It was nice to be out someplace warm and new by herself, away from David’s house, away from all of the Listons. She sat at the counter for two hours, reading a newspaper, avoiding the line cook’s eye. She ate every bite of her breakfast and asked for another coffee. Finally, she stood up and paid at the counter, and then she consulted the piece of paper on which she had written the address from David’s Yellow Pages. She had not wanted to get there too early, but she supposed that 9:30 was a reasonable hour. Then she walked over to Dot Ave and walked south, toward Ashmont.
Ashmont was where Miss Holmes lived. She had told Ada once that she rented an apartment on the top floor of a triple-decker, and Ada imagined her life there to be quiet and warm and enviable, with potted plants and a little deck outside. She imagined that Miss Holmes made tea for herself and cooked small meals and froze what was left over. Miss Holmes had said nothing that might lead her toward a particular vision of her life at home. But Ada knew that this was the sort of life she could imagine having herself one day, and so she chose to believe it about Miss Holmes.
When she reached Miss Holmes’s street, she turned onto it and walked resolutely to number 33. Three bells formed a little stoplight by the door, and before she could be scared, she pushed the top one. And while she waited, it began to snow.
She held her breath and said a prayer, briefly, that Miss Holmes would answer. The library was closed; there were not many other places to go. She could not go back to Liston’s. Not yet. She looked up at the white sky and counted slowly to ten, and then she rang the doorbell again.
Above her, a window opened. And from it emerged a face that Ada did not recognize. The face was not unfriendly. It belonged to a young woman of indeterminate age—an adult, Ada thought, but the woman was backlit by the bright bank of clouds behind her, and she couldn’t be entirely sure.
“Hello?” said the woman.
“Hi,” said Ada. “I’m looking for—is Miss Holmes there?”
“Yeah,” said the woman.
“Can I talk to her for a second?” said Ada.
“Sure,” said the woman, but she did not move for a moment. And then Miss Holmes herself appeared, leaning out the window alongside the other woman.
“Ada?” she said, surprised. “Is that you?”
Miss Holmes’s apartment was not unlike how Ada had pictured it. Oriental carpets crisscrossed one another on top of hardwood floors, and the furniture was mismatched and comfortable. Not surprisingly, all of the walls were lined with bookshelves, and all of the bookshelves were filled with books. There were no potted plants, but there was a Christmas tree in the corner, already decorated, with little colored lights strung around it in three loops.
“Are you all right?” asked Miss Holmes, upon letting her in. She was wearing a bathrobe and slippers, still; it was funny to see her out of her librarian attire, typically a calf-length skirt and an oversized sweater.
“I’m fine,” said Ada. “I was just in your neighborhood.”
“How did,” Miss Holmes began, but then she shook her head. “Welcome,” she said.
Ada was looking behind Miss Holmes at the other woman in the apartment. She was standing in the corner shyly, a small smile on her face. She was short and plump and brown-haired. She worked the knuckles of one hand with the fingers of the other.
Miss Holmes followed Ada’s gaze.
“This is my daughter,” she said. “Constance. Constance, this is Ada. She’s a friend.”
“Hey,” said Constance, holding up one hand. Ada had not known Miss Holmes had had a daughter. Ada had noted long ago, when she was coming in regularly with David, that Miss Holmes wore no wedding ring. But it occurred to her that she had never really asked Miss Holmes anything about herself.
Miss Holmes took Ada’s coat and hung it on a rack mounted to the wall and draped with dozens of other coats and scarves and jackets. “Have a seat,” she said, pointing to the sofa. “I’ll make us tea.”
Ada sat down. Constance remained standing, avoiding Ada’s gaze. She followed her mother with her eyes as Miss Holmes walked into the kitchen. How old was she? It was difficult to tell. She was wearing a red sweat suit; the top was covered with shiny patchwork hearts. Ada had the sudden feeling that Constance was different, somehow; that perhaps she belonged to a group of people who could be described by a word that the students at Queen of Angels hurled at one another viciously, with a frequency that had startled Ada at first. It was a word she had heard William use, and Theresa, and Janice. It was a word that seemed, to Ada, almost as bad as the words that Gregory had used about her father. Almost, too, as bad as loser—the other word to duck, at Queen of Angels, when it was thrown. She had not used any of these words herself. They seemed almost magical in their power to wound: an incantation or a spell.
When the silence became uncomfortable, Ada spoke.
“That’s a nice Christmas tree,” she said.
“Thanks,” said Constance. She tucked her hair behind her ear.
“Did you decorate it?”
“We both did,” said Constance.
She sat down then, across from Ada. “Do you have a Christmas tree?” she asked tentatively.
“No,” said Ada. “Not yet.
“I will, though,” she added, to assure herself of this as much as Constance.
“I love Christmas trees,” said Constance. “I can’t get enough of them, actually.”
“Me neither,” said Ada. It was true. She missed having one at Liston’s: she hoped that Liston would put one up soon.
Through a picture window at one end of the room, Ada could see that the snow was picking up speed. The snowflakes themselves were getting fatter—David’s favorite. This is very satisfying snow, Ada, he would have said. This is real snow. She closed her eyes, briefly, against her memories of all the times he woke her up, or brought her to the window, upon first snowfall. Was it snowing in Quincy, too? Would any kind nurse know to point him toward the window?
Miss Holmes returned with a tray. On it was a teapot and cups, a little cardboard box of cookies, and an envelope that rested against the thumb of her right hand. On the front of it Ada could make out Miss Anna Holmes, and the address of the public library.
“So,” said Miss Holmes. “This is good timing, Ada. Guess what arrived yesterday,” she said.
She put the tray down and held up the envelope. She had opened it already, and Ada saw on her face that she had been uncertain about how, and when, to present its contents.
“I was going to give it to you Monday,” said Miss Holmes. “But here you are.”
She poured three cups of tea, and brought one of them to Ada, along with the envelope.
“Now,” said Miss Holmes. “Before you open it. I want to warn you that it’s strange.”
Inside the envelope was a letter.
December 5th, 1985