Camilla Lee was the winner of Redbook magazine’s short-short fiction contest for unpublished authors. She had a humor column in a local newspaper, and has published several personal essays, one in “They Only Laughed Later,” an anthology of the experiences of expatriate women. She has a book of personal essays: Life Stories, from Reno to the Azores. Camilla resides in Rhode Island, USA. Her publication here attracted quite some interest in the media.
She and her husband and children have lived in New York, Hong Kong and Tokyo. She now lives on the seacoast in Narragansett, Rhode Island, USA.
I hear my mother’s voice in my head: Adelaide, you have to join something. How do you expect to make friends in a new place? If she were alive, my mother would be one-hundred- and-three. Which means I must be, what, eighty-one? Eighty-two next month. She knew how to dig at my weak spots. Seems she still can, posthumously.
I have lived at Shady Hollow Residence for Senior Living for three months. My daughters, Helen and Esther, insisted I move out of the house I’d lived in for forty years, ever since they were in school. We had their weddings in the garden. I was there through Ben’s illness, with hospice care and a hospital bed in the family room. “Mom, it doesn’t make sense for you to live in a house this size, at your age,” Helen had said. She can be so insulting.
“I have no intention of moving,” I told them. “I’m doing just fine.” I thought about the lilacs in April and the June profusion of peonies. I didn’t mention how painful it was to kneel down, and get back up. So, with outward resignation and inward relief, I sold the house for a ridiculously high price to a young family. Of course I’m happy with the money. And relieved not to think about rotting gutters and roof repair.
The Shady Hollow atmosphere has grown on me, with its welcoming reception area reminiscent of a Williamsburg Marriott. Sofas and chairs, upholstered in Wedgewood blue, are arranged in casual groupings. The carpet is Wedgewood blue. In the center of the room is a round mahogany table displaying brochures about the facility. Also centered on the table is a stilted flower arrangement. Every Friday a new one from a florist is placed in the middle, while the old one is whisked away.
Typically it arrives with combinations of carnations, chrysanthemums, and a few sprays of greenery. Walking past it one day, I forget where I am, and take the arrangement out of the vase. Shaking out the stiffly grouped flowers, I reposition them into a more relaxed design, and plop them back in the water. The minor effort of shaking them loose is effective.
“Now doesn’t that look nice!” A woman named Bitsy Reynolds has been standing nearby, watching the process. Her presence startled me. “Looks like you have a knack with flowers,” she adds. “I envy you creative people. I’m hopeless at arranging flowers. All I do is make a mess.” She comes over to take a closer look.
“Oh it’s nothing,” I mutter. “Just something I enjoy. I only took the flowers out of the vase and put them back in again.” Bitsy is wearing a brown tweed skirt, cream colored blouse, and navy blue Keds. I want her to leave me alone. Her dark-brown hair is short, curly, frizzy. Head of the Newcomers Committee, the woman is always urging me to sign up for things. Come on the museum trip, to the symphony. Join the reading group. “We have a nifty garden club,” she says. “It could be right up your alley. You’d like the gals.”
I never cared for garden clubs.
To Bitsy I said: “I’ll think about it. When is the next meeting?”
Walking back to my apartment, passing the French Impressionist prints, pondering the prospect of joining a club, I bump head-on into Ruth Parsons, my neighbor from two doors down.
“Adelaide, how are you! You’ve been on my mind! I’d love to have you come to my apartment for a glass of wine. It seems the only times we meet are in the mail room, or the back hall by the trash. Would tonight work?”
Ruth Parsons has lived at Shady Hollow longer than anyone I have met. She seems to know every resident, janitor, office staff member. She remembers names. I envy her gift of friendly banter. Ruth is a small, pixyish woman with bluntly-cut gray hair held back with a bobby pin. The inevitable crinkly face enhances her character.
“That would be wonderful,” I reply. “I can bring cheese and crackers. It will be a nice end to the day.” (Also, I’m curious to see her apartment with the Raggedy Ann doll door decoration).
My apartment is a sunny pleasure. We did a good job, my daughters and I, culling from a big house, not taking too much furniture, keeping the apartment airy and spare. Dismantling the house was grueling, but we got through it. I have no regrets about tossing out crumbling scrapbooks with curled photographs of unknown relatives.
The portraits were another matter. It was hard, saying goodbye to Goody and Lydia, my great-grandparents. They were the Victorian members of our household.
Goodman and Lydia Brooks, he in a black jacket and cravat, she in a dark green dress with a lace collar. Lydia’s severely parted dark hair, tied back from her face, made a straight line along the top of her head. In their gilt oval frames, they seemed to follow your travels in and out of the dining room with curiosity. Nobody in the family had room for these relatives; we appealed to all cousins, so off they went to auction. I kept some formal china and family silver, I didn’t want to say goodbye to everything. The cheese and crackers I arrange on a Lenox plate.
“Here, let me take that from you,” Ruth says, as I approach her door. “Don’t trip over the doorstop.” On the floor is an iron dachshund crowding the entry. Ruth’s apartment is the same layout as mine, only flipped – her kitchen on the right, mine on the left. At first it’s disorienting, but my brain sorts it out. “Well, here we are, welcome to my humble home,” she says, leading me into her living room. Observing my expression she says: “I know it’s a lot of furniture, but I couldn’t bear to part with my mother’s things.” My eyes travel from sideboard to bookcase to a chest of drawers. It feels like a consignment shop.
“Come, sit down,” she continues, indicating a red brocade sofa. “Adelaide, tell me now, how do you like it here? Are you adjusting to community living? It’s a big change, I know, coming from a spacious house.” Her expression is sincerely inquisitive.
“Yes, I am,” I reply. “Adjusting. No more driveway plowing to worry about . Of course my daughters are relieved to have me in a place with assistance. If I fall, just push the call button. But I do miss gardening.” I continue: “The residents seem nice, although I don’t know anyone that well. I’m considering joining the garden club.”
“You might like that,” Ruth replies. “We are an active lot; with yoga and book groups. I understand it’s a good garden club. There’s no shortage of things to do. The mailroom bulletin board is crammed with upcoming lectures. Even ballroom dancing.” Then, leaning closer, she adds: “But you need to be wary.” With an eager expression, whispers: “Some of the gentlemen can’t keep their hands to themselves. If you know what I mean.”
“Really? In a retirement home? ” Ruth’s divulging of this juicy news has more impact on her than it does on me. Since I don’t know many people, my reaction’s not too strong. “How intriguing!” I add, for suitable drama.
When the grandfather clock strikes six, I stand. “Ruth, thank you so much for having me over. I must go. Let’s get together again. My place next time.”
Back in my apartment I pour myself a glass of wine and watch the weather. During the isobars my mind wanders. Ruth Parsons, she’s a quirky one: Watch out for the gentlemen. Now really.
On the third Wednesday of April I show up at ten o’clock sharp for the garden club meeting. The room is spacious, with natural light beaming in through large windows. The area is also used as a studio. A cluster of painted clay bowls are set out to dry on a long wooden table. There at the table a woman places black and white photographs onto a black metal tray. Concentrating, she deftly uses needle-sharp tweezers for the display. Her silver hair, held in place with a red comb, is styled in a messy but elegant bun at the nape of her neck. A Bohemian type, with the embroidered vest and ceramic jewelry. She might have gone to Bennington. The other end of the room has two rows of folding metal chairs arranged for our meeting, with a printed agenda on each seat. Members are drifting in and gathering.
Present at the meeting are six women and one man. The turn-out, Bitsy had told me, fluctuates. In April many residents are still in Florida. The Shady Hollow Garden Club members take care of the planters in the lobby and the perennial beds. I’ve seen these women hovering near the professional landscape crew, advising them how to prune, clip, and shape the shrubbery. They oversee the maintenance of the newly planted locust trees along the main drive. It seems to me those saplings need a lot more water, the newly formed leaves looking wizened. Trees that young need gallons of water. But I keep my mouth shut.
There is an extra chair waiting for me; the seat is unpleasantly cold. A woman named Ethel Ballinger heads the meeting. “We have another new member – a new prospective member, I should say. Bitsy Reynolds caught her in the lobby loosening the flower arrangement.” A soft flurry of chuckles emerges from the group; apparently Bitsy has a reputation for nabbing people. “Meet Adelaide Brooks.” Ethel Ballinger looks like a woman who has spent a lot of time in a garden. She’s wearing an ample denim skirt and rubber footwear. She seems quite affable.
“Adelaide, why don’t you tell us a little about yourself.”
Afraid that was coming, I say: “My name is Adelaide Brooks. Well, I guess you already know that.” A few nods. With a deep breath I continue: “I have lived at Shady Hollow for three months now. My daughters urged me to move here.”
This comment brings knowing smiles and more nods.
“I came from a house with a big flower garden. Too big for me to manage on my own. My late husband did the heavy work with mulch bags and so forth. I also grew vegetables. Often I had tomatoes coming out of my ears, too many. I was drowning in them.”
Laughter. The tomato situation strikes a chord. This is going to be alright.
Ethel Ballinger quickly introduces the others: “Irma, Lauren, Poppy, Hannah, Betty, David.” She continues: “David is also a newcomer. From San Francisco. Is that correct?”
“That’s right, but I’ve returned to my roots. So to speak.”
(It’s unlikely I am going to remember a single name, nor do I plan to. Except for David).
He continues: “When I retired from my law practice I decided to move back east, to be closer to my children and grandchildren. We all agreed it would be good to tuck me into a safe place. It’s worked out well. I enjoyed my “trial” garden club meeting last month.”
“We’re very happy to have you. Oh,” Ethel continues. “That talented lady across the room is Marianne. She is Shady Hollow’s crafts-woman extraordinaire. Marianne created those beautiful decoupage lamps in the library. The black ones with the peonies.” At the mention of her name, Marianne looks up and smiles. In spite of the silver hair and messy bun, her face is quite youthful, by Shady Hollow standards. Her smile is “put-on” and insincere.
On the agenda today, under “old business,” the lobby flower arrangement is listed. “I’ve looked into other florists; the best price I could get is $50.00 a week,” Ethel says. My thought is, good god, that carnation thing costs $50.00? My mind goes to the flowering bushes that are now in bloom on the property. And what used to be an ancient lilac grove that’s probably been around since the site was a grand estate. The bushes have heavy blossoms that need cutting. And there are rhododendrons all over the place. The iris and peonies will be up next. Before I know it, these words are coming out of my mouth:
“Have you considered using flowers in bloom on the building’s grounds? We could create our own arrangements. There’s a sink here. We could turn this into a flower-arranging room.”
I can’t believe I’m saying this.
“That’s a great idea,” David says. He’s in good shape. I’ve seen him running on the trail around the campus. What he’s wearing appeals to me: a pinstripe oxford shirt, possibly Brooks Brothers. And khaki pants. “If you want, I could help cut the lilacs. The ones that are hard to reach.” I like his tortoiseshell glasses. David and I arrange to get together and gather lilacs.
We plan a meeting at 11:00 on Saturday at the lilac grove. David has arranged to have the grounds crew leave a ladder and some pruning tools. It’s ridiculous, but I feel smug that the only man in the garden club has offered to be my partner.
What I’m doing now is also ridiculous. I am taking a serious look at my wardrobe. Strewn across the bed and piled over chairs I have laid out a vast number of garments. What to wear for the lilac-picking has become a serious matter. Yet I want to make it seem as if I haven’t given it any thought at all. Now, looking with fresh eyes, I’m horrified at the condition of my clothes. My favorite sweater, a yellow Shetland wool, has a coffee stain on the front. (I bought it in Bermuda thirty years ago.) It’s a good sweater – you can’t get quality like that anymore. Why do I have two suits? Get rid of one, I tell myself. I could go shopping, but my favorite store, the Country Woman, went out of business years ago. Everything’s by mail and catalogs. I miss stores.
The Saturday morning is cool and sunny, perfect for cutting lilacs. I wear jeans, a yellow sweater, and a green down vest that covers the stain. I bring my own pruning shears. When I arrive at the site, David is there, in a blue sweatshirt and Red Sox cap. “Good morning,” he calls. “A perfect day. Not a cloud.”
“Yes, May can be so iffy.”
“I’ll go up the ladder and cut the highest blossoms,” David says. “Then toss them to you, gently. You’d better do the trimming part. I know there’s some special angle you’re supposed to do.” Clipping the branches feels good. Well, sort of good. The arthritis is painful, but my hand remembers how to cut the woody stems at a certain angle. Snip snip snip. I pretend my hand doesn’t hurt.
A nearby voice startles me. What are you two up to?” Neither of us had noticed Bitsy, who, on a morning walk, has been watching us from afar. It seems she’s always watching from afar. “Is this allowed in the handbook of Shady Hollow regulations? Residents picking flowers on the facility’s grounds? It’s a liability. ” She’s joking, of course. Or maybe not. In an edgy tone, she adds: “Adelaide, it didn’t take you long to settle into the garden club.”
David answers: “We’re doing this for the lobby flower arrangement. The lilacs are beautiful, and they smell good. Might as well use our resources, and save money.”
“What a clever idea,” Bitsy states flatly, without interest. Then continues her walk at a steady clip. As David and I walk back to the main entrance, we speak about our backgrounds in a limited way. I say to him: “How do you like living here? You passed up the men’s bridge group?”
“I like working with flowers. My ex-wife was a renowned flower designer in the garden club circuit. She won a lot of competitions. I learned from her. In fact, I started entering competitions on my own, after the divorce, and did well, and that made me smugly happy.”
“That’s one good outcome from a divorce,” I add, curious to know more. Maybe another time. “Here we are, the end of the trail.”
Now reaching the building, David and I slowly pass through the whooshing doors, allowing a man pulling a bag of golf clubs to go ahead of us.
“What beautiful flowers!” the receptionist calls. “I can smell them from here.”
“Yes, the lilacs are amazing this time of year,” David replies.
The crafts room is empty. I switch on the overhead lights, while David lays the lilacs on a work table. There are plenty of flower vases above the sink. At the craft end Marianne’s decoupage tray has been left out to dry. I take a closer look; pictures from her childhood, with siblings, parents, grandparents, dogs. I think that’s Marianne on the beach, dark hair, and a pail and shovel. It’s the frown that gives her away. Perhaps she didn’t like being interrupted from her sandcastle project. The pictures on the tray are randomly placed, this way and that. I admire Marianne’s imagination; the precision with tweezers takes skill. Back by the sink, David brings down from a high shelf the tallest vase, and we start working. Arranging lilacs is not easy, as the stems are woody and have tough outshoots, making the blossoms hard to control, but David knows what he’s doing. He has an eye for balance and shape.
“You are good. I can see why you’d win garden club competitions.”
“I’m a competitive person, so people say. In business and with flowers.”
Satisfied with our final design, we walk to the lobby and David places the arrangement on the center table. The florist’s arrangement of pink carnations and white chrysanthemums I stealthily transfer to a corner of the room. “Bravo!” a resident exclaims as she passes by. “So much better!” By now it’s late morning. I’m hungry, and thinking of a quiet lunch in the café. David and I depart with a “high-five.”
Back in my apartment I tidy myself up, change into a beige sweater, tie a silk scarf at the neck, and apply lipstick from a stub in the Revlon tube. In the mirror I detect a certain radiance, connected I suppose with working outdoors on a crisp sunny day. Or maybe just feeling radiant. In any case, I’m ready for lunch.
Hot food and coffee aromas lure me to the Shady Hollow Café, situated on a corridor across from the mailroom. I have no problem eating alone, although some might find that pathetic. Today I’d like to contemplate the pleasurable morning of being outdoors, working with flowers, and being with David. There’s no question I found it agreeable to have a male companion.
“Are you eating alone, Mrs. Brooks?”
“Yes please. Thank you, Mary.” The hostess’s blue eyes, magnified behind thick glasses, match the powder blue of her jacket. “MARY” is spelled out in large letters on a name tag.
“I have the perfect table by a window.”
“Yoo-hoo, Adelaide! Over here! Come join us! From a booth across the room Poppy is waving her arm in a large arc. Poppy is a waver. “Come sit with us!” Even though I want to eat alone, or thought I did, I am pleased to be invited to sit with Poppy and Lauren. I am learning the names of the garden club members by word associations. Poppy is a popover. Lauren is Lauren Bacall. This Lauren, also elegant, has her hair done in a pageboy style reminiscent of my high school yearbook.
She has a quiet voice.
“So, how was your date?” Poppy inquires.
“My date?”
“You know. With David. Weren’t you going to pick lilacs with him this morning?”
“We did cut lilacs, but I would hardly call it a date. It was a work session. And it was work. My hands hurt with arthritis.” Continuing, I add: “David did most of the arranging. He has an eye for shape and balance.”
“Do you think he’s gay?” Lauren inquires.
Poppy retorts: “Don’t you remember, he talked about his wife and children.”
“I never thought about it,” I add. “He is divorced. But that doesn’t mean anything, these days.”
Now into the café comes Ethel Ballenger, in her denim skirt and rubber shoes. “May I join you?” she asks, sliding into the seat next to Lauren, pushing her against the wall. Mary brings us the laminated menus, which we study, even though we know them by heart.
“So, what’s the news at the Shady Hollow old folks home?” Ethel asks. “Any gossip?”
“Not much to report,” Poppy responds, unfolding her napkin. “Adelaide and David did a great job with the lilac arrangement.”
“Yes, I saw it. Hooray for our garden club. Thank you Adelaide.”
“Oh, Lauren got this weird note,” Poppy announces. “Lauren, show them the mystery note you got in your mailbox. Very strange.” From her thin batch of mail Lauren pulls out a small envelope with her name and apartment number written in block letters. Inside, on a cream- colored notecard, are single words cut out from magazines, in different sizes and colors: All Is Not As It Seems the note says.
“It’s creepy,” Lauren says. “Who would send it?”
“The place has plenty of creeps,” Poppy continues. This is from some nutcase who likes writing meaningless sentences out of cut-out words. A person with obsessive compulsive disorder. Did you ever do that in high school?”
“Yes, I did, as a matter of fact.” Lauren’s face brightens. “I sent them to boys I liked. But I was too shy to talk to.”
“So there’s someone here, who writes in codes, of sorts. I wouldn’t let it get to you,” I say. But in my mind I’m not convinced.
After a salad, looking forward to a nap, I stop to pick up my mail. “Are you finished yet?” I ask Brenda, the pony-tailed young woman in a U.S. Postal Service uniform.
“Just about, Mrs. Brooks,” she answers. “Looks like the new issue of AARP magazine is out. With some aging rock star on the cover.” We try to guess the man, some hero from the 1960’s, now with a wrinkly face and dyed brown hair. Whoever he is, he can keep his diabetes under control. Brenda and I have become friends. I have made other friends. There are cheerful residents I pass in the corridors and think of Ruth Parsons’ warning: “Some of the gentlemen can’t keep their hands to themselves…” None of these gentlemen seem the groping type. “Hello Adelaide, beautiful day!” is what they say.
Most of my mail I toss in the recycle bin; a hearing aid ad, a catalog for handicap railings. An in-house flier advertising tango lessons I hang onto, you never know. On the mail room wall a bulletin board has announcements for museum trips and scheduled rides to the supermarket. Sometimes I see Bitsy Reynolds here, keeping the notices in tidy rows and up to date. I caught her shuffling through the recycle bin once, taking a few magazines home with her. She’s a hard one to figure out, that’s for sure. On the bulletin board is an “In Memoriam” posting of a recent death, of a woman I never knew, who had moved into a nursing home. This brings to mind close friends I’ve lost, the numbers building over the past few years. Friends still in my address book, where I hesitate to cross out the names. Now I notice a letter tucked in with my mail. It’s the same kind of letter Lauren got. with my name and apartment number written in block letters.
Once inside the apartment I drop the keys in a bowl and open the letter:
You Are Not The One And Only Like Lauren’s, each separate word is cut out from a magazine or catalog, and glued to a note card. The writer, or rather the gluer, did a bad job with smudges and fingerprints. Of course this message unsettles me. Not so much that it interrupts a nap. Who would go to that grade school trouble? “I’m not the one and only what?” With our flower project so successful, the garden club revels in compliments. A small sign is propped by the arrangement, giving credit to the Shady Hollow Garden Club. Ethel Ballinger and I set up a rotating schedule for teams of designers. Planting a cutting garden is proposed.
When the next meeting starts, there is much exuberance and chatter. I partake in a peripheral way, thinking about the mysterious notecard. Looking from member to member, I try to assess who the writer might be. Lauren seems uncomfortable, shifting in her chair. The sour Marianne would be a plausible culprit, but for her meticulous craftsmanship with tweezers and glue. It might not be a garden club member at all. My meditation is interrupted when David stands and says: “We should congratulate ourselves. I’d like to invite everyone to my apartment for a cocktail party.”
“Oh how marvelous!” Poppy says.
“What fun!” another says. Somebody else: “I’ll bring my crab dip.” “I’ll bring Scotch and soda.” Soon everyone is talking at once. David adds: “This will inspire me to unpack the cartons in the basement. I need to find some wine glasses.”
“Are husbands invited?” Poppy asks. Poppy and Lauren have husbands. Although Lauren’s husband probably won’t come. She tells us his hearing is bad, and he avoids parties. Poppy’s husband is like Poppy. He’s genial, and walks around talking to anyone who’ll listen.
“Of course husbands are invited,” David states.
“Adelaide! Ethel! Ladies!” Poppy continues her excitement after the meeting, beckoning us to stay. “What are you going to wear?”
“I have a caftan from Egypt, from my trip to Cairo.” Ethel says. “It’s very comfortable and roomy.” “I have a long velvet skirt. Does anyone wear long skirts any more?” another woman says. You’d think we were planning for a prom.
Lauren will wear a black dress and pearls.
Not a problem for me; black pants and a turquoise silk top with a Chinese design. It’s the one outfit that gives me confidence. People say the color suits me.
David’s apartment is located at the end of Oakwood West, as far as you can go from me. The walk is good exercise. A slightly bent woman pushing a walker and I pass each other in the corridor. A basket on the walker handlebar contains a small white poodle, who is looking forward, like a searchlight. The poodle, Daisy, is a well-known canine at Shady Hollow. I said a hearty good evening to the woman (whose name I can’t remember) and a “Good evening Daisy!” to the dog.
The door to David’s apartment is open a crack; I let myself in, and quietly observe the scene before me, as though watching a stage play. David, vigorously shaking a silver martini shaker, is talking to Ethel. Poppy and her husband Bert stand together. Bert has a happy demeanor and bald pate. One woman leans over the dinner table, setting out glasses and plates of hors’ d’oeuvres. A white damask cloth covers the table. With the shiny silver hair, I don’t recognize her from the club. “David, are there cocktail napkins?” she calls into the kitchen. Who? Marianne? What’s she doing here? When she looks up and sees me her face assumes a smug expression.
“Adelaide! Enter! I didn’t see you,” David says, as I step into the room. “What a lovely Chinese tunic, the turquoise looks great on you. I think you know everyone here. And Marianne of course. I asked her to join us. Have you met Lauren’s husband, Jack?” The man’s back is to me. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with dark gray hair, slightly greasy. A hearing aid is tucked behind one ear. I can hear the low rasp of his voice as he talks to Marianne. The tenor of his voice is unmistakable and causes me to shudder. It can’t be that Jack.
“Jack Morgan,” David says. “Let me introduce you.”
There he is. Jack Morgan, the man who pinned me to a wall in the basement of a fraternity house at Yale. Kissing so hard it hurt, a hand groping my sweater. It was next to the boiler room, with the furnace firing on and off. Alcohol on his breath. He was strong, but I beat my fists on him enough and got away. I won’t forget that menacing look.
“Adelaide and I know each other. We go way back, don’t we?” he says, winking. He towers over me in a threatening way. “When I was at Yale. You came over from some girls college for a ‘mixer.’ Now Lauren’s head is turning left to right, uncomfortably aware of a secret we might share.
“Of course I remember you, Jack. How could I forget.” His eyes are bloodshot, his neck flaccid. The ruddy complexion suggests booze. It never occurred to me that Jack Morgan would be the husband of Lauren Morgan. And the ambiguous note she got: “All is not as it Seems.” Does that fit in this puzzle?
“David!” Marianne calls again, insinuating a close friendship. “We need more wine glasses.”
“There’s a carton in the corner of the bedroom,” he answers. David seems oblivious to Marianne’s familiarity; his focus is getting out ice. “Look in there, next to the TV.”
“Adelaide, let me get you a glass of wine,” Bert says, stepping in as host. “What would you like? Red or white?” With a cabernet, I chat with Poppy for a bit. Suddenly I’m aware that Marianne and Jack are both absent, which worries me. It’s not about snooping, but more about concern. I head for the bedroom. Marianne is bent over the carton, sifting through packaging for glasses. “Let me help,” Jack says, hovering. She straightens up.
He advances. Slurring he says: “They must be here somewhere.” But he isn’t looking at the carton. He’s looking at Marianne. His arm is stretched forward, leaning against the wall. He leans towards her. Only the carton is holding them apart. With the back of his hand he lightly touches her cheek. “Hi Marianne,” I say, coming into the room with assertive energy. “Want some help?” Jack steps back and gives me that menacing look I so remember.
“Jack Morgan,” I say. “At Shady Hollow. You haven’t changed. How ironic. From fraternity house to retirement home. The man remains the same.”
“Adelaide, what the fuck, you’ve got some imagination. I was helping Marianne find the wine glasses.”
“Find the wine glasses. Right. Of course you were, Jack.”
“That’s it. You’re sick. I’m going to grab Lauren. We’re out of here.”
Marianne, looking shaken, whispers: “Thank you. I wasn’t sure how to get away.”
Two weeks later, being in a social mood, I visit the library and the mailroom and think about having lunch in the café. In the mailroom there is Bitsy fussing about the bulletin board, straightening notices and discarding old ones. “Hi Adelaide, this is such a mess. There are past dated lectures and obsolete notices.”
She crumples papers, tossing them to the trash basket, usually missing. Bitsy, in her blue sneakers. “Adelaide, could you do me a favor. Hand me my supply box. Can you look inside and get more thumbtacks.”
In the shoebox with thumb tacks and glue is a small “Zip-Loc” bag stuffed with words cut out from magazines and catalogs. Bitsy, It was you! You’re the person who wrote: You’re Not the One and Only. What were you talking about? And poor Lauren, you upset her so much with the note you sent to her.”
“Oh dear oh dear,” she replies. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. When I’m upset I compose these notes out of magazine words and put them in the mail, without thinking. I can’t stop myself. When I saw you and David cutting lilacs I had a flash of envy, and that set me off. But mostly it’s because I like spreading the cut-out words on top of a table, and composing messages. And gluing them to cards. I’m compulsive that way.
“And what about Lauren?”
“Oh. Lauren. I just have a bad feeling about that husband. I don’t know. The words don’t really make sense, do they? But they seemed to fly off the table, waiting for glue. I know it’s strange.”
“Nothing is strange,” I reassure. Or almost nothing. I’m going to the café for lunch. Maybe I’ll find Ethel or Marianne. We could make plans for a rose garden.