Beyond the Carousel Page 17

  A shiver ran up Christine’s spine. It was almost the same thing her daddy had told her mama.

  “Oh, Jack,” she said and buried her face against his chest.

  Jack put his hand to the back of her head and held her close.

  “Don’t waste today worrying about tomorrow,” he said. “I’m working to make detective, and that job is a lot less dangerous than being a beat cop.”

  That was the one and only time they talked about the danger of his job, but not a day went by that Christine didn’t think of it and remember the tragedy of her daddy’s death.

  * * *

  When Emory returned home from the wedding, he knew what he wanted to do. The idea had been bouncing around in his head for the past two months, but he was unsettled on how he would handle his end of it. Once he’d seen Seth Porter’s apartment, everything became clear as day.

  Emory met Seth a month or so after he joined the Elks Club. Seth was one of the regulars who came to play cards and have dinner. Like Emory, he was a widower. Before long the welcoming pinochle games evolved into a good-natured friendship.

  On a night when the club served pork roast as the daily special, Emory went back for a second helping. As he scooped the last forkful into his mouth, he said, “You’re never going to find a meal better than this.”

  “Not true,” Seth replied. “Last week I had a corned beef and cabbage dinner that was way better than this pork.”

  Emory eyed him suspiciously. It was a known fact that most of the men in their pinochle group could barely boil water, never mind cooking a dish like corned beef and cabbage.

  “Who you trying to kid?” Emory said. “The club hasn’t had corned beef since Saint Patty’s Day.”

  “I didn’t have it here,” Seth replied smugly.

  “You asking me to believe you cooked up a pot of corned beef yourself?”

  Seth shook his head. “I’m not asking you to believe anything of the sort. I didn’t cook it; Clara did. She made it special for me.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t married.”

  “I’m not.”

  Emory remembered his earlier experience with Otto. “I get it, Clara’s your cleaning lady, right?”

  Seth chuckled. “Clara’d have a fit if she heard you call her that. She’s a neighbor and a friend.”

  Emory thought about the nights when he was home alone. He had to open up a can of beef stew or spaghetti. No one brought him a homemade dinner.

  With his brows still hooding his eyes, he asked, “So this Clara’s husband, is he okay with her cooking dinner for you?”

  Seth laughed. “Clara ain’t married. There’re only a handful of married folks in the building. They’re mostly all widows or widowers like us. That’s what makes it a good place to live. You don’t feel like an outsider. Most everybody’s in the same pickle you’re in.”

  “It’s not an old age home or something like that, is it?”

  “Shoot, no,” Seth said. “It’s a nice apartment building. You got neighbors and friends. It’s way better than living in a big house all alone.”

  The thought of that settled comfortably in Emory’s head, and after a few minutes he asked, “What’s it cost to buy a place like that?”

  “You don’t buy it,” Seth replied. “You rent it by the month.”

  Once Emory showed an interest in the place, Seth said he was having the boys in for a game of cards on Tuesday night and asked if Emory wanted to join them.

  “Poker, two cents a hand,” he said.

  “I can do two cents,” Emory replied and took down the address.

  Tuesday night was the first time Emory ever visited the Wyattsville Arms, but he found the evening so pleasurable that he stayed until almost midnight. Then, figuring he might be too tired to drive home, he spent the night on Seth Porter’s overstuffed sofa, which was considerably more comfortable than the tiny sofa in Christine’s apartment.

  Christine

  I’d like to tell you I’m not going to worry about Jack, but I know I will. When you love someone as much as I love him, it’s impossible not to worry.

  Sometimes when I think about Mama and how she loved Daddy right up until the day she died, I have to wonder if she ever regretted marrying a man who got himself killed. I don’t believe she did. She used to say six years of being loved by Daddy was more happiness than some people get in an entire lifetime. I’m a born worrier, but I’m determined not to let it spoil our life.

  If it were up to me, we would have never taken that wonderful honeymoon. I would have kept the money in the bank to save for a house. Jack is the one who planned the whole thing. He said, We’ll only have one honeymoon, so I want it to be memorable. And it certainly was.

  I thought maybe once we got home and he moved into my tiny apartment he’d regret spending all that money in New York, but he doesn’t. Not even when he stands upright in the loft and bonks his head. The ceiling up there is only a little over five feet. It’s fine for me, but Jack’s over six feet tall.

  I suggested we find a bigger apartment with a real bedroom, but Jack said as long as I’m working split shift he wants to live close by where it’s convenient for me.

  The truth is that if we had to live in a closet, I’d still be happy about being married to Jack. I’m happier than I’ve ever been, and I’m trying to see the future one day at a time. Every day of happiness that passes is one day more than I had before.

  I’m determined to keep thinking this way.

  The Big Move

  Once Emory discovered the group at the Wyattsville Arms, he went back time and time again. That summer there was a round of parties that ran for almost a week straight. After he’d slept on Seth Porter’s sofa for three consecutive nights, Seth suggested he think about getting an apartment in the building.

  “It ain’t that I mind your company,” Seth said, “but sleeping on a sofa’s bad for a man’s back.”

  “That’s the God’s honest truth,” Emory replied as he twisted his torso trying to work a kink loose. “Do you know if they’ve got an apartment available?”

  Seth shrugged. “Can’t say. You’ve got to talk to Clara.”

  “She’s the building manager?”

  “No, but she knows most everything going on here. If there’s an apartment available, she’ll help you get it.”

  Seth explained that all of the apartments at Wyattsville Arms were reasonably priced and more often than not snapped up before the “Apartment For Rent” sign could be posted.

  “You’re gonna need Clara’s help to get one,” he said.

  That afternoon Emory walked over to the florist, bought a bouquet of gladiolas, then returned to the building and rang Clara’s doorbell.

  “If you’ve got a few minutes, there’s something I’d like to talk to you about,” he said and handed her flowers.

  As they sat there on Clara’s sofa, Emory ran through the entire story of how the daddy he never knew left him money and how after almost thirty years of marriage he’d lost Rose.

  “Now with Laura and Christine both gone, I’m living in a house that’s way too big and too empty,” he said. “So I’m thinking maybe it’s time to pass along the blessings I’ve been given.”

  As he explained his plan, the look in Clara’s eyes softened. She reached across and patted his knee.

  “You’re a good man, Emory,” she said. “A real good man. We’d be glad to have you in the building.”

  The way Clara spoke you might think she owned the place, but technically she was a tenant like everyone else. The difference was that Clara had a way of making things happen, so it was never a wise move to cross her. Donald Dwyer, the building manager, knew this and such a thought irked him to no end.

  As soon as Emory was out the door, Clara telephoned Donald.

  “I have a friend looking for an apartment in the building,” she said.

  With a get-even tone of gleefulness he answered, “There’s no vacancies.”

  “Not ye
t, but one might be coming up.”

  “No one has given notice,” Donald replied sharply.

  “Well, in the event someone does, mark down that Emory Hawthorne is to get the apartment, okay?”

  “Okay,” he answered begrudgingly. Judging by the confident tone of her voice, he had a feeling Clara knew exactly which apartment was going to become available.

  Later that afternoon Clara wrapped the tiny sweater she’d crocheted for Gloria Wilkinson’s grandchild in gift paper and stopped by her apartment.

  “This is for that new grandbaby you’re expecting,” she said and handed her the box.

  Gloria was a weepy woman to begin with, and the thought of her daughter living alone had been tearing at her heart ever since she’d learned there was a baby on the way. The mere mention of the baby caused her eyes to well up.

  “I don’t know how the poor child is going to survive with a mama who works all the time,” she said. “Eloise insists she’s not going to quit modeling. Claims she worked too long and hard to get where she is and is not giving it up now.”

  Clara gave a pinched look of concern. “I can’t imagine how the girl can keep working as a model with a newborn.”

  “I’ll tell you how,” Gloria replied testily. “She’ll have a perfect stranger move in to care for the baby, that’s how! Imagine, an irresponsible stranger caring for my only grandchild.”

  Clara gave a discouraged sounding sigh.

  “I’ve just about made up my mind to take the job myself,” Gloria huffed. “I’d be a lot more loving than a stranger. If it wasn’t for having this apartment and all this furniture…”

  “That’s the only thing holding you back?”

  Gloria nodded. “Eloise is so fussy about her house. She claims everything has to match and won’t even consider letting me bring my own furniture.”

  She squeezed her forehead into a worried looking knot and gave a sigh. “I know my things aren’t worth much, but after all these years I can’t bear the thought of setting them out on the curb for the trash man.”

  Clara smiled. “What if I was to tell you I know of a good man who’s in need of a furnished apartment?”

  Gloria blinked back the tears threatening to overflow her eyes and said, “You know such a person?”

  Clara leaned in and told her about Emory. The truth was he’d said nothing about the apartment needing to be furnished. He’d said only that he wanted an apartment, but as far as she was concerned it was a minor point. Certainly not a bone of contention. And it was an opportunity to give two people the happiness they each deserved.

  By the time Clara got back to her apartment and called Emory with the good news, he’d already started whitewashing the fence.

  “A house sells better when it’s in tip-top shape,” he said.

  Before the month was out, Emory had the house shined up like a new penny. Christine commented on it both times she and Jack came to visit. Emory acknowledged that the house was indeed looking good and grinned, but he didn’t mention the “For Sale” sign waiting to be staked in the front yard.

  The week before Labor Day, Emory set out the sign and placed an ad in the Wyattsville Register. That weekend five different families came to look at the house, and by Monday evening he had an offer for twice as much as he’d gotten for the Chester Street house.

  Gloria Wilkinson was scheduled to move out the following week, so Emory hurried over to the Wyattsville Arms, met with Donald Dwyer and gave him a check for the deposit and first month’s rent.

  “I’ll be moving in October first,” he said.

  In the weeks that followed, he filled boxes with the personal treasures that once belonged to Rose and afterward to Laura: the music box on Laura’s dresser, the embroidered hand towels, the potholder Christine made at camp, photo albums and framed pictures, Franklin’s ash tray. Each item was wrapped in tissue paper and carefully packed away. When the boxes were filled, he carried them over to the Wyattsville Arms and stacked them in the storage room. In time he would sort through everything and pull out the pictures and souvenirs he knew Christine would want to set on her mantle, but for now he’d keep them stored—at least until she and Jack had a place of their own.

  Emory

  You might think I’m sad to be leaving the house, but I’m not. The truth is that it feels like a burden lifted off my back. It’s one thing to keep memories in your head where you can pick and choose to hold on to the good ones and let go of the others, but it’s quite another to be living in the middle of them. I’ve come to realize you can’t move forward if you’re stuck in the past.

  In this house it’s just me, alone with the ghosts of yesteryear. At the Wyattsville Arms it’s different. I have friends, people like me who have time to sit and chat or play a few hands of cards. Such things might seem trivial to a young person, but to someone my age it’s reason enough to wake up in the morning and look forward to the day.

  Everything in life has its own time. When I was younger my family was my world; now everyone is gone or moved on so my friends have become my family. This doesn’t mean that I love Christine less. Quite the contrary; it means that I love her enough to give her the freedom to live her own life. Looking back, I can see that’s exactly what Laura intended when she wrote her will.

  One advantage of growing older is that you learn to see with your heart rather than your eyes. When you’re young your eyesight is sharp and focused. You look at the world and think, we’ll need this, that or the other thing. You see the future and plan for having a family and a home where you can raise those babies.

  I’m not saying that’s wrong; it’s as it should be. But when you get to be my age and there’s nobody but yourself to look after, you start to realize how truly little you do need.

  If I can spend the rest of my days knowing I have a place to sleep, food to eat and friends to share the day, I’ll be a happy man. You can’t ask more of life than that.

  All Good Things

  On October first Emory finalized the sale of the house, deposited a check for a little over $6000 into his bank account and then into moved into the Wyattsville Arms.

  Claiming he’d help get things straightened up, Otto came along. With every last piece of Gloria Wilkinson’s furniture still sitting in its rightful place, it turned out there was very little to straighten. Once Emory hung his clothes in the closet and plunked his underwear into the dresser drawer, he and Otto went down to the recreation room for a bottle of beer and a few hands of cards. After Otto won the first two hands, he said there was no way he was leaving.

  “I’m on a lucky streak,” he said and raised the pot a penny.

  When it got close to dinnertime, Fred McGinty suggested he get the cheese and sausage from his refrigerator so they could have snacks and keep playing. By then Otto had lost as many hands as he’d won, but he, like everyone else, was in favor of the idea. Harry Hornsby even said he’d contribute some crackers and pretzels. After everyone grabbed a beer, they sat down and dealt another hand.

  Later that evening, Maggie Swift from 7B came in with a chocolate cake that was high on one side and low on the other.

  “I was making cakes for the church bake sale,” she said, “but this one came out rather lopsided, so I thought maybe you fellows would like to have it.”

  “Sure thing,” McGinty said and pulled some dishes from the clubroom cupboard.

  When the game finally ended it was close to midnight, and rather than drive Otto home Emory suggested he spend the night on the sofa.

  The next afternoon, Emory waited until the time between Christine’s split shift hours then telephoned.

  “If you and Jack aren’t busy, I’d like to come for a visit this weekend,” he said.

  “What a coincidence, Granddaddy,” she replied laughingly. “I was just going to call you and say we’d like come to Wyattsville this weekend.”

  Without giving such a thought time to settle Emory replied, “No, this time it’s better for me to come there.
”

  “But isn’t it uncomfortable for you sleeping on the sofa?”

  “Actually I’ve gotten rather used to it.”

  “Why would you be—”

  “It’s a long story,” he cut in, “and I’ve got a lot to tell you, but let’s hold it until the weekend.”

  “Okay.”

  Christine hung up the telephone and stood there with a smug grin.

  Granddaddy might have something to tell me, she thought, but wait until he hears what I have to tell him.

  * * *

  Emory arrived at the apartment shortly before noon, and when he got to the apartment Christine was packing the last of the sandwiches into a wicker basket.

  “Jack has the day off, and since it’s so beautiful we thought it would be fun to have a picnic lunch in the park. Is that okay with you, Granddaddy?”

  “Perfect,” Emory replied. “This apartment is way too small for two people, never mind three.”

  “It’s small, but we’re managing fine,” Jack said. He could have added they’d be getting a bigger apartment soon but didn’t want to spoil Christine’s surprise.

  As they walked the five blocks to the park, Emory noticed the bounce in Christine’s step; she seemed healthier and happier than he remembered.

  “You look mighty chipper,” he said.

  She flashed a grin and said, “I guess it’s all this beautiful weather we’ve been having.”

  In an area that was just a stone’s throw from the pond, they stopped and spread the blanket on the ground. It was a day as perfect as you might ever wish for with the sky a clear blue, the smell of fall in the air and the oaks ablaze with color. Once they were settled, Jack pulled a bottle of champagne and three glasses from the basket.

  Figuring there was no way they could know what he had to say, Emory asked, “Are we celebrating something?”