The Sky Beneath My Feet - By Lisa Samson Page 0,56
kind of been chewing at me ever since. I still know some people from the church, so I asked how to get in touch. One of my friends told me you lived next door to that wonderful house. I’ve always loved that place.”
“It is wonderful. The people who live there are wonderful too.”
She nods. “I know Deedee Smythe—I mean, I know of her. I know her work.”
Marlene’s dreads are loose and free, and she wears an ankle-length tank dress, an old-lady sweater, and sandals, with an oversized fringed bag slung across her chest. She declines coffee and soda but perks up at the mention of tea, eventually choosing Darjeeling from the box of packets I hold out for inspection. Milk and no sugar. While I boil water, she looks around the kitchen, peering down hallways and up the stairs, her hands clutching the strap of her bag.
“I know it’s strange to just turn up out of the blue—”
“Stop apologizing, Marlene. I’m happy to see you. If you look up those stairs, you can see an example of Deedee’s recent work. She’s painting a mural at the Catholic church just up the hill.” I wait until she’s had a few moments to inspect the picture. “You recognize who it is?”
“Oh,” she says. “How funny.”
“I’m not sure who he’s meant to be. Not Judas, anyway, or he wouldn’t get a halo, right?”
“Probably not. To be honest, I didn’t realize she was still painting. The way people talked about her when I was growing up, I assumed she was retired.”
“You grew up around here, then?”
She nods. “Over toward Loch Raven, on Chapelwood.”
“Wow,” I say. “Nice.”
“They sold the house after the divorce, but I still drive by sometimes. It’s strange to think of other people living there. But this place is really great. Did it used to be part of the big house?”
“Everything around here was. There’s another carriage house kind of thing, and some outbuildings. The family has sold off bits and pieces over time. Deedee and her mother are the last of the line, I guess, and after Margaret’s gone, Deedee threatens to move to California.”
“I could never do that,” she says. “No seasons.”
“I know, right. This is my favorite time of year.”
When the tea is brewed, Marlene clutches her mug in two hands, inhaling the steam. She’s such a cute girl, really. If she’d take some of the metal out of her face, get rid of those awful dreads . . .
She notices the book on the counter for the first time. Sets her mug down to pick it up. As she flips the pages absently, I wither inside. Embarrassed.
“It’s for a book club,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I decided to skip it. I just couldn’t get through the thing. You know how it is.”
Now my cheeks feel hot. It’s like the Jesus fish all over.
She sets the book down. “It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten to read anything for enjoyment.”
“They keep you busy in school,” I say, wishing it had been a Smart Girls book on the counter. Why’d it have to be a Bodice Ripper?
“So, the reason I came . . . the thing is, your sudden exit really stirred things up. We had a good discussion after that, a lot of us. I guess you could say that I was deputized, though I did volunteer. Everybody wants to, like, apologize.”
“Apologize for what?”
“I think you know. We kind of turned on you all the sudden. I feel kind of ashamed.”
“Oh, don’t say that.”
“I do. And I apologize. You were going out on a limb even showing up, and we pretty much hacked the limb off. Chas was really bummed out. He would’ve come himself, but I thought it would be weird if a whole bunch of us showed up unannounced.”
“Well . . . apology accepted. Thank you.”
“There’s more.”
“I don’t think I can take any more.”
“We would like it if you would consider coming to D.C. with us. So we can make it up to you.”
“The big demo? I don’t know, Marlene—”
“Don’t say no. Just think about it. You have no idea how much fun it will be. All those people together in one place, letting our voices be heard. It’s liberating. Really. It’s better than a concert even. And it’s peace, Beth. It’s not abortion or gay marriage or anything that might get you in trouble.” She grins over her mug at me. “Everybody wants peace.”
You’d be surprised, I think. I’ll bet Peggy Ensign doesn’t. Of