The wisdom of the willow, p.12
The Wisdom of the Willow, page 12
“You know me—I always prepare for the expected, but this unexpected left me out of my comfort zone.”
“Deb, you’re never really in a discomfort zone. You pull through so well in any situation. That’s how you’ve gotten as far as you have with your career.”
“I knew I was comfortable with Dennis and with Charlie, secure and safe. Yes, my words did flow in clear speech when I laughed and cried, ‘I do . . . I mean I will. Let’s get married.’ It was all so right.”
I was relieved to know that Charlie’s mom was fine with Dennis’s remarrying and Charlie having a stepmom in his life. The few times Carrie and I saw each other or spoke on the phone, she was pleasant and accommodating. Almost too nice, though. I wouldn’t exactly say she was glad to have Charlie away from her immediate responsibility. Sometimes she did seem to need to be relieved of him.
Ma had insisted on having an engagement dinner party in her firstborn’s and soon-to-be son-in-law’s honor. Although I would have been fine without such a gala, indulging her would be an invitation to spend most of a day at a place where I learned how to establish my roots, at a time when neighborhoods were simply groupings of family who grew together as one, who nestled in a cul-de-sac or on a tree-lined street. Back then, I didn’t think of a world beyond those points or how, if even, I fit into it because I had fit on Birchwood Court just fine. I had belonged there for the first half of my life. And I was on the road to the second half, where I was to belong somewhere and to someone, finding family and home.
I offered to help with planning the event, but this was Ma’s deal, and Dennis and I just needed to show up. I think this was an opportunity for Ma to show off to the neighborhood and to her gal pals her daughter’s success, and the thriving existence of her other daughters. There would be much catching up to do among people I hadn’t seen in a long time. Luckily, it was an Indian summer day, and the weather continued to be beautiful for that fall evening. With a guest list of thirty, we fit comfortably under the white tent in the backyard, pitched among Ma’s flower beds that were winding down their summer life cycle, and the willow and maple trees with leaves hinting at seasonal change. Later in the evening, cool breezes mixed with the music of Dennis’s favorite jazz band. I must say, the evening was exquisite, down to the champagne and mini apple turnovers at the end.
When the guests dwindled, Dennis and I pulled up chairs to an empty table on the back porch, with the willow in front of us and the stars above.
“So many people, old neighbors and my parents’ friends, and not enough time to catch up with them.” I slipped off a silver Garolini to rub an achy foot. “And catching up with their lives—they seem to have such complicated ones.”
“Most of these people are a lot older than you,” he said, tipping his head back to receive a few remaining drops of champagne. “They’ve got their complications because they have more years on you.” Dennis loosened his tie and looked up to the points of light.
“Well, I hope our life-to-be is simple, uncomplicated, and happy,” I told him. He lifted my achy feet onto his lap and began to massage their arches.
“I am happy. And we’ll be steering the ship, directing our own destination,” he said.
I watched Ben and Barbara Johnson, our neighbors across the street, say goodbye to Ma and Dad. I remember growing up with their three boys. Benny Jr. and I are the same age. I heard he never did make it to college. He was living at home but couldn’t make it here tonight. I would have loved to see him. We used to compete with one another about who’d get their college acceptance letter first and who’d have a job first after graduation. Some things don’t turn out how you assume they would.
“Promise me one thing,” I said, sliding my feet onto the ground and leaning close into Dennis. “If you ever think we are veering off course, losing sight of each other, that you’ll be honest with me and tell me so.” My pleading for his honesty was out of fear, as I couldn’t shake the what-ifs. What if it didn’t work out? What if, after a few years, it wasn’t at all like when we were first together? I needed him to validate that we would always be moving together in the same direction.
Dennis grabbed both my hands and kissed them.
“I have your back. And you have mine. Deb, you’re the strongest, most determined twenty-six-year-old woman I know, who knows herself well. And we will always be moving forward, together.”
After the wedding, we couldn’t wait to get out of renting a two-bedroom apartment in the city and into a single-family home in the suburbs with a backyard. One caveat Dennis emphasized was that we needed to live close enough to the city so that he could get to his jazz gigs quickly and easily. Traffic was bad enough maneuvering around city blocks, and he didn’t want to have to battle the expressways. Dennis lived for on-time scheduling, for feeling reassured as the hands ticked each moment on a clock, as time was a commodity that needed constant monitoring. My newly promoted work life revolved around scheduling events for multiple clients with simultaneous deadlines, so we were in sync on this one.
Not exactly suburbia, but we found a tan brick house on the city’s north side where old trees canopied the street, grass grew in small but adequate patches in a front yard, and there was more of a backyard than one would expect within city limits. Luckily, the house didn’t need much work as the basics of roof, gutters, and paint were in excellent shape. Four steps up to a covered porch, through the screen door, and don’t forget to let it slam shut, you’re inside a front room that is narrow and L-shaped, leading into the dining room. The walls are colored of the earth in a sandy tan, and in a gentle sky blue. Linney would approve. A go-around to the kitchen, and you meet brightness, white, soft gray, and pebble taupe. I had an outdoor landscape with the summer scents of cut grass and flowering shrubs surrounding me. Who said this was city living? Standing in the middle of our new home reminded me of the familiarity of my girlhood home, and having the security of a soft place to fall. I couldn’t have been happier.
We were only in the new house for a couple of weeks when Ma called to ask me to come over and have a look at a few keepsakes from the wedding that she had packed in a box. Since I hadn’t seen Ma and Dad since the wedding, I was eager for a visit.
“Deb, you look great,” she told me. “Married life agrees with you. C’mon over. Let’s sit at the table.”
She, too, looked good, fit and happy, as she always looks, dressed in slender-fitting tan slacks and a white sweater with navy trim.
Sitting with Ma at the kitchen table brought back memories of the time when no one would sit alone for long, as someone would always join. I think about it now, how important it is to come to the table and to be with family. You belonged, and you never felt alone.
“I got you something. It’s not much, but I wanted you to have a piece of a good foundation to start your married life. And just a piece, because you will begin to fill in the rest,” she said, pushing a flat box within my reach.
“Ma, I don’t need anything.”
I unwrapped the glossy white paper, creased inside a white box that was heavy for its size. Inside was folded linen. I held it up and caught the morning light through the weave, then laid it down to feel the textured bumps.
“It looks like . . . a tablecloth? A linen tablecloth in creamy white. It’s absolutely beautiful, but I . . .”
“I picked this just for you because it is you. Linen is strong and durable. It’s smooth and fluid, a bit crisp all around, just like you! After you’ve set up your dining table in your new home, cover the table in linen, as your new place to be, your home, where your husband and stepson will join you. There is nothing like coming to the table in security, a place where all of you belong.”
“I don’t know what to say. It’s perfect, Ma. I love it and will proudly spread it out on my dining room table, and when I do, I will think of you, always.”
It was the end of our first week in our new home, and with the furnishings between us, we managed to put a household together. I looked forward to sitting down to dinner with Dennis at the ends of our days. It was a set time that was understood between us to commit to honesty and to friendship. Our time was a commodity that needed to be gently handled, and creating a place to come together was an exercise in marital maintenance. His hours at the agency were sporadic, depending on if he was pitching new business or developing new creative for an old client. But the one thing I could count on was sitting with him at the table with no distractions.
I thought about how we spent our days, with nothing but interruptions—phone calls, voice mails, meetings. We were called upon to make decisions in an instant, and we hoped we’d made the best ones. It became a balancing act when you thought you were giving 100 percent in all directions but second-guessed at how you couldn’t possibly be at full attention when you were spread thin. I got my training early. When I was young, Ma repeatedly told me, in her own delicate way, “Pay attention,” when I appeared to be absorbed in something and the girls were running too amok for Ma’s liking. I learned to switch my attention when the situation called for it, and to focus.
I never gave much consideration to preparing a table for a meal. I suppose it’s because, as a single person, I’d find a seat in my condo anywhere, on the couch, on the floor, or to stand while eating. It was mindless, a necessary task that filled up time and often went unplanned with little consideration. Things changed after having someone in your life; it was all about planning and consideration.
It was time for us to come to the table, for me to create a special place to eat, to savor a repast together. I had Ma’s linen tablecloth folded on the buffet, ready to be unveiled. Ceremoniously, I grabbed the corners of the fabric and flattened it out on the table. When I ran my hands steadily over the folds, I was reminded that the bumps and rough spots of the day would be smoothed out when coming here. Running a hand over the cloth was like magic, when what was previously there would be gone. I placed three small pots of herbs— sage, rosemary, and thyme—in a larger container made of birch wood. They were reminders of their meanings of wisdom, remembrance, courage, and strength, and the herbs offered complementary fragrances when we ate savory dishes.
Charlie started first grade, and my schedule became more flexible. I was able to work, at my discretion, from home, at the office, and at on-site events. We had Charlie every other weekend and on a weekday or two, depending on his mother’s schedule. I’d pick him up midday after school, and our neighbor Ophelia, a sweet old Greek woman usually dressed in a floral housecoat with a cross at her throat, came over to watch him if I needed help.
Dennis’s jazz group, the Hubbard Street Quintet, was playing small venues in the city neighborhoods. His bookings took him away some evenings, beginning Thursday night and running until Sunday night. At first, I thought if he was happy, that was all that mattered, though our time together was being sacrificed. Sure, I knew there’d be sacrifices in a marriage, but the idea of giving anything up for a greater good was something I had to get used to. If we didn’t have Charlie on a Friday or Saturday night, I’d go and watch Dennis at wherever he was playing. But after a few years, I wasn’t feeling so great about it. Call it jealousy; he appeared more passionate about those drums and notes than about lying next to me in bed. I let it go and decided not to see him play as often.
Linney
The older I got, the more wanderlust pumped through my veins. I thought about a trip the family took out West when I was in high school that started me on my way to finding a job at the farm and then on to Magnolia’s doors.
Dad had business in San Diego that summer, and he thought of taking us to a surprise place nearby, somewhere in the desert. He wouldn’t tell us where we were going, other than to say that each of us would find something exciting.
Clouds of dirt kicked up behind us as Dad steered the station wagon into an open landscape that was brown below the horizon and a tannish-blue blanket above it. There was not a green growing thing anywhere. We pulled up to a rustic log cabin, the visitor center, where white arrows posted on large wooden barrels marked the directions. Kids ran in circles, their laughter and screams piercing the air, and I felt it was a good sign that if everyone looked happy, then I would be, too.
The Dowling women stood in a circle outside the car, wondering where we were and what we were being called to do. Dad was the last out of the car. “C’mon, girls, we’ve got digging to do. Time for an excavation,” he said, giggling as if he were one of the girls. He handed each of us a brochure. “Dig your own quartz and crystal,” the headline read.
This was an outdoors with blistering sun and dry desert like I had never experienced. Kids unclutched their hands to show one another chunks of color in pink cotton candy, emerald, and turquoise, some with two, others with three colors clustered in their palms. What the earth held was special, kept in her composition since the day she was created. I went into the cabin to learn more about minerals, gemstones, and crystals. Large pictures and posters covered the bare walls like wallpaper. I walked out, understanding how energy from their vibrations transferred to you, and you’d feel a free flow of it throughout your body. But what bothered me was the idea of taking from it. Who were we to take from something that wasn’t ours?
Sitting in the car on the ride home, I opened my hand and studied the crystals—they were alive and energetic, refracting light and color, their sharp edges contrasted with smooth finishes—and then I wrapped my fingers around them, squeezing them tight. I didn’t see them as something that didn’t belong to us, but rather as tools to connect our conscious thoughts with our bodies, as if to say, “Here, I’ve got something that will help you.” I understood what Ma had told us about how everything is connected.
That morning when we pulled out of the garage, who knew that it would not be the only home I would know, but that there also was a larger, all-encompassing one? Connecting through chunks of monochromatic color from the earth meant planting deep roots and establishing home.
Unlike Deb, who preferred to spend her free time sequestered in her bedroom reading books about business and marketing, or Rose, who studied entertainment magazines and local theater guides, I spent my free time outdoors. Open spaces were magical and invisible, offering fresh air and a meeting with Mother Nature, to be with her in spirit, mind, and body.
I’m not sure if Bridget is going to be in today, so I leave my house earlier to get started at Magnolia.
As I always do first thing in the morning, I take a broom to the shop floor. Busy hands open my mind to planning the day ahead. I glance out the window and see a familiar face coming up the walkway. I set down my broom and hurry to open the door.
“Brian? Brian Kennedy? I haven’t seen you since I started working here. And now, you must be . . . in college?” I smile in recognition of him. Once an inquisitive young boy with strawberryblond hair, now he is a brown-haired, muscular young man.
“Yeah, it’s me. My mom sent me here. I’m supposed to pick something up for her?”
“Yes, I do have something for her. C’mon inside.”
“My mom said each time she needs a special something, she always looks here first and finds it,” he says, stopping in the middle of the floor and glancing around. “I remember being here when I was little. Bridget would take us around to the side, and she’d spot butterflies in the garden, and I’d try to catch them. Just like those chipmunks, they were too quick for me to ever catch. But I tried.”
I step away to the hall closet and rummage through a pile of deliveries to find his mother’s box.
“All great memories that carry us through. Nothing has changed,” I say, walking to him and handing him the box. “Maybe a little weedier out over there and more home accessories in here, but we’re still the Magnolia from years ago that you and your mom remember. And we will stay that way as long as we can.”
The phone rings.
“Sorry . . . I need to go. Good luck at school this semester.” I give him a wave. “And come back and see us again soon.”
I pick up the phone.
“Magnolia, this is Linney.”
“Is this Miss Linney Dowling?” I don’t recognize the voice that is speaking slowly.
“Yes.”
“Do you know Bridget McMahon?”
“Yes, she’s my employer. Who is this, please?”
I think it’s Mr. Leone, again, asking if Bridget has considered his offer to buy Magnolia, but it’s not. I have never heard this voice before; it sounds official, formal, and I lean up against the wall.
“Miss Dowling, this is Mr. Hughes. I’ve been taking care of Miss McMahon for a few weeks now, and I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
“Mr. Hughes? Taking care of . . . ?” Bridget has never mentioned that she needed care. I stiffen. I’m offended that she doesn’t feel close enough to confide in me about any caretaker. After all, we’re supposed to be family, and family share things that happen to them.
“Miss McMahon has fallen ill and is in the hospital. She has asked me not to call you as she believes she will be home in a jiffy. But I think differently.”
And I recoil in fear, my posture slipping. I find support in a chair tucked under the checkout desk.
“I’ll be right over . . .”
“. . . no, she doesn’t want you to close Magnolia to see her. You can’t close Magnolia, Miss Dowling, no matter what.” His voice pleads, as if it is Bridget talking and not a stranger who knows nothing about her and Magnolia.
I will do exactly as Bridget has always done. I’ll take care of Magnolia as I’ve been doing, until she’s back on her feet.
“Okay. I’ll honor her wishes. You did the right thing, Mr. Hughes, by letting me know. How is she really, though?”
“She’s not well, not very well at all.”
I hang up the phone. I am torn between defying her wishes, closing the shop and rushing to see her, or remaining here, restless, until I hear again from Mr. Hughes. I can only think that I am forced to tell Bridget now about Mr. Leone and his offer, as it can’t wait any longer; I owe her that.
