(published in Blueline, SUNY Potsdam literary journal, 2014)
Charlie and I have made
plans to renovate our old farmhouse. Rory, our contractor, has given orders
that we must vacate by the first of July so he can begin tearing down walls. My
sister’s friend, Janie, and her kids, will spend summer at a camp by the lake,
so Janie has offered to rent us her home.
We meet Janie on a humid,
cloudy afternoon at her New Haven property. We walk the grounds while speaking
of our needs and her requests. The woods are dense; the grounds, simple and
mowed.
Janie
tells us she is not fond of cats, but we have two, so she makes it clear we
must keep Bessi and Finn out of her bedroom, a challenge for us because our
cats sleep wherever they want, which is usually between us or on us. Janie suggests
they should be allowed in the garage only, but we view this request as
unreasonable and tell her so. I promise her they will be good, so Janie acquiesces.
Janie also asks us not to
sleep in her bed, although by the looks of it, I am barely inclined to do so.
There are mounds of clothing and personal items heaped on top of an old
patchwork quilt. It seems no one has been sleeping here, not even Janie. We
assure her we will place our futon mattress on the bedroom floor and sleep
there.
We ultimately agree on a
monthly rental amount of $750, a fair price. The house was built by Janie and
her deceased husband, ten years ago. A comfortable, spacious two-story home, I
might consider it ordinary if not for the beautiful chimney that stands central
to the space. Constructed from local Panton stone, the large slabs are striated
with tones of gray, cream and beige. Knock-out mountain views face the house
from the east, and to be honest, I would pay $750 for the views alone. South
Mountain and Deer Leap are visible from the wide porch, so I’ll have a front
row seat for sun and moon rises.
Before we take possession
of Janie’s home, Charlie and I return by ourselves to walk the grounds. The
house is tucked away from the road by a grove of evergreens. A curved, steep
driveway lends a natural source of privacy. Some people might find the
seclusion a bit unnerving, especially at night, but we welcome this solitude
since our own house is located on a noisy main road, considered sacrilege in
Vermont. The big trucks that pass by sound more like hovering helicopters.
We don’t understand why
windows at the front of Janie’s house are so small given the gorgeous views to
be had. I would have installed tall panes of glass to allow natural light and
mountain vistas into the space. Still, there is that sweet front porch so I
plan on some prime porch-sitting time.
Janie and I meet at the
house early on moving day. I sense her wariness and suppress the urge to remind
her of my excellent references, and that I have run my own home for many years.
The house keys dangle in
the air between us. Her hands tremble and her bottom lip quivers. As I take the
keys from Janie, I realize this woman has not fully accepted her young husband’s
death.
*****
Charlie and I move our
essential belongings over to New Haven in caravan fashion. It’s odd – I like
the idea of this temporary move; it’s as if we are going on sabbatical. I don’t
mind the thirteen-mile trips between our home in Cornwall and New Haven. We
pack the car with bags of clothing (thank goodness summer clothes are light);
our favorite photos; books; and cooking utensils. Lastly we bring the cats, who
make the trip one at a time. The rest of our personal things are boxed up and
stored on our enclosed front porch so that Rory can begin the demolition.
It is constant
back-and-forth from the cars into the house. When we bring our younger cat,
Finn, into the kitchen, he runs across the floor and takes a flying leap across
three levels of steps through the mudroom out toward the garage. He looks as
though he has sprouted wings like a flying squirrel, and we can’t stop
laughing.
I drop our bags of clothes
onto the bedroom floor while we tidy the living room and organize the kitchen.
Janie has left her house in mild disarray, which is no surprise really, with
two young children and a busy life. I head upstairs to un-bag our clothes. I
open the roomy closet and assess the space, deciding what clothes must be hung
and what items can be placed on a little chair by the dresser. Charlie helps,
and as I push Janie’s winter clothing aside to make room for our own, we
discover stacks of folded clothes that could only have belonged to her dead
husband.
Ron has been dead two years
and four months, and here are his clothes - the worn jeans and checkered shirts
of a good ol’ born-and-bred Vermont boy – even his tattered jockey shorts for
God’s sake. We both wonder how someone could hold onto her dead husband’s
clothing for so long. I ultimately discover through the gossip mill that she is
saving these clothes for her little boy, Ron’s son, who is only eight years
old.
Charlie and I are morbidly
fascinated with these old clothes. We can’t help but make light of it, so we
begin calling them, “The Dead Guy’s Clothes.” And now, every time we speak of
Ron, whom neither of us knew personally, we refer to him as “The Dead Guy.” And
Janie has become “The Widah Janie.” We say it the way Foghorn Leghorn talks
about his lady love in Bugs Bunny cartoons.
Perhaps our irreverent humor is a defense mechanism we’ve created to
ward off the ghosts because as far as I’m concerned, Ron’s ghost presides over
this house. Janie hasn’t let go of him; and I observe signs of this haunting
during our renters’ tenure.
One morning, on my way
downstairs to start coffee, I notice the glass door of the shadowbox at the
bottom of the stairway is open. It contains Janie’s faded wedding bouquet of
cream-colored roses and carnations along with Ron’s crinkled boutonniere. I
fasten the case securely, I am certain of it. Yet the next morning it is open,
and this occurs repeatedly during our three month stay.
One evening, although there
is no rationale for doing so, I feel compelled to descend the stairs into the
home’s clean, uncluttered basement. I glance left and notice what must have
been Ron’s L. L. Bean snow boots. They are propped up against the wall beneath
his Carhart overalls, which hang from a hook. These items, once essential to
his life in this house, now serve as memoriam. I can’t help but visualize Ron’s
body filling out these clothes as if I have a mystical power to conjure
physical matter. The image scares me enough to propel me back up the stairs
fast. I shut the door behind me – tightly, relieved to be back in Janie’s kitchen.
After that day, I find the
cellar door ajar often despite the fact that when I leave the house in the
morning or go to bed at night, it was latched. Yet this mild haunting does not
deter me or Charlie from finding comfort in this house.
*****
My friend, Jess, who works
with Janie states that prior to Ron’s cancer diagnosis, he was hard on their
little son. He often bullied him about his performance during pee-wee ice
hockey games. Janie confided to Jess that their marriage had been a bit rocky,
but then Ron took ill. It is strange to note how a grave illness can change the
landscape of a marriage, as if once death has put you on notice, all
relationship issues – the hurts, flaws and tensions – are nullified.
I have wondered what it
might be like if I lost Charlie. Oh, he might get on my nerves once in a while.
We argue and he is not perfect, nor am I. But when I am alone, I pretend. I
allow myself, if only for a moment and however irreverent it might seem, to
think of him gone. No longer would I share life with my biggest fan, the one
who tells me I am still pretty no matter how old I get. I would miss his silly
jokes. I imagine how it might feel to never again see his face across from me
over dinner or to hear his voice, and I easily empathize with Janie.
And now, the little boy who
played hockey; whose daddy was so tough on him and yelled at him from the
sidelines, is without a daddy at all. And Janie and her family must go on
without him.
*****
On weekdays, I come home
from work and surrender to my new preoccupation, porch sitting. At our own
house, I might vacuum or search for another chore, but here at Janie’s, I live
in the “realm of the renter.” Charlie laughs as he has embraced this slogan,
too, with no household jobs or lawn mowing required.
Charlie arrives home from
work considerably later than I do in the evening, so I pour a glass of
Chardonnay, read, and watch the sky as it fades into shades of purple and
orange. The cicadas sing. The grosbeaks and thrushes flit between the branches
of mature evergreens, calling to each other. Sometimes I play a game with them
by imitating their sounds. They almost always return the call, which sounds a
little sad, as if they are keening for Ron and Janie. One evening, I see a
gorgeous red fox streak through the side yard. Another day, a flock, or
“rafter” of seventeen wild turkeys plays follow the leader as they strut towards
the woods behind the house. I watch with reverence as if time passes in slow
motion.
I find myself channeling
Janie. I jot down random thoughts and impressions as I sit on her front porch.
It is as if I have stepped through a portal while in New Haven, my usual life
held in suspension. I have been given a gift of more time, attuned to not only
my own interior life, but Janie’s, too. There is a deep sadness she endures
that I vicariously feel for her. This house may be haunted, but not in any
frightening way. It is merely filled with the story of its family and a woman
who cannot let go. Charlie’s and my lives overlap with Janie’s, which overlaps
with Ron’s death and we all live with ghosts.
Although I have moved
through my own divorce and heartache, I understand the loss of past love and the
pain that continues despite all logic. I sense Janie’s guilt for being the
survivor. How difficult it must be to bear the type of grief that besets a
young woman who has lost her mate well before his time, no matter the condition
of their marriage. But Janie resists moving on. She hasn’t changed a thing that
might tamper with Ron’s memory and keeps the house as a shrine.
There is a photo on the
living room table - Ron looking weak but still handsome in his blue flannel
shirt. His head is partially bandaged, indicative of surgery, a surgery that
would have perhaps offered hope, but failed to save him. Janie is sitting on
his lap, a wan smile on her face. Odd, knowing what I know. That if Ron had
never become ill, they might never have posed for the camera in such a way,
wrapped up in each other’s arms.
****
When I prepare meals in
Janie’s kitchen, I try to keep our belongings separate, but so many of her
possessions are scattered about. I can’t help but flip through a stack of
photos I find in a small basket. I catch a glimpse of one in particular, and
can’t quite believe what I see. Janie and a few men stand in a semi-circle at
the local cemetery. With shovels, they seem to be chipping away at the frozen
ground. Ron passed away in March. In northern climates, the dead cannot be
interred until spring thaw. Because of this timing the funeral director
declined to bury his body. Apparently, Janie must have asked Ron’s fire company
buddies to help her dig through the partially frozen earth shrouded in winter’s
remaining snow.
*****
It is now late August and I
am on vacation, free to attend the writers’ conference on Bread Loaf Mountain.
I intend to bask in these days I have given myself, and what better place to
enjoy them than New Haven, which is very near Bristol, my first Vermont home. I
bring my books to Main Street Bakery and read or write until a friend comes by
offering welcome distraction. Some days I drive up to Ripton for a writing
workshop or to attend a lecture. I take daily morning walks on East Street up
towards the Mayer Farm. I walk farther each day, all the way out to Route 17. I
slow my gait as I pass the cow barn and always get a little heartache when I
see the cows. They seem so lonely, and I succumb to the urge to say hello. I
say it in humanspeak – in English – the way I talk to my cats. No mooing at
cows the way tourists do.
There is a sense of freedom
in this summer that I haven’t felt for a long while. In my “renters’ realm,”
all expectations and responsibilities are at bay. For many of us, this type of opportunity
proves elusive. I have come upon it by accident. Despite my perception of Janie’s
pain and Ron’s spiritual presence, Janie’s home has been a heartening retreat.
During the final week of
our stay, Janie stops by to gather up gear for a Labor Day weekend camping
trip. This is the only time during the three months I have lived here that we
speak. We talk about her kids and how she has managed since Ron’s death. She
tells me about her new relationship with Rick, who runs a tractor business out
of his house in Waltham, three towns away. She says she couldn’t want for a
nicer man than Rick. He treats her and her children well, so she has decided to
give him a chance, and will leave her house behind for the upcoming fall and
winter seasons. I give her a big hug and tell her I am happy for her.
It is now September. Rory
has completed the final touches on our renovation. We pack our clothing and
load cardboard boxes with the bowls, photos and books we brought with us. I sit
on the porch one last night and watch the full moon come up over South
Mountain. I will miss this place.
I recall a poem I wrote for Janie earlier this summer with the secret
hope it might disperse the entwined energy between her, the house, and Ron’s
spirit. Perhaps now she can move on. Perhaps the shadowbox that preserves old
wedding flowers will cease its mysterious unlatching and remain closed.
