The Year of Pleasures (2 page)

Alleys sparked other pleasant memories from my childhood: visiting my aunt Lala in Worcester and playing in those narrow little streets behind the houses with my cousins. We played old-fashioned games like tag and hide-and-seek and capture the flag, games I thought had been eclipsed by electronics and technology and the fear of leaving children alone outside. But here, despite the nip in the air, I saw a lot of children, though they were on sidewalks rather than in the alleys. A group of little girls jumped rope, calling out singsongy rhymes familiar in cadence if not in lyrics. Older boys shot baskets at the end of someone’s driveway, dribbling furiously through piles of leaves that had lost their colors to a uniform brown. I saw towheaded girls somewhere between the ages of seven and ten who looked like sisters, dancing in a circle around a tiny brown dog who continually charged them, biting at the hems of their pants. “
No,
Tootsie!” they shouted, laughing.

“The town that time forgot,” I said out loud, perhaps to John, who perhaps heard, and I turned off the radio and cracked the window, the better to hear the indigenous sounds of this place so different from what I’d left behind. Even the air was different: clean and apple-scented.

I turned down a wide street lined by tall and stately trees and saw what looked like a
FOR SALE
sign in the middle of the block. And indeed it was that. I pulled over to the curb next to a white wooden sign reading
HENCKLEY REALTORS
, a phone number stenciled neatly below. The house was a beautiful Victorian, complete with a wraparound front porch. It looked empty: There were no curtains, I could see no furniture or artwork through the windows, and the dying grass was longish. My heart sped up; this was exactly what John and I had fantasized finding when we planned our trip. I sat for a long minute in the car, hesitant to get out. I knew if I loved the house, I’d buy it, and I was afraid, suddenly, to follow through on what I’d thought I was so sure of. If John were here, he would be the stable force against which I could play out my daring and my spontaneity; now I wondered if this whole trip had been such a good idea after all. “Don’t do
anything
for at least six months,” one woman had told me. But another had said, “Get right back into the swing of things. You’re not twenty, you know.” Then she’d all but covered her mouth and added, “I didn’t mean that like it sounded.”

I decided to go up and ring the doorbell. If the house was empty, I’d have a peek through the windows. If it wasn’t . . . well, I’d think of something. I turned off the engine and checked myself in the visor mirror. I didn’t look deranged, as I feared I might: I could feel my overeagerness knocking about inside me. I thought surely I would look at least somewhat exophthalmic. But no, I looked normal: a fifty-five-year-old woman with clear green eyes that were just the slightest bit asymmetrical and a nose that was just the slightest bit crooked, traits I’d wept over in high school but had come to accept, even love, because John had. I was a redheaded, freckle-faced woman in need of a haircut but wearing decent clothes and diamond studs, a gift from John on our fifteenth anniversary. They were not so large as to be gross, but I thought they would signal to the Realtor that I had some money. That seemed important. I anticipated him being annoyed having to show a house of this size and quality to a single woman—my opinion was that when it came to women being taken seriously, the world had not advanced so very much.

When I got to the door, I saw that the house was indeed empty. I looked around to make sure no one was watching, then moved cautiously over to a large front window to peer inside. What I saw took my breath away: egg-and-dart molding, a fireplace with a carved mantel, polished wooden floors in a tiger oak pattern. The stairs curved around to go up; at the landing was a large stained-glass window in the striking form and colors of Frank Lloyd Wright. I pulled my cell phone out of my purse and noticed that my hands were trembling—out of fear or out of eagerness, I wasn’t sure—but I dialed the number on the sign and prayed that someone could show me the house,
now.

I asked the receptionist who answered for a Realtor—in fact, was Mr. Henckley there? I asked. I wanted the owner of the company. I thought that was probably the way to do it. “This is
Mrs.
Henckley,” the woman said, “and I am the Realtor. The only one.”

“Oh!” I said. “I’m sorry, I thought you were the receptionist.”

She laughed. “There’s no receptionist here! It’s just me and the cat. What can I help you with?”

I took in a breath. “I’d like to see a house you have listed. It’s a white Victorian—”

“Oh, the Samuels place. Three-eleven Maple?”

I looked at the number beside the door. “Yes, that’s it. I’d like to make an appointment to see it.”

“Well,” she said, “how about now? Do you want to see it right now?”

I nodded vigorously, then realized what I was doing. “Yes!” I said. “Please. That would be great.” I sat down on the top step. “I’ll just wait right here. I’m right here on the front porch.”

“It’ll take me about fifteen minutes to get there,” she said. “Take a walk around the place. Look at the garden in the back. There’s not much there now, of course, but you’ll get an idea. Lydia Samuels made a bargain with the devil to get a garden like that one. I’ll show you pictures of it in bloom when I get there. What’s your name, anyway?”

I told her, then added, “I’m from Boston.”

Silence.

“But I’m moving. Here. Maybe. I mean, I
am
moving, for sure. I just don’t know if it’s to this house.”

A moment, and then, slowly, “Well, of course you don’t, hon. You haven’t even seen it yet. You just have a look around and I’ll see you soon. I’m Delores, okay?”

So much for not seeming deranged.

I looked through the window a while longer, then headed for the back of the house. There was a narrow strip garden along the side, but in the backyard was a magnificent plot, gently curving in and out, taking up fully half of the yard. A white stone birdbath was stationed in the center, the pedestal plain and solid, the bath in the form of a shell. Dried leaves had accumulated at the bottom, and I brushed them out with proprietary license. At the far end of the garden there were two birdhouses stationed side by side, one slightly taller than the other. They were sturdy and handsome and huge, made from a dark green metal. Judging from the cobwebs, they’d been long without seed; I hoped this meant the house had been empty for some time. Then the owners would be more eager to sell.

There was a garage, painted the same cream color as the house, with a multipaned window complete with shutters and a window box. I looked through the glass and saw rakes and shovels neatly lined up, flowerpots stacked high on wooden shelving, plastic bags full of something I couldn’t identify, freestanding pieces of latticework, tightly bound piles of garden stakes in all sizes. This was not a backyard garden, I thought; it was the Kennedy compound! I couldn’t possibly take care of it. But I wanted it with the fierce longing and determination of a child fixated on a toy behind glass. It was more than the beauty of this house making me want it. It was that I thought acquiring it would somehow empower me to do more of what I needed to do. There was so much more I would need to do.

I went to the middle of the yard and stood before the barren garden, imagining myself here in the summer. I saw myself lying on a chaise on a warm afternoon, drinking lemonade, a fat novel open in my lap. Bumblebees, weighted with pollen, would fly from blossom to blossom, drunk-looking with their loopy flight patterns. Or I would lie out at night, watching fireflies; there were fireflies in the Midwest.

And then I realized I was having this fantasy thinking that John would be there, too; in my mind’s eye, I’d seen the end of the chaise he lay on, his ankles crossed, his feet bare and tan.

I sat down on the ground and wrapped my arms around my knees. “What do you think?” I asked. Overhead, an airplane flew by. The pilot did not dip his wings. A breeze did not caress my cheek. A bird did not land on a bare branch and sing a song of pointed assent. No whispered words came into my ear, made-up or somehow real. But I did not need such assurances to know what his answer would have been. I had not lost him that much.

I went up to the door on the back porch, hoping I’d be able to see the kitchen, but faded yellow curtains covered the glass completely. And then I heard the sound of someone calling,
“Yoo-hoo!”

I’m taking it,
I thought.
Yoo-hoo, indeed.

A heavyset woman with short white hair came around the corner. I put her in her late sixties, early seventies. She wore an ill-fitting mustard-colored Realtor’s jacket over a black-and-white print dress—you could see that a patch had been removed from over the front pocket of the blazer. Her shoes were red and badly worn. She had been a good-looking woman, in her time; she had beautiful, widely spaced, dark blue eyes and a generous mouth, deep dimples. “I’m Delores,” she said, and pressed her hand flat against her chest. “Whew!” She was apparently out of breath from her short walk from the car.

“Betta Nolan.” I held out my hand to shake hers. Her grip was surprisingly strong, nearly painful. “Glad to meet you,” I said, and had to work hard not to massage my hand.

“How do you like the place?” she said. “Isn’t this garden something? I mean, you can just imagine what happens in the summer. Did you see the Miss Kim lilac bushes in the front? Right up next to the front porch?”

“I saw bushes,” I said. “I didn’t know what they were.”

“Well, they’re Miss Kim lilacs, and you know they’re the ones with the
most
potent scent, knock you right on your keester. I have them myself, just love them. I believe she’s got mountain laurel somewhere back here, too; I’m not real sure where.” Delores moved over to some bare bushes, frowned at them through the lower part of her bifocals. “This might be it, I don’t know. But let’s go inside, there’s some pictures of the yard in there.”

I started toward the back door, and Delores said, “Oh, no, let’s go in the front. I like to do it that way.”

I followed her around to the front and then up the steps. She was puffing hard by the time she reached the door and began digging in her purse for the keys. “Do you smoke?” she asked, turning around and sizing me up as though she might find the answer by looking.

“No,” I said.

“ ’Jever?”

“Nope.”

“Well, you’re smart. I finally quit. I’ve got the lung capacity of a flea on account of those things.” She unlocked the door, then pushed it open. “Go ahead,” she said.

I stepped into the front hall. There was a musty smell, but it wasn’t bad. It reminded me of the old library I’d gone to as a child, so the association for me was one of pleasant anticipation. There were art-glass windows in the entryway that I’d not noticed before. They were lovely, but much simpler in style than the one by the staircase.

“Let me give you the tour,” Delores said, stepping around me.

I followed her through a formal dining room, complete with shoulder-high wainscoting. The kitchen had not been updated; the stove and refrigerator were old, and I saw no dishwasher. But why would I need one, for myself alone? The truth was, I had always enjoyed the meditative quality of washing dishes, the scent of soap and the squeak of the sponge, the goings-on outside the kitchen window. Anyway, there was a fine farmer’s sink and a generous-sized pantry, both back in vogue.

Upstairs were four relatively small bedrooms with fading cabbage-rose wallpaper—again, old enough to be new. There was a very large bathroom with vintage tiles and a claw-foot tub. In my mind, I was already placing my things. Here would be a library, there an office, there my bedroom, and there a combination guest-and-television room.

“Did you want to see the basement?” Delores asked as I stood before the bathtub, imagining myself shoulder-deep in bubbles.

I knew what this question meant. Only serious buyers went into the basement. I wondered what I’d look for. John was the one who knew about electrical systems, heating systems. For one long, wavering moment, I thought,
What am I doing? I can’t do this! I need a condominium with water views and a grocery store on-site and a balcony with a container garden and a man wearing a tool belt who’s only a phone call away. I need neighbors on the other side of a wall so that I won’t feel so alone.
But that fantasy, though it felt safer, also felt lifeless. And so I said yes, I would like to see the basement.

We started down the stairs, Delores ahead of me and gripping the handrail tightly. At the bottom, she turned, smiling, to ask, “How many’s in your family?”

“It’s . . . just me.” I felt terrible, suddenly. Greedy and foolish.

Delores stared at me. “You would want a house this size all by yourself?”

“You know, it looks bigger from the outside,” I said.

“Well, that’s true.” She stood hesitating for a moment, then said, “Now, listen. I’m going to send you into the basement by yourself for one reason and one reason only. And that is that I can’t walk up the dang steps. Would you mind going by yourself?”

“Not at all.”

Delores directed me to the door and flipped on the light, and I went down narrow wooden stairs. There was a strong scent of earth; this was an old basement.

Off to the right was a finished laundry room with a high window. There were wooden storage shelves and a deep divided sink. That would do. To the left and beyond were the furnace and the electrical box. I went over to them, my arms crossed over my chest. I had no idea what to look for. Well, there’d be an inspection. That man would know what to look for. I proceeded no farther in the dimness; I wouldn’t be needing the space except for storage of the most basic kind.

I came back upstairs quickly and nodded at Delores. “Looks just fine,” I said.

“You know what you’re looking at down there?”

I laughed. “No.”

Delores smiled, a kind and sympathetic smile. “I didn’t think so.” She reached out to touch my arm. “You divorced, hon?”