Mary Alice Monroe - The Four Seasons

Dennis tilted his head and squinted his eyes in thought. “She shouldn’t search. She has her life and the child has hers. She shouldn’t shake things up.”

“I don’t think that’s a big issue these days. Oh,” she exclaimed, “but that’s not all. Apparently, Merry wanted us to give this Spring her money, too.”

“The whole estate?”

“No, Rose seems to think she meant the twenty thousand she had left in her trust fund. Jilly was ticked off about that, too. I can’t figure it out. She’s got oodles of dough, so why is she so uptight? The one you’d think would care about money is Rose. She hasn’t got a dime, but she’s the one who wants to give the money away. There’s no need to be greedy. We’ll all have more than enough after the house is sold.”

“How much do you think the house will fetch?”

“I don’t know. Over five hundred. Maybe more.”

He considered this as he took a long swallow from the bottle. “We could take that trip we’ve always talked about,” he said, leaning back against the counter.

“To Italy?”

His eyes warmed. “Yeah. Just you and me. No agenda, no phone calls to make or chores to get done. The biggest decision we’ll have to make is what to eat for dinner. In fact, we’ll starve ourselves for weeks before we leave, then eat our way through the country.” He moved closer, wrapping his arms around her waist. “We never got a honeymoon. We need time, Birdie. Just for us.”

She nodded her head and leaned into him. “I know.”

He hugged her and she thought she really did know. Especially at moments like this, that harkened back to a time when they were close and intimate. When they touched a lot and each touch set off a fire between them that had them having sex like rabbits. Back to when they’d thought of each other all day long and missed each other every moment they were apart. That all seemed so long ago. For years they’d promised themselves a trip. It was a dream that served as a lifeline during the rough years of juggling her medical residency and Hannah’s early childhood. Then came the start of her medical practice and his acceptance to the faculty at the University of Wisconsin. As the years passed, the dream slipped farther and farther away. Now they were floundering.

Something was very wrong between them, something they couldn’t put a name to. They were cohabiting space, more like roommates than husband and wife. She knew she snapped at him a lot. She couldn’t help it; he irritated her so often, more than anyone else. It was almost as if he did it deliberately, to get her attention.

Or maybe it was just that after twenty years, they were both getting a little too familiar with each other’s habits and flaws. He was pretty good at getting his digs in, too, and he excelled at tuning her out. But she never questioned that she loved him. He was her husband. The father of her only child. Her friend.

He nuzzled at her ear suggestively, and all she could think was how she didn’t want to be touched.

“We’re both tired,” she said, pulling back, pretending not to notice the stark disappointment in his face. “Why don’t I make us something to eat and we’ll plop in front of the TV.”

“Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Break away whenever we get close?”

She laughed nervously. “I don’t!”

“Yes, you do.” He was utmost serious.

Birdie’s face grew somber. “I don’t do it to hurt you, and I do want to be close to you, it’s just…Lately, I don’t want to make love and I know you do. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s hormonal.”

“Maybe,” he replied. Dennis picked up the bag of empty bottles in a swoop. “But it’s not been just lately. It’s been a long time, Birdie. Too long.” He turned away, then headed to the back door.

Birdie felt the space lengthen between them as she looked over her shoulder to watch him leave. The empty bottles clanked against his leg as he walked out from the house. It was a hollow, lonely sound.

The snow had melted under the day’s warm sun so Rose was able to walk easily along the sidewalks of her neighborhood. Hers was a block like many others in the country and she knew each house and yard almost as well as she knew her own. She noted where one neighbor had pruned the front hedge, or another was beginning an addition. Most of the houses were well cared for, even lovingly so. Passing by she could peek in the windows overflowing with light and see typical American family scenes being played out. These houses had a feeling of family and cheerfulness that was warm and inviting.

When she’d arrived back at her own home she remained on the sidewalk, her coat collar up close around her neck and her small hands tucked tightly under her armpits. She tried to look at the Victorian with the same dispassionate eye she’d looked at the neighboring ones. Mrs. Kasparov’s list of flaws came to mind, and though it rankled, they were all too true. On the block, their house was the eyesore, the shabby one that prompted neighbors to say, “What a shame. If only they would fix it up.” It was a shadowy, melancholy house that sat on a huge double lot on the corner, hidden by overgrown pines and a forest of shaggy shrubs. Light flowed through torn shades or missing blinds, adding to the somber sense of depression.

Looking at it now, she found it hard to remember when happiness flowed bright from these dreary windows, or when the family had lived and laughed and talked in those darkened rooms. Merry had been the last flicker of light in the old house and now that, too, had been snuffed out. The old Victorian appeared exactly as it was—a house of secrets. Suppressing a sigh, she walked up the front steps and slipped, unnoticed, into the house.

Hours later, the house was deathly quiet, save for the melodic clanging of the five-note wind chimes outside her window. Rose sat alone in the blanketing solitude of her room while the computer whirred. She opened the side drawer to her desk and pulled out a file from far in the back where no idle eyes would find it. It was a plain manila file with only the initials D.B. on it. DannyBoy. Copies of his e-mails were inside. Not love letters—theirs wasn’t that kind of relationship. She thought of them as letters from her dearest friend. By the time the computer had booted, the words were ready to spill out of her. Laying her hands on the keys, she took a deep breath and typed.

Dear DannyBoy,

Tonight I feel a despair that frightens me. I feel I am nothing of value. My sister Merry at least depended on me but now she is gone. My older sisters have their own lives that do not include me. Soon they will leave, too. Even this house, which had once been my haven, feels hostile and forbidding. But no matter, because I, too, must leave. The four Seasons have been cast to the wind.

I’m sitting here in the darkness, listening to the wind chimes outside my window and waiting for the dawn. I’m reminded of Emily Dickinson’s “slant of light,” and wonder to myself where nothing goes after death?

Rosebud

An e-mail came almost immediately.

Dear Rosebud,

Don’t you dare despair. Turn on the lights!

I swore I wasn’t going to do this. We’ve been chatting online for a long time, though we’ve only talked privately like this for a few weeks. I think of us as friends. I hope you do, too. So I hope you won’t think I’m one of those Internet creeps when I say this, but I get the sense I better tell you now.

I drive a truck all day through town after town. The miles roll beneath me and I have to tell you, it gets pretty lonely. One day is pretty much like the next. The roads are always crowded and some of the drivers are nuts. It’s not like the old days when the road stretched out before me.