Lydia Netzer - Shine Shine Shine

Sunny had come home from graduate school for the funeral of Nu. The mother had known, but the children had not known, that Nu was actually already past middle age when she came to Pennsylvania from Burma. For all those years of Sunny’s childhood and Emma’s middle age, Nu had been seeding green beans across a full acre of garden, planting corn in endless rows, potatoes, giant pumpkins; taking in bushel after bushel of harvest, canning, steaming, freezing, and marching a constant parade of food through the kitchen. She planted it, picked it, prepared, sauced, cooked, fired it, and they consumed it. For several years she even kept goats, used their milk to make cheese, yogurt, and the animals would climb on cars that parked in the driveway. She called them guard dogs, named them Brownie and Whitey and mourned when they died of fever, swore never to have other pets. Her sturdy face, her squinting face, her floppy straw hat, her no-nonsense farm boots, had seemed timeless. Maxon had thought she was thirty when he met her, and that opinion had never been updated.

“No, dear, she was a very old woman,” said Emma when she called him to give him the news.

“How old?” Emma’s voice was quavering. That meant she was sad. Maxon spoke quietly. That’s how you talk to sad people.

“She was eighty-seven,” said Emma.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.

“I thank you for the sentiment,” she returned automatically. It was a fragment of conversation they had practiced for years. He had used it on both sides of the conversation, and it had never failed him. He knew just how to say both parts.

“What are you going to do now?” he asked.

“Well, I’ll just stay here, I guess. Sunny is still in California, of course. You’re still here, for now.”

“Will she be coming home for the funeral?” he asked.

“Yes, she’ll be home. Maxon, did you tell her about the house?”

“I didn’t tell her,” he said. “Why would I?” He did not say he had been keeping it for a surprise. He had never kept anything for a surprise before in his life, but this idea captivated him, he wanted to try it, he wanted to try it on her specifically.

“Listen,” said the mother, “don’t tell her. Don’t … bring her back here. You let her go back to graduate school; it’s what she needs.”

He had nothing to say.

“Maxon,” said Emma. “She’s like your sister. You care for her like your sister, right? Say you care for her.”

“I care for her.”

“Like a sister,” prompted Emma.

“I care for her like a sister,” said Maxon mechanically.

“See?” said Emma. “There you go. There’s no need to tell her anything about the house, right? Just let her go back to California and finish grad school like she needs to do.”

“Would it be wrong,” he asked, “I mean, would it be the wrong thing to do to take her out a little while she is home? Even if it is just after the funeral?”

“Oh, no,” said Emma. “You mean, would it be socially inappropriate?”

“Yes,” said Maxon.

“Oh, no,” she said again. “Nu would not mind. And I would not mind. Sunny will need some cheering up, Maxon. You take her out. But then, you let her go.”

Maxon hung up the phone and looked around himself at what he had done. Over the hill from the Butcher farm, off to the north and up the mountain, there was a piece of property that he had always coveted. It was the highest point in the landscape for miles around, and accessible only by a dirt road that at times achieved a grade that would make a mountain goat nervous. On this property there was an A-frame house, glass on both ends, from whose windows one could see all across the valleys and hills straight to the deep gouge that was the Allegheny River. Throughout his life he had entered this house as a squatter, as a trespasser, first alone and then with Sunny. It was their special retreat. As soon as he had some money, he bought it.

The view was breathtaking, and he had gotten the property for a song, as depressed and weak as the economy in the area had become. He gutted the house, replaced the saggy furniture and hunting gear with a few spare pieces and a bachelor’s kitchen. He had been living there during school breaks all through graduate school, shoveling out the road himself, living on Triscuits, Diet Coke, and melted snow, and during the summers working like a madman to clear a beautiful yard, mathematically precise in its layout, with a pond at one end and a garden at the other.

Nu had died in her garden, feet facing up the hill, head facing down. She had an aneurysm, and at that angle, all the blood rushed to her brain. Maxon knew this was a risk of living on a slope.

Maxon had worked on his house, his property, knowing that the land abutted the Butcher land, that they shared a border through ten miles of woodland. He wanted what he wanted from moment to moment: stumps cleared, shed painted, garage raised, shade trees lined up, rhododendrons installed in rows on the tree line. He didn’t consider what he wanted beyond that. But then, he hadn’t thought of Sunny as something to want. She had been his. They talked on the phone almost every day.

When she returned from California for the funeral, she appeared different. She, too, had been rushing through, spending summers in school, working toward her doctorate. Their time in Pennsylvania had not coincided, him going to conferences, a visiting professorship at Stanford University, the youngest person to ever do this and that. He stood in the old Butcher farmhouse kitchen, his head bent over her portfolio, looking at photographs of the art wigs she had made. One was constructed of teak shavings, forming a little Zen garden. There was a series of wigs in black and white; she had been exploring what she could do with melted swirls and plastic textures. She sat at the breakfast nook, wearing a woven scarf around her neck, a pair of faded jeans, a halter top, and giant boots. She was so certain, so eager, her hands clutched together as she waited to hear what he would say, that he could hardly look at the pictures of her work. It didn’t interest him at all. But the robot matches its facial expression to the expression of the person with whom it is conversing.

He stood there, his head almost brushing against the ceiling of the little kitchen, nodding and smiling, and constantly looking back at her, sitting there so grown, so different from every other woman he had met in the meantime. So this was the voice at the other end of the phone. He had not seen her for three years. She had changed a lot. He felt, suddenly, the urge to act. He felt himself, suddenly, want something. Want something beyond a mathematical expression or the resolution of a logical question, beyond installing recessed lighting properly, beyond closing his eyes and opening them again. He wanted her, properly his. He felt like he felt when he was hungry. He knew what was supposed to come next.

“Do you want to go canoeing tomorrow?” he asked.

“Canoeing? Like, you mean, after the funeral?” she said.

The mother had been crying in the other room. Sunny had been crying, too, before Maxon came. But she thought she would be okay to go canoeing after the funeral, as long as the mother was going to be okay without them. She said she would.

The funeral was in the morning, a quiet affair in a little white church down the valley. The service was read by an Episcopal priest from Philadelphia, one of the mother’s friends. The church was lent by the local congregation, but against the wishes of the local minister, who would not have been happy with Nu’s animist beliefs. The church was packed, full to the aisles and out into the foyer for this woman, for some the first outside their race they had ever met. A crack shot with a rifle, a master chef, and a faithful friend.