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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781613735657 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Chicago Review Press, Incorporated |
| Publication date: | 11/01/1987 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 184 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
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Goodbye, Aunt Elva
By Elizabeth Fenwick
Chicago Review Press Incorporated
Copyright © 1968 Elizabeth FenwickAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-61373-565-7
CHAPTER 1
Here she comes," said Roddy, from the window.
His mother stirred without rising. His tone was not urgent.
He went on, still leisurely, "Just turned the corner. Trot, trot. What a little bag of bones she is."
She said nothing.
"I see what you mean about the paint job. God, it looks like neon, doesn't it? Old ladies shouldn't use red, there's nothing in their skin to match it. Pink, maybe. Or lavender."
He laughed. Behind him, she got up, and he turned to look at her.
"You're sure that's a wig?"
"Yes."
"Well. All right, over to you. I'll be in the kitchen."
"No, go upstairs," she said. "And be quiet, Roddy."
She stopped by a dim mirror, smoothing her own hair, which was full enough for a wig, dark enough for a dye job, and yet was neither. Nor had her sallow skin begun to leach out; she could still wear color if she wanted to, she could even dominate her customary black. Grateful for this hereditary promise, he gave her solid waist a squeeze as he went by. Her too-solid waist. Like his. Well, you couldn't keep everything.
She paid no real attention to him, and not much to herself. The tidying was perfunctory. What she did was to look into her own dark eyes for a moment — a still moment — and then go to open the front door. She went just outside, leaving the door slightly ajar, and waited on the porch.
The old porch, sagging under bloomless wistaria vines, limited her view as it limited the inward view of passers-by and deadened somewhat the traffic echoes from the next street over. This was the business street, the downtown section, of their small New England city: solid with stores and buildings, some of them three and four stories high. Decay lay here behind it, and some confusion. A couple of apartment houses had gone up some years ago, and were still filled with people who wanted to be close to work, or older people who liked being near "everything.' There was a large parking lot across the street, giving access to the backs of stores. Yet some of the old homes survived, especially on this, the far side of the street. But these were mostly in poor repair, and few kept their original tenants. Families with too many children, anonymous solitary roomers, came and went. Now the houses themselves were beginning to go, and newer apartments to go up.
There was one next door, aggressive with raw brick and cement balconies. The brisk, unsteady heeltaps were going toward it, passing the wistaria-drowned porch.
The woman standing there stepped forward and spoke.
"Good morning," she said levelly. "Miss Besserman."
"Oh!"
The small woman stopped abruptly — teetered, clutching her shopping bag, then desperately smiled.
"Oh — good morning ... Good morning, Mrs. Kay! I'm afraid I didn't see you at first, your lovely vines ..."
She looked at them doubtfully, then stretched another smile.
"Such nice weather, isn't it?"
"I was hoping you'd come by, Miss Besserman."
"Oh? Oh, well, you can pretty well count on me, you know — morning shopping, rain or shine, a little breath of fresh air ..."
Her painted eyes, above all this, said simply: What?
"I wonder if you'd have time to come in a moment?"
The eyes closed down, turned away. In confusion, rather than refusal. Miss Besserman's bare little life feared the impromptu; only the known was safe. Besides, as the woman watching her knew, she was slightly ashamed of her one visit to this house, because she had come to have her fortune told in cards. Only for fun, of course. She did not really believe in magic. Now she looked as if she were afraid of being blackmailed.
"Something's come up," said Mrs. Kay. "I'd value your advice."
"Oh? Oh, dear — no trouble, I hope?"
Is it money? said the eyes.
"No, no," said Mrs. Kay. "There might be a little profit in it for you."
This was a mistake. Miss Besserman made an almost convulsive retreat.
"Oh — oh, thank you, but you know I'm quite retired
— I'm awfully stubborn about that, I'm afraid. Besides ..."
Besides, why do you need a retired saleslady?
Mrs. Kay gave her a broad smile, coaxing.
"Oh, this is something new for you," she promised. "You might be surprised. Anyway, come in and have a cup of coffee."
She opened her screen door then and stood holding it, smiling. Miss Besserman, trapped by courtesy, teetered a few steps in obedience and then stopped.
"I'll just take these things home, first. ... They should go in the refrigerator...."
She would never come back. An incoherent telephone call would end the matter.
"Put them in mine," said Mrs. Kay, still firmly smiling. "No bother."
She continued to hold the door. Defeated, Miss Besserman showed courage. She smiled back, an impossibly red-and-white smile, and said almost gaily:
"Well, how nice of you. Just for a minute, then."
"Watch the steps," Mrs. Kay replied, her eyes falling to Miss Besserman's little bird-feet in their high-heeled shoes.
It was good advice. The unpainted boards sagged, showed wide cracks to catch narrow heels. Miss Besserman eyed them anxiously, and took care. The porch's camber made her stagger just at first.
She said doggedly, "These dear old homes — what histories they must have"; and then flinched under Mrs. Kay's guiding hand that closed around her arm.
"Just go on through. The sun's in the back now, and I know you like to look out on the garden."
"Oh, indeed I do."
The sun was certainly not in the front of the house. A gloomy hallway, flanked by one closed sliding door and one glimpse of somber furnishings, invited no pause. Mrs. Kay made none, but resolutely led her guest through the open room and a massive dark dining room behind it. Beyond this, filtering pale light invaded a smaller room whose many windows looked out, mostly, on the pressing greenery of an old and neglected garden. A round table with an oilcloth cover had three assorted chairs drawn around it, two of rattan and one old Morris chair, each provided with faded cushions. Clearly this was, or has been, a favored retreat.
Miss Besserman said, "How pleasant ... Wasn't this where we ...?"
"Yes, this is my nook. Nicer with the sun on it, isn't it? Sit down, Miss Besserman. I'll put your groceries in the icebox for you, and get us some coffee."
Left alone, Miss Besserman leaned and looked upward, searching for the reassuring sight of her own windows, three stories up in the apartment house that loomed next door. But the shrubbery was too thick, the angle wrong; she would have needed to rise and peer, and of course she did no such thing. Instead her blinking glance went around the small room and stopped at the Morris chair, with its enormous standard ashtray beside it. A man's chair; a man's ashtray. Used, emptied, but not washed for a long time. Miss Besserman had not been able to decide if the heavy dark man she occasionally glimpsed was hired help or a roomer. He cut the lawn, infrequently, indifferently, with a rusty hand mower. Once she had seen him clumsily pounding nails into the back steps. The yard seemed to have no other care.
Yet still, in spring, the lilacs bloomed at impossible plumy heights. Purple and white, the lovely old-fashioned kind. That had been her first view out of the little paint-smelling boxy room that was to be her new home, and Miss Besserman's heart had lifted at such luck. How much richer she would be, after all, than the tenants in front with their balconies and street view she could not afford. What was their view compared to hers? Traffic, backs of stores, parking lot and each other. She had lilacs — grass, shrubbery, and who knew what else to come?
Actually, nothing else had come. An old peony bed that she had spotted came up, but failed to bloom. Nascent day-lilies became lost in a fall of untied climbing-rose canes; and these, overshadowed in turn, scarcely bloomed. Yet, tangled and uncared for though it was, the old garden remained her cherished view. Birds came there (and cats), and crickets were beginning to call, with the cooling nights, and the wind-whispering leaves of the charming old cut-leaf maple were just beginning to turn. The fact that no one else seemed to care for the garden gave it a deepened personal value to her, in time. But she did not think much of the yard man, whoever he was. Her glance came back to the huge, soiled ashtray and flicked away again.
Mrs. Kay reappeared from what seemed to be an ad-joining pantry, and brought a tray to the table — serving out its contents before sitting down, as if they were in a cafeteria. She discouraged Miss Besserman's offer to help. The coffeepot was a perfectly lovely piece of old china, and Miss Besserman exclaimed over it.
"Yes," said Mrs. Kay, matter-of-fact. "The doctor had lots of nice things. I don't know what will become of them if the house goes. Nobody wants old things any more."
"Oh, but I think this must be a very fine piece," said Miss Besserman. "Surely ..." She paused. "If the house goes? Aren't you going to keep it?"
"They want to build another apartment here," said Mrs. Kay.
"Oh, no!"
"Yes. Right up against yours. They don't care any more if people have to stare out one window right into another. I suppose they'll leave you enough airspace to breathe — there must be some kind of law about it. But you'll miss your view, won't you? I often see you sitting up there, looking out and enjoying it."
Miss Besserman received her deliberate words numbly, aware of some intent behind them, yet too crushed to care what it was. She did not doubt that they wanted to build another apartment house here; the wonder was that her garden had survived for so long. Already she could see the bricks coming up, walling her in alive, like someone in an Edgar Allan Poe story. And she could not afford to move again. Besides, where would she go?
She looked sadly into Mrs. Kay's waiting eyes.
"Is this what you wanted to tell me?"
"Yes, it is. I knew you wouldn't want a thing like that to happen if you could help it. You don't, do you?"
Miss Besserman was not yet capable of speech. Allowing her time, Mrs. Kay attended to her own coffee and then pushed the plastic pitcher and bowl along the oilcloth.
"Pull yourself together, we're not licked yet," she said kindly. "Take a little cream, Miss Besserman."
CHAPTER 2The cream was canned milk. Perceiving this just in time, Miss Besserman put the pitcher down again and, in a convulsive movement, drank quite a lot of the black coffee from her cup. It was very bitter, and calmed her at once. Like accepting an unpalatable truth.
"I will certainly sign any petition you have in mind, Mrs. Kay," she said then. "I'm not a petition-signer generally, but I think this is an exception. It's perfectly outrageous they should want to take your house away from you like this! How can they do it?"
Mrs. Kay, though attentive, did not reply to this at once. She said at length, almost absently: "Why, no one wants you to sign anything, Miss Besserman. You wouldn't be asked to sign anything."
"I'm perfectly willing," Miss Besserman replied firmly. "I assure you, I am."
She felt the bravery of commitment flowing into her, sitting there opposite this slow and thoughtful woman in her threatened home. Mrs. Kay only nodded, in some sort of general acknowledgment.
Then she said: "This could all blow over in no time, you know. If they can't get this land, then they'll build a smaller apartment house on the two lots the other side of us. You'd still have your open space, and the garden to look out on — nobody'd bother about it then. Sixty feet, what could they make out of it but a parking lot? Nobody's going to bother about that. As soon as they give up and build the smaller building, that's the end of it. You understand? And they're not going to wait much longer for this place."
"I understand," said Miss Besserman, keenly attentive. "A delaying action. Isn't that what you mean?"
"It's exactly what I mean. You're a smart woman. I knew you were."
"How can I help?" Miss Besserman asked simply.
Mrs. Kay poured more coffee into their cups from the pretty pot. Miss Besserman at once drank hers. She had begun almost to relish the uncompromising black brew ... and the sense of alliance with this woman defending her home against the bulldozers or whatever they were. Women need not always be helpless before the destroyers of gardens!
"There's a fellow, a lawyer or something, coming here to try and talk Mrs. Ryan out of her rights," Mrs. Kay said, very slowly. "She's an old lady, and not able to stand up to it. You could talk for her, Miss Besserman. Send him away with a flea in his ear, like she would if she could. That's all you have to do. That'll be the end of it. Just keep saying No — and No. If she objects, he can't do a thing."
Miss Besserman comprehended so little of this, and was so repelled by the little she did understand, that she sat impassive. At the same time she felt her brief excitement ooze right out of her, and all bravery with it.
To conceal this, she said the first thing that came into her head.
"Who is Mrs. Ryan?" she asked — and felt a horrid, silly smile twitch at her lips.
Mrs. Kay put her head on one side.
"Why, that's right," she said "I keep forgetting how new you are around here. You don't remember when Dr. Ryan lived here. That was his office, the other side of the house. Elva was his second wife — there was a divorce, and children, and about all he could leave her was the right to live in this house as long as she lived. If she could scrape up the money to do it. She couldn't even have done that if I hadn't come and lived here and shared expenses with her. And helped her keep the place up. And looked after her too, these past years she's been so feeble. Now it would pretty well finish her if they snatched her out of this place and stuck her somewhere among strangers — and you can bet that's what they'd do, those Ryans."
"Dear, dear," Miss Besserman murmured, feeling that mindless smile still flickering at her lips. Under Mrs. Kay's grave gaze she made a heroic effort to control it.
Mrs. Kay seemed to approve the result. She leaned closer, over the table.
"I have my home to lose too, and my place of business," she said frankly. "Just like you've got your view — and I know that means a lot to you. I remember how you talked about it, the night you were here.
(Oh, what — what had she said?)
"But don't forget, that old lady has the most to lose of all," Mrs. Kay continued. "She wouldn't live through a cruel thing like that. It would be the death of her, that's all. She wouldn't survive it."
Miss Besserman, still sitting erect on her side of the table, felt that already brick walls were rising around her, enclosing her completely. They were made of Mrs. Kay's unanswerable, incomprehensible words. If she did not break through at once with words of her own, she would never escape.
She said, very fast, "Mrs. Kay, I am in no position to speak to a strange lawyer on behalf of a strange woman. He would pay no attention to me. Why should he?"
"He would pay attention to you if he thought you were Elva," Mrs. Kay replied unbelievably. "And that's exactly what he would think. Why wouldn't he?"
"If he thought I were Mrs. Ryan?"
"Certainly — what else would he think? You'd simply be here, sitting in her chair — there isn't a one of them has laid eyes on her in years. And I could fix you up to fool anybody who had, don't worry about that. You've only to sit there and say to him what Elva would say to him herself if she could — that you don't agree, and you're not going out of the house. There's not a thing in this world he can do then but get out. Why, I should think you'd enjoy squashing a wicked scheme like that, with no more than a few minutes, and a couple of words! Even if it meant nothing to you at all, Miss Besserman. Just for the charity of it. Even if it had nothing at all to do with saving your garden."
Miss Besserman sat and heard her out, almost tranquil with shock. She heard her own voice float out into the air between them.
"I couldn't do it, Mrs. Kay. I'm very sorry."
With no change of expression Mrs. Kay got out of her chair.
"I want you to come with me, just for a minute," she said. "I want to show you something."
Miss Besserman sat on, looking up at her.
"I'm sorry. I couldn't do it."
"Just for a moment. Surely you can spare one more minute before you go. Come along, get up, Miss Besserman," she added more sharply.
Suddenly flushing, Miss Besserman got to her feet. Only, the rattan chair was tippy, difficult to leave, and Mrs. Kay's arm supported her to steadiness.
She stood very still, but Mrs. Kay's arm remained.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Goodbye, Aunt Elva by Elizabeth Fenwick. Copyright © 1968 Elizabeth Fenwick. Excerpted by permission of Chicago Review Press Incorporated.
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