me that Dad watched over me and prayed for me in heaven. Kneeling at his grave, I said a prayer asking for help from God and all the angels and saints.

After moving nearer to the gravestone, I reached out and placed my
hands on his granite marker. I thought of the legend my Irish mother had taught me when I was small. In the story, a curious parishioner began hounding his mystical parish priest about heaven, asking had he had any visions about it, and did he know what it was like. The father kept putting Mr. Kelly off by saying, "when you go to heaven, God will have prepared you to see it." But he finally grew weary of being asked. He was old and frail and used a tall walking staff. He slowly raised his staff high into the air and a window to heaven was opened. After a time, he lowered his staff, and the vision was gone. The brief view of the heavenly lights and angelic hosts was so overwhelming that Mr. Kelly fell to the ground in a faint and never asked about heaven again. My mother had explained to me that the legend meant that heaven is in another dimension, unseen, but all around us.

"Dad, I know you're in heaven
. Please pray for me. Everything's gone wrong. Mom is sick, and she seems so strange and far away from me these days. And I feel like I owe my soul to a hideous man because he's paying for Mama's care. I have no idea what to do or where to turn."

I
continued to touch the granite monument that marked his grave and read the familiar words:  John Carlyle Howell, Beloved Husband and Father. I thought about the fact that he had been dead so long, cut down in his youth at the beginning of a promising life. I remembered all the trials Mom and I had gone through since his death. I heard a strong inner voice, which said
do not be afraid
.

I
looked around at all the graves and markers, some elaborate, some simple, and began to have a feeling of being part of the long history of believers across time and space. We all have our trials, but it's not what happens to us but how we deal with it that counts. That's what I have been taught. Many others have been subjected to far worse.

My
father had grown up not far from here and had been the long-awaited child of older parents. They had died the year he finished medical school, leaving their fortune to charity, assuming that a medical doctor would always be able to pay his bills. I sat on the grass until the evening began to grow chilly. I had never felt so at peace. Reluctantly, I walked back to the car.

When
I walked into the cottage, I tried to act as if nothing was wrong, though my heart ached. I stopped in the McDonald's restaurant on Burnside Street and, with shaking hands, I washed my face with cold water and used makeup to repair my swollen, tear-stained face.

After a light dinner, I read to Mom
, first in the living room and then in her5 room, from one of our favorite books: 
The Invisible Man,
by Ralph Ellison. Once Mom was asleep, I tried to relax in a hot bath. Then I drank chamomile tea to no avail. I lay in bed until midnight and then got up to study. At 2:00, I returned to bed. At 3:00, I got up to drink warm milk. All through the night, I kept thinking, what am I going to do about Frank? If I tell my friends, my mom, or God forbid, Paul, chaos will ensue. They'll be livid with anger, unable to control themselves. The result might be that Frank would stop Mom's medical care, maybe even evict us. Finally, thankfully, the dawn arrived and I was able to quit my attempts to sleep.

I
was supposed to have Sunday brunch with Paul, but I could not yet face him. I was so afraid I would break down in tears and tell him everything. I had to think of a lie, something believable and reassuring. I finally decided to say I was behind with my studies and called Paul. He seemed to believe me. I told Mom the same thing. Somehow, I got through the day but again could not sleep the next night.