The Sky Beneath My Feet - By Lisa Samson Page 0,36
art that’s been in storage since before I was born.
When she’s finally done, Stacy rises to her feet.
“All right,” she says. “I think we need a bathroom break.”
All but one of the ladies in the room break out in nervous laughter.
chapter 7
Man Gave Names to All the Animals
Adjusting to an absent husband? Not so hard, it turns out. After the second day, I stop keeping watch at the kitchen window. After the second night, I start sleeping in the middle of the bed, forcing myself to spread out even though come morning I’ll be curled in my usual tight ball on the edge of the mattress. Hermits don’t need their laundry done either, and their meals don’t have to be cooked. Their opinions don’t need polling whenever there’s a decision to make.
I could get used to this.
With Rick gone, the nature of time itself starts changing. I used to be so busy, running from one errand to another, anticipating his wants and requirements, trying to allow for last-minute surprises. And all the relationships I had to maintain! The chats over coffee, the ladies’ lunches, finding myself thrust into the role of counselor by virtue of being a pastor’s wife. The beginning of Rick’s vacation brings an end to all that. He’s gone, so people assume we all are. My phone stops ringing. Pure bliss.
Problem is, with the boys at school and no one’s needs to fulfill, I sit all alone in the house, listening to the radio, reorganizing shelves that are already tidied up (though nowhere near as razor-sharp as Chas Worthing’s bookcases), taking apart the hot water knob in the shower to see if I can fix it once and for all. I’ve never been a clean freak—when a house reaches a certain age, it’s earned the right to be a little dusty—but now I find myself digging under the sink for cleaning products, spraying and squirting and shining every surface I can get my hands on.
From the upstairs bathroom, working on the grout with Rick’s toothbrush, I notice movement down in the backyard. When I push the sheer to one side, I have a clear view of the hermit. Hunched over, looking around every other step, he makes an approach on the back door. I tap the window and the noise startles him. He scoots his way back, disappearing into the shed.
I know from the empty toilet paper rolls and the damp towels that he sneaks into the house at odd intervals. He waits until we’re all gone.
At first this discovery irritated me. He’s already living in the shed, so why does he have to avoid us entirely? That’s taking things too far.
No, they were already too far. What do you call it when you go too far, then go even further?
I’m not irritated anymore. Now it cracks me up.
“You’ll just have to hold it,” I say, and resume my scrubbing.
Confession: I’ve also been talking to myself out loud a lot the past couple of days. Out loud, having whole conversations. A house full of cats can’t be far behind.
I decide to surprise Eli after school. He rides past me on his bike, oblivious. So I blow the horn. He circles, dismounts, and starts the walk of shame. All of his classmates are watching. He makes a point of approaching the driver’s window, keeping the bike between us.
“What’s up? Is something wrong?”
I slide the sunglasses off my nose. “Hop in, sport.”
“I don’t need a ride.”
“Just throw your bike in back. The longer you wait, the more people are gonna see.”
With a defeated slump of the shoulders, Eli complies. All I have to do to embarrass the kid is show up. Why is that? I’m not even blaring eighties music today.
“It’s your birthday tomorrow and you still haven’t told me what you want to do.”
“I don’t want to do anything.”
“Are you too old for a party now? We could invite some of your friends over—”
He gives a violent shake of the head. “No, that’s okay.”
“You don’t want them coming over? Because of Dad?”
“It’s not that. Not just that. I don’t want a party, that’s all. I’m turning sixteen, not six. I don’t need the cake and candles.”
“What about a present? You want a present, don’t you?”
He shrugs.
“Well, you’re getting one,” I say. “You’re getting a cake too.”
“Whatever.”
“I love you, you know that?”
He nods.
“Your dad loves you too.”
“I know.”
“Your brother practically plans his birthday for me,” I say.