Cambridge triple-decker I’d never expected her to visit. We stood four feet apart, my hands still jammed in my coat pockets, my face more shuttered than I would’ve liked.
“Charlene,” she said at last, breaking the silence first.
“How did…? When did…?”
“It’s time, Charlene. Come home.”
I stared at her a moment longer, trying to process. My post-workout glow vanished. In its place, I felt uneasy.
“Why don’t you come inside,” I said at last, reaching into my pocket and fumbling with the house key.
She nodded briskly. I realized for the first time that she wore her long winter coat but no hat or gloves. Her normally pale cheeks had turned pink with the cold, and her slight frame trembled beneath her coat.
I felt bad, hugging her belatedly and feeling her gratefully return the gesture. It should’ve broken the ice, returned us to normalcy, but instead I felt more confused. Of course my aunt knew where I lived. She was the only person with whom I’d kept in contact. I’d even planned on calling her today to make arrangements for Tulip.
But to see her here. Now. So suddenly. The day before the twenty-first. It spooked me, and I found that as I ushered her into my landlady’s house, I kept her slightly in front of me, in my line of sight.
My landlady was an early riser. She looked up from the kitchen table as we entered. She still wore her pink- and-purple striped day robe, but being a woman of a certain age, she could carry it off. She registered my aunt’s presence, my first ever guest, and performed a little double take.
I did the honors: “Ummm, Fran, this is my aunt Nancy. Aunt Nancy, this is my landlady, Frances Beals.”
My aunt crossed to shake hands politely, and up close, even Fran could see her shiver.
“Have you been outside in this weather? Goodness, you look chilled to the bone! Let me get you a cup of coffee. How do you take it?”
“Black, thank you. Lovely home.”
“Hundred and fifty-three years old,” Fran volunteered, “but I like to think the old gal doesn’t look a day over a hundred.”
“I know how she feels,” my aunt responded.
Frances laughed as she bustled about the kitchen, fetching coffee. I took my aunt’s coat, pulled out a chair for her, offered breakfast.
Aunt Nancy shook her head, but in such a way that I didn’t believe her. I hung up both of our coats, then returned to the kitchen, inspecting the shelf in the pantry that was marked with my name, before finally settling on some whole grain bread for toast.
Behind me, Frances resumed talking with my aunt, about the house, Boston, New Hampshire, landlady versus innkeeper. I welcomed their distraction, so that my aunt couldn’t see how badly my hands were shaking, and Fran wouldn’t notice that all of a sudden I couldn’t remember how to work the toaster.
My aunt and I had last spoken by phone two weeks ago. She hadn’t mentioned coming. I hadn’t mentioned returning. We had a drill. It involved never speaking of the twenty-first. That was the foundation of our relationship after all-love each other, support each other, and never mention unpleasant truths.
My early childhood had been “unfortunate.” My mother had been “misguided.” What happened to Randi, then Jackie, “tragic.”
You gotta love New Englanders. We can take anything we don’t want to face, whitewash it resiliently into a faint echo of itself, then simply lock it away.
I finally managed to get out two slices of bread and slide them into the toaster. While they browned, I found the carton of egg whites and set to scrambling. Working on the stove kept my back to my aunt and my landlady. They seemed content to chat, but from time to time, I could feel my aunt’s gaze upon me, assessing.
When the toast popped up, I split the pieces between two plates, topped them both with scrambled egg whites, and carried my concoction to the table.
My aunt looked up from talking with Frances, and her voice immediately trailed off. She stared at my exposed throat, and so did Frances. Belatedly I fingered the bruises from yesterday’s session with J.T.
“Good Lord,” my aunt whispered.
“Sparring,” I said defensively.
“Your neck…your
Several of my knuckles were bright purple, my left hand abraded, my wrist slightly swollen. I set my aunt’s plate down, tucked my hand behind my back. “Hey, you should see the other guy.”
My aunt and landlady continued to regard me with equal levels of horror.
“It’s okay,” I said at last, voice firmer. “I’ve taken up boxing, that’s all. And I like it. Now, eat.”
I pulled out a chair, sat down next to my aunt, picked up my toast. After another moment, my aunt nodded, maybe to me, maybe to herself, then regarded her own breakfast. She eyed the egg white-topped bread curiously, then gamely took a bite.
“Very nice,” she declared after swallowing. “Never been a huge fan of egg whites, but with the toast, it works.”
“She’s a healthy eater, that one,” Fran said.
I looked at my landlady in surprise. I hadn’t realized she’d noticed what I ate, one way or another.
“Hard worker,” Fran continued, apparently taking it upon herself to vouch for my character to my own aunt. “Tends her night job, comes home to sleep, then is always ready to report to work the next evening. No nonsense, this one.”
“Charlene’s got a good head on her shoulders,” my aunt agreed. “She was always a huge help to me in the B &B. This past year, I’ve missed her.”
I ate another bite of toast, starting to feel like an outsider in my own life.
“Lease is almost up,” Fran commented. She faced me, instead of my aunt. “You coming or going?”
“Sunday,” I said.
“You’ll give me the answer?”
“Sure.”
My aunt, who understood the relevance of Saturday, frowned at me.
“Gonna include the dog that’s not your dog?” my landlady continued. “You know, the one that’s supposed to be outside but is in your room instead?”
I flushed. My aunt arched a brow.
“Yeah…um…Gonna talk to my aunt about that. See about finding a home for Tulip.”
“Hmmm,” my landlady said. “By Sunday?”
“Yeah, by Sunday.”
“Dog pees, dog chews, it’s out of your pocket.”
“Agreed.”
“I like her,” my aunt said, referring to Frances.
I finally smiled. “Figured you would.”
BY THE TIME I led my aunt down the hall to my little room, I felt nervous again. Like a teenager, anxious to impress her parent with her first dorm room. Look at me, look at the life I created all on my own. Clean sheets, made bed, hung-up clothes, the whole works.
Tulip met us at the door. Judging by the look on her face, she hadn’t appreciated being shut up for the morning adventures. Maybe you can take the dog off the street but not the street out of the dog. I thought I knew how she felt.
She refused to greet me, but worked her charm on my aunt instead. My aunt had the typical questions. What was Tulip’s name, breed, what a sweet face, what a nice disposition.
While she fawned over the dog that I hoped would become her dog, I went through the requisite hostess motions-found my aunt a chair, refreshed her coffee, then closed the door behind us for privacy. We sat, me on the edge of the bed, her in the lone wooden chair, and Tulip on the floor in between. The conversation almost immediately sputtered out.
“Sorry you had to drive down,” I said at last, not really looking at her, but at the floor beside her chair.
I was thinking of Detective Warren’s assessment of Randi and Jackie’s attacker. It would be up close and personal. Someone I wouldn’t immediately fear. Someone I would welcome with open arms.
I couldn’t really be afraid of my aunt.
