voices, calls and laughter. Only vibrations now, and that pull toward the heart of things. And waiting.
When Nina Brown steps into her kitchen garden to turn on the hose, beads of water arc and fall—and even these tiny bodies feel the call skyward.
Nina Brown
It was a three-minute drive to the neighboring farm, and a thirty-minute walk. Nina walked. She wanted time to figure out how to handle Rose.
At the bank earlier that morning, when Louise Logan had asked after Rose, Nina hadn’t known how to answer. She had seen her neighbor only once, right after the news about Lance, in a stilted visit to deliver flowers and meatloaf. Since then Rose had shut herself off—and the short, shameful answer was that Nina didn’t know how she was.
Warmth from the black macadam drifted up her pant legs. Canned pears and seven single-serving plastic containers of bean chili thunked against the small of her back, shifting in her tote bag. The mid-morning sky was bright, a few cirrus clouds belying the storm condition notices. Storm-warners, doomsayers, people who held sway over your life with words words words, never actions. They’d been wrong before—but they’d been right sometimes, too. Nina pulled the tote closer, and pears sloshed in their syrup. Yellow wildflowers sprouted in the spring grass by the edge of the road, turning up their faces like little portents of happiness.
It stuck in Nina’s craw that Louise Logan, of all people, had guilted her into visiting. Louise, with her dyed chestnut pageboy swishing around a jawline that didn’t need accentuating, and her wet, bright eyes watching too intently. She reminded Nina of a vole—something that tunneled, that sat perfectly still, jaw working and working, looking behind you to see what else was there, and then darting under for reasons known only to her. Now here Nina was, sent on a mission by a woman she didn’t like, to check up on a woman who didn’t like her.
A mailbox rose up, rusty along the seams, its flag stuck into an upright position. Rose’s driveway was narrower than she remembered. It looked spat out from among the tangly branches like a half-digested chickenbone. Nina stepped up the driveway, making a mental list of chores she could ask the Old Man to do at home, to keep him busy and out of Perry’s hair. The less those two crossed paths the better. Could she send him over here to repaint Rose’s mailbox? She ruled out that idea—he hadn’t come to Rose’s place in years.
The house appeared around a final bend. Its shingles and tilting chimney were jagged against the sky, and the whole place looked like it could give you a black eye. A crow cawed, flying in an ungainly path toward the barn. Nina crossed the creaky porch to the front door and knocked, but there was no answer so she went around back. Curls of peeling paint sprinkled the porch floor.
“Rose,” she called, rapping on the screen door. “You home?” She looked around the yard. No sign of life. She peered through the screen into the kitchen to call again. A putrid smell came from inside. She set the tote bag at her feet, wondering where to leave it. It would be fine on the porch for an hour or two. But where was Rose? And what was that smell? What if Rose had—.
Nina pushed the screen open. “Hello?”
The source of the stink was clear as soon as she entered: the trashcan overflowed, and dirty dishes cluttered the counters and table. Nina made a spot for her bag and pulled out the items that needed to go into the refrigerator. She opened the fridge door and stood, honest to God stunned. It was a tinfoil shrine. At least ten casserole dishes, untouched, in varying stages of moldy putrescence. A gallon of chunky milk. Something furry in a produce bag. On the door, lidless slimy jam and pickle jars, and one pristine stick of butter.
Here was the answer to Louise’s question. Lord, Rose. Rose, you’re what, ten years older than me? You can’t be losing it, you just can’t, you have to pull it together. She shut the fridge door and went to the living room, calling Rose’s name.
Nina walked quietly through the rest of the house, as if to lessen the impact of her intrusion. Upstairs, she paused outside the shut door that had been Lance’s room. Touched the wood. Then moved on. Rose’s bedroom was empty. Down the back staircase, the sewing room had a twin bed that looked like it had recently held a body; cans of corn were stacked in a pyramid in the corner. The dusty parlor was strangely warm, and she paused in front of the mantel. Five black feathers fanned out above the fireplace with a thorny branch of dried rosehips—the makings of some decorative arrangement in the underworld.
A family photo hung crooked above the mantel: Rose and her late husband Theo sat on either side of Lance. The boy looked like an imp, a sprite—a spirit that hadn’t left him even after he was a lanky teen, knocking on her back door to take a walk with Sill. In the photo he was about four, his face screwed into a toothy smile, brown hair falling into his eyes. On Lance’s right, Theo leaned back as if anticipating a blinding flash. Rose looked solid, her hands folded in her lap, staring straight into the camera like she could bore through and touch the other side.
A presence seemed to breathe into the house—was that the screen door whining? Nina put a hand to her throat and turned around. “Rose?” How will she bear it? she had asked Perry when the news had broken. If she walked to the backyard she’d surely find that spirited little boy from the photo sitting in the dirt with Sill and a hose, making mudpies.
Nina hurried back to Rose’s kitchen. The screen door wasn’t quite shut, so she pulled it tight in its frame. On the fridge door two strawberry-shaped magnets held a sheet of paper, folded in half. A faint etching of black ink pressed through the white sheet. Nina unclipped it and unfolded the page. Now she was just snooping. Louise Logan would be proud. She ignored her trembling fingers. Her daughter’s name ran bold and black across the top of the paper—it was an email that Sill had printed out, dated five months back. The subject line read “For my mom.”
Dear Ma—My best girl says she’ll pass this message on to you. I haven’t had time to write a paper letter. How are you? The food here is terrific (not!) as ever and it’s been real hot. I wish I could time travel back for the weekend for some good food. Damn that I don’t have super powers—ha, ha. Don’t worry about me, we are careful. How is Fergus? I’ll write more next week. Maybe even pick up a real pen? Better go, there’s a country that needs saving (oh boy). Love, Lance.
Nina refolded the paper and returned it to its place on the fridge. Sill had never told her she relayed emails to Rose, but it made sense. Her daughter was locked now in a dance with Rose that Nina couldn’t follow. Sill had been as in love as a girl could be at sixteen. Nina remembered her own youthful passion with Perry, wrenching and electric, and cursed Lance for mixing it up with Sill before heading off to war. Then, just as fast, she grabbed the cross around her neck and offered up a quick plea for forgiveness. And for Rose—a prayer for her too, not that she’d want Nina’s prayers.
All told, Nina was in Rose’s empty house for almost two hours. She lugged out the trash, filled the sink with soapy water and washed the dishes stacked in it, then the pots lining the counters. Holding her nose, she emptied everything from the fridge—pouring liquids down the drain, scraping solids into the garbage can, and took out the trash again. She scoured every casserole dish and scrubbed the fridge shelves, and then found some baking soda to set inside it. She washed Fergus’s food bowl, filled his water dish, and swept the floor. Then she set her chili in the sparkling fridge, leaving the canned pears on the table, and took a piece of paper from the shelf under the phone.
Dear Rose,
I stopped by today and I apologize for letting myself in, but I brought some chili that had to go into the fridge. I also brought some fruit I canned. We had too much. I hope you enjoy it. I was very sorry to miss you.
Rose, I am so sorry for what has happened. I pray for Lance every day. Sill cries in her room--Sill is heartbroken Sill misses him too.
She sat, staring out the window. What more was there to say?
I’m sorry we aren’t closer, Rose, the way we used to be. I have no good excuse, other than—Can you ever—Just because I have their name doesn’t mean I’m like them. Will you please call me to let me know you got this?
Yours