The Sky Beneath My Feet - By Lisa Samson Page 0,49
at sixteen I was already married.”
“Really?”
She nods. “We had to fudge a little about our ages. It was like that, during the war. Life moved pretty slowly before the war, and pretty fast once the fighting started. I remember it all like it was yesterday. In fact, I remember it much better than I remember yesterday—which I don’t remember at all!”
“If you think it would be too much,” I say, “walking over to the house . . .”
She raises her hand, which shakes visibly. “Oh, I don’t get out much anymore. I used to be quite a traveler, but I think I’ve traveled about as much as I care to.”
It’s charming, her idea that a walk next door would constitute travel.
“Maybe I’ll have Eli come over and visit you.”
“Don’t take any trouble on my account. I’m sure a sixteen-year-old boy has better things to do with his time than come calling on little old ladies.”
“Not at all. And besides, the boys love you. We all do, you know that.”
“Do you?” she asks, leaning forward. “That’s nice. That’s very nice.” Her eyes glisten in the lamplight. “That husband of yours, I’ve been hearing things, you know.”
“From Deedee?”
She shrugs, as if to say, Who else?
“Well, I admit, it’s a little strange.”
“I don’t think so,” she says. “Not really. I remember when I was a girl, we had another man who lived out there, a handyman, I think he was. Worked for my daddy doing odd jobs, minding things. Name of . . . Bruce, I think. Adoniram Bruce, something ridiculous like that. Matter of fact . . . now, don’t tell your husband this, but if I’m not mistaken, I’m pretty sure ol’ Mr. Bruce passed away out there. From the flu, I believe. That must have been in thirty-nine.”
She gazes around the room, perhaps imagining how it all looked when she was a girl. Not too different from how it looks now, I would imagine. Visiting the Smythes is a bit like walking into a museum, only the furniture isn’t roped off and there’s no charge for admission. There is, however, live entertainment. Especially if Deedee is home.
“Well, Mrs. Smythe, I’d better get going.”
She starts to rise, but I motion her back down.
“Don’t worry about me. I can see myself out.”
“What a sweet girl,” she says. “I do enjoy your visits.”
Outside, the wind stirs the trees into releasing more leaves. They glide down into my path as I recross the yard. It’s so tranquil here. I would be heartbroken to leave. After touring Mission Up and seeing how many people were packed in there, living in sun-burnt and joyless blight, I’m sure Gregory must look at a place like this and think how unjust it is. Maybe he’d be right. But I love it all the same. There’s enough ugliness in the world without having to feel guilty about the beauty.
Again I give the shed a wide berth. A feeling of presence emanates from the little building. The afternoon sun turns the windowpane into a mirror, so there’s no seeing within, but the shed gives off the vibe of occupation. I sense Rick there. If I venture too close, I’ll have to knock on the door and say something. How could I not?
Why wait?
Good question. He’s in there now doing Lord knows what. There’s no point in pretending otherwise. I don’t want to see him, but I want him to know I know he’s there. I want to remind him he still has responsibilities.
“It’s your son’s birthday today.” I announce this to the backyard in general. “In your head, you might be on some kind of journey, but as far as Eli’s concerned, you’re just sitting in the shed, pretending none of us are here. I just hope it’s worth it, that’s all.”
I wait to see whether he’ll respond.
Nothing.
“Well, I’m not going to waste my breath anymore.”
Pause. Still no answer.
I go back in the house, slamming the door loud enough to wake the dead. Uh-oh. Frozen in place at the foot of the stairs, I listen for movement in the bedroom. Nothing up there either. Loud enough to wake the dead, but not the deadbeat, apparently.
This house is full of crazy.
All I need is a few more inmates and I can give Mother Zacchaeus a run for her money.
The cake arrives first.
“You have to keep it refrigerated,” Gregory says, as if this might not have occurred to me.
I slip it into the freezer. I’ve already cleared out the space.