“If you’re waiting for someone to come out, you’re going to wait a while.”
I turned my hand into a visor and saw a tall man with a square, clean-shaven jaw. He wore khaki shorts and a blue T-shirt with a yellow bear silhouette I recognized as Oski, the Cal mascot. The man neither smiled nor frowned, but he did nod. His face said I am being respectful because I am in a cemetery. My face most likely said I am a chicken shit. He took a pen from his ear and scribbled into the notebook in the palm of his hand. Then he poked the pencil back through his brown hair that looked intentionally tousled. Or styled. He tucked the notebook into his sock.
“Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was there.” God, that was stupid. There are hundreds of people in there. Maybe thousands.
“Seems to me you wanted to come in, but thought if you stood there long enough someone might come and get you. Or, I could help you find who you’re looking for.”
This was a solo mission.
“No, I don’t want to come in, but thanks for the offer.” I spoke firmly while looking at the ground. Who was this gatekeeper anyway? Couldn’t someone go to a cemetery unattended and uninterrupted? I reached into my pocket and rolled the stone between my fingers. The stone and the cemetery would still be here tomorrow. Hopefully the man would not. I raised my head to say good-bye.
He was gone.
Chapter 6
I HAD NO REASON to dislike Violet. I had no reason to dislike Violet. I had no reason to dislike Violet.
Say it enough times, Teddi, and you might believe it.
I stood on the porch in front of Nettie’s and glanced at my phone. I hadn’t responded to Violet’s dinner invitation. My mother would cringe at my bad manners.
I walked down Lark, turned left onto Main, crossed Chance Square, and detoured down streets where my childhood friends had lived. I wandered a few blocks too far west, photographing lilac bushes and white picket fences, cracks in the sidewalk and more trellis-climbing clematis. Most houses in Chance were small, but they loomed large in my memory—trees I’d climbed, porches I’d sat on, sidewalks I’d scraped my knuckles on playing games of jacks. As I grew older there had been bar mitzvah brunches, sweet sixteen luncheons, graduation barbecues. The tables full of home-cooked food were a beloved Chance tradition, my mother’s baked contributions a regrettable one. The images pushed through in a way they hadn’t when I’d still lived there. My gait wobbled. I felt as if I’d been gone for decades.
I turned onto Grand Street—Celia’s street—and looked up through the tall oaks and let the leaves frame the summer-blue sky. Click. Was the sky better here? Brighter? Or did it just seem so because things on the ground seemed a little dark and daunting? I’d leave these scenes as my naked eye saw them and the lens captured them. No enhancements. No calibrations. No retouching. They’d be honest and imperfect. Maybe just right for a little contest? Or maybe, just right for me.
I switched to work mode and imagined the light, the best bench in Chance Square to take photos before the wedding ceremony, and how the sun would filter through the trees and dance atop the chuppah. I loved the art of my work. And I was beginning to like the management of it as well. Simon had encouraged me to become somewhat corporate in addition to being creative. He included me in planning meetings for all the hotel’s marketing materials and Web sites. I’d started to compile a manual for new photographers. The hotels were known for their four-star restaurants and wine cellars, so I suggested we hire someone just to take food photos for social media. That wasn’t my specialty.
But, noticing how the sky was an unbroken shade of blue, so wide and uninterrupted by clouds that it seemed right above me—that came naturally to me, as it always had. I held my breath for a moment and waited, as if it would float down and wrap itself around me. As if it should.
Minutes later, I stared at the numbers nailed next to the door: 304. I saw Celia at the window, the door, in the garden, with the stroller, wearing a big, floppy straw hat that hung past her shoulders as if she were Droopy Dog. God, we loved those old cartoons and spent many Saturday mornings watching them with my dad. I hadn’t thought about that in years. We’d sit on the floor, much closer to the television than either of our mothers would have allowed, eating bowls of Rice Krispies. My dad always turned up the volume, playfully blaming Snap, Crackle, and Pop that he couldn’t hear. When was the last time I’d eaten Rice Krispies not mixed with melted marshmallows and butter? The hotel chefs made monster-sized krispie squares dipped in chocolate, who could blame me?
Next thing I knew, I had grabbed the doorknob. The doorknob. I yanked back my hand as if I’d been burned. I couldn’t move. Chills ran through me even though the temperature was likely high eighties, with ninety percent humidity. Then I started to sweat.
This was no longer Celia’s front door.
I dropped my hand to my side and then grabbed my knees. My heart pounded in my chest. With the back of my hand I wiped the sweat from my forehead, but then everything started to tilt. I shut my eyes and blindly reached for the ground. I folded onto myself and inhaled as much air as I could hold. I couldn’t pass out. I’d never passed out. I wouldn’t cry.
Celia always left the door unlocked for me—the same door that now rattled and then opened with a swish. I glanced up to see a woman wearing crisp white cotton shorts with a belt and a pink Polo with the collar turned up. She aced the country-club-catalog vibe, which was in direct contrast to my crumpled-catalog-on-the-floor-of-the-car vibe.
I looked up and forced a smile. “Hi,” I sang. “Just taking a little rest.”
Violet reached out her hand toward me and helped me stand.
“Thank you.”
“I told Miles he should have driven over to get you. It’s hot out here.”
“It’s not his fault. I wanted to walk.”
I followed Violet into the house and stood on the same Oriental rug that had been there since Celia had found it at a thrift shop halfway between Chance and Columbus. The air smelled like Thanksgiving, or maybe like a lit pumpkin spice candle. The house smelled the way I felt—out of sync, out of sorts, and out of touch.
“I know this must be hard for you,” Violet said. “Do you want to sit down?”
I nodded.
Violet half stepped into the powder room and emerged with a box of tissues. I plucked two, unsure of what to do with them, as the sweat ran down my back and inside my bra.
“Are you going to be okay?”
“I’m fine.” I dabbed my face and the back of my neck. Evaporation would take care of the rest. Now it was my turn to extend a hand. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”