The arranging and moving of stuff hits a stopping point when the pizza delivery girl arrives.
Stacey, Donald, Jane and Hans assemble my two-person glider while the
rest of us set up plastic deck chairs on the back concrete-slab patio.
Dan interrupts the happy
diners. “A toast to Jackie’s new beginnings! To paraphrase the early 19th century English novelist Robert Smith Surtees: To your good health, our friend; may you live for a thousand years, and we be there to count them." Laughter, clapping, and the random "hear hear" follows as everyone reaches around to clink mismatched coffee mugs of beer
and wine.
My friends head home and Megan and
I unpack the day’s last box.
Megan hands me two anthologies of essays and stories, and I fit them
into a bookshelf. “That’s enough for tonight.” I stretch my back
muscles. “I'll finish these others tomorrow … or when I need to find something
I’ve lost.”
“Knowing you, Mom, it'll be the
second one,” Megan teases, breaks down the box and walks to the kitchen.
We meet in the living room. Megan
hands me a coffee cup of wine and settles on the couch with a cup of tea and her
knees drawn up into a ball. “So Mom, do you think this will ever feel like home
for you?”
“Eventually. Maybe when I fill the medicine cabinet with
my Geritol and Polident.” I sip my wine.
“Or maybe I just need to make some brownies and fill the air with the
smell of chocolate.”
We sit quietly, the long day's work taking over. John Coltrane’s
“Too Young to Date” comes on. “I love Coltrane,” Megan murmurs with her eyes
closed.
“Me too. Especially the beginning
notes of this song. They always make me think of one anniversary when your dad and I went
to Ithaca.” My voice trails off as Megan and I listen together.
For that anniversary, John and I had splurged on a fireplace-and-hot-tub room in a little hotel between Ithaca and
Trumansburg. I had Coltrane for Lovers
playing, candles lit and a new pair of string bikini panties that complimented
my tummy rolls. I tried looking
seductive lying on the pillows, but as I flung out my arm to pose, I knocked
over the candles next to the bed. In our
hurry to keep the blankets from catching on fire, I fell out of bed and John had
to dance wildly to avoid stepping on me.
We laughed so hard. Still, by the
time we got ourselves untangled, we only kissed and fell asleep instead
of making love. We never did use the hot tub or the fireplace.
Suddenly heavy bass music booms
in the window from the apartments next door, overwhelming Coltrane and jolting
me back into the present. Megan nearly
spills her tea.
“That’s what you get for being a Vestal virgin renter!” she laughs.
“A what?”
“That’s what the college students
call townies who are first-time renters near the university. They're virgins when it comes to student
neighbors – completely oblivious to the insanity they will have to endure. And that music is a sign I have to go. I have my own
music to listen to driving the hour and a half home.” She takes her cup to the
kitchen and comes back with her keys. “I’ll call you tomorrow evening, ok?”
“Ok, hon. Thanks for coming
today. You were a big help!”
“No problem, Mom,” Megan hugs me
and kisses my cheek. “Sleep well,” she sings mockingly as I walk to the door with her.
I wave at Megan backing out of
the driveway and watch students walking to parties at the apartments. It’s already setting up to be a noisy night. Well,
at least it’s not the sound from Jane's bedroom, and when the night ends I'll sleep
in my own bed. I pour myself one last
glass of wine and go out back. With everyone finally gone, I start thinking about people leaving in my life.
I had had many random memories surface during the August before Kim and Ben went off
to college, but the one of the
first day of kindergarten stuck. The twins' different natures really showed that day in front of the school. Though both 5 years old, Kim was already focused on her best friend while Ben kept looking back to see if John and I were still
there. He finally turned and marched
resolutely into the building, leaving John and me with tears in our
eyes.
When Kim and Ben did leave for
college, each drove off with friends and neither looked back. Kim headed across town to Binghamton University, Ben was four
hours away in Buffalo, Megan was at Ithaca College, and at least for that day I had a bad case of
empty nest syndrome. John walked out later that winter.
“Stop it, Jackie,” I mutter. “This
isn't helping anything.” The riot next
door distracted me, and I settled on the glider. I might as well enjoy the show.
A sudden burst of loud party
goers swarms out of a first-floor apartment and into the building’s
back yard. The group laughs and shouts
at a pair of young men wearing togas and high heels and sloshing beer out of plastic cups.
One guy strides to the front. “OK,
everyone! We've got a challenger to the throne of the Emperor of Kegs.” The group cheers and two other young men roll
a couple kegs each onto the grass. They set up a staggered line, the crowd along one
side of the obstacle course.
“You know the rules right
Frank? Joe?” the master of ceremonies
asks loud enough to be heard over the whoops and whistles.
The two contestants in togas can
hardly stand. “Long live the Emperor of Kegs!” one yells enthusiastically,
raises a fist in the air and nearly falls down.
The other kid stumbles to some lawn chairs indicating the end of the
course. The two line up side by side, the
MC yells “GO!” and the contestants weave wildly across the yard. They jockey for
position at each keg to run in a circle, drink a shot handed to them, and then
take off to the next keg.
This race takes longer than it
should as the boys stumble and fall off their high heels. Pretty soon, they're barely
holding up the togas and the shoes are lost in the grass. One of the racers pulls the other one down as
he passes, and the next thing I know, two naked young men streak across my lawn. The two guys who rolled out the kegs chase after them with toga sheets and shouts of abuse. Somewhere in my other neighbor’s yard, the
retrievers tackle the naked pair and return back across my yard with the two
wrapped together, all to the party-goers’ cheers.
I shake my head, stand up and go
inside. I don't think I'm a Vestal virgin any longer.
On Sunday evening, I give up searching
for the garlic press, my favorite tablecloth, and other essentials buried in
the wrong places, and go for a walk through my new neighborhood. The September sky turns yellow then
pink then deep blue, the sun sinks behind the trees, and the air has a late
summer coolness signaling change. This
twilight time of night always makes me think of the word “gloaming” and I murmur
it to myself. Like in most of the
Chenango Valley towns settled in the river valley that cuts through the
Catskills, these streets wind and curve and climb along the hills. The
World War II vintage houses and new apartment complexes give way to mid-century
then late 20th century houses as I walk. Lights dot the shadows. Parents calling to come inside punctuate backyards
of kids' voices.
I come to a neighborhood park
with 8-year-olds floundering after a soccer ball and families in lawn chairs watching
from sidelines. A single player breaks
away with the ball, the goalie trying gainfully to protect the net. I watch as
the ball flies over the goal, the teams yell out groans or cheers, and the
goalie falls down from his effort to stop the ball. It’s been a long time since
I was one of those parents enthusiastically cheering both the kids’ successes and failures.
I turn the next corner. Over the
evening noises, someone calls my name. “Jackie!”
It’s the guy from the diner
walking a black standard poodle.
I wait for them to catch up.
“David, right? What a great dog.”
“This is Sophie. She’s my girlfriend’s.” Sophie turns her
head when she hears David’s voice as he leans over to adjust her collar. “Did you end up renting that house?”
“Yep, I did. I moved in
yesterday. So do you walk your
girlfriend’s dog often?” I hope I don't sound overly nosy or disappointed.
“Fairly often; Tracy’s off on a
trip for a week. She travels a lot.”
David clucks at Sophie, who reluctantly leaves something she found in
the grass, and together we walk down the hill.
“Tracey’s a rep for Rockwell Collins and ends up seeing the world while
I’m here holding down the fort.”
“Well that doesn't sound like a
bad gig. Is it?”
“No. I get some time to focus on my painting. I also usually work in the evenings. I co-manage the Art-Z Theater downtown.”
David glances at me. “What do you do?”
“I do freelance writing: articles
for different publications and The River
Fork Times, as well as occasional pamphlets and stuff.”
“Hmm, sounds interesting.” David
stops at the corner. “Well, I'm on the next block over. Welcome to the
neighborhood.” He clucks to Sophie, and they cross the street. I wonder how
often I'll run into them. Then I pass the apartments on my way to my house, and
I wonder which one is Ryan’s.
Posted by Jackie Connolly.