Until the end of the year, this would be her kitchen and expanded closet, but she didn’t have to live in this cavernous space, At least not until winter set in and her workshop got too cold for sleeping. She could put the house up for rent or sale, but she needed this kitchen for a few more months at least. Besides, she hadn’t been brave enough to sort through the family possession yet.
She opened the closet and pulled out a mop and broom. “I have the money. I should hire someone to clean for me.” She swore she heard Grandma’s scoff. Even though she knew the noise couldn’t have come from anything other than her shoe, she answered anyway. “I know. I won’t. Not for everything at least.”
The house oozed memories both fond and sorrowful. Everything she touched reminded her of her grandparents. She couldn’t even bring herself to throw away the little chipped glass Clem had used for his daily prune juice. How could she ever hope to go through the massive amounts of tools, wires, and various bric-a-brack he collected through the years?
The time, distance and distraction of her last contract job helped, but coming home again, Clem’s absence hit her like a ton of bricks. People died all the time and life went on, but when her grandfather died, he left her alone in this world but burdened with memory and stuff.
When he was still alive, they sometimes talked about her future. He left her the house, his shop, everything, as expected. But he told her to sell it all and to settle down in one of the cities she always traveled to for work, to meet someone special, have some children, and to make sure her life was full of love because that was the only thing that one needed to survive. That and a good hobby.
“Enough moping.” She pulled a lasagna from the freezer and moved it to the fridge to thaw. She’d kept the power on all these months so the frozen casseroles probably wouldn’t kill her, not unless she grabbed one made by Jennifer Grant in one of her kale loving trendy diet modes. After she power-cleaned the shop today, she’d need a good meal. The house wasn’t going anywhere, but she needed to get going before she broke her promise to the grumpy-old-engineer club to get the shop up and running. If she wasn’t ready for them, they might cut off her supply of cake or worse, set her up with various grandsons. “Not going to happen.”
She left the house, locking the door, but taking the broom and mop with her. She draped them across the little red wagon Grandma and Grandpa gave her for her first birthday. Not that she remembered the party or the presents. But the wagon was always there, as reliable in function as her fingers and toes.
THE SUN WARMED A CLOUDLESS blue sky, making it an acceptable companion for the half a mile to the shop. The kids were back in school, but as she approached the corner, it seemed that during her hours of freedom Poppy Grant had covered every inch of sidewalk in chalk.
“Claire? Is that you?” The tired voice came from the Grant’s porch. In the long morning shadows, Claire spied a figure on the swing.
“Jennifer. How are you? How is the baby? You did have a baby, right?”
“Taking his morning nap. And so is the dog. I thought I’d sneak out to the porch for a quiet cup of tea.”
“How old is he? Two months?”
“Six. You’ve been gone a while.”
Longer than usual. She shrugged. “True. My tires are going to mess up Poppy’s artwork. Tell her I’m sorry.”
“Will do, but don’t feel bad. She’s hoping for rain. She wants a fresh canvas.” Jennifer mimed air quotes around the last words, and they brought warmth to Claire’s artistic soul.
“I have a Chicago Art Institute coloring book for her. I’ll bring it down over the weekend.”
“How thoughtful. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. You know we miss you. Oh. I hear the baby.”
A wail drifted to the sidewalk. “Bye, Jennifer.”
Claire walked forward dragging her feet in places on purpose. She blurred a hopscotch board and turned a rainbow into an oddly shaped creature as she rounded the corner.
Not much had changed since last autumn, the last time she regularly walked Belkin’s streets. A few blocks of concrete had loosened, their gravel catching on the wheels, but fortunately, no new buckles formed in her absence. A few summer blooms desperately clung to fading spikes of green. With the kids spending their days inside the school, the day was so peaceful, soft motors from nearby farm equipment drifted in, providing a bassline punctuated by the occasional bird chirp. The street sign marking the intersection of Hill and Trumbull still leaned to one side, and the fire hydrant needed a fresh coat of paint.
“Same old Belkin.” The trees were taller, and the grass heights were in a constant state of flux depending on who mowed and who hadn’t, but everything else remained the same, except...
What’s this? A garbage can sat by the curb in front of the old Russell place. No one had lived there for a couple of years. Mrs. Russell wouldn’t let her out-of-town children sell it while she was alive and in the nursing home. After she died a year ago September, the house sat on the market in anticipation of a full price offer that would never come.
She glanced around looking for other changes. Did it sell? Who moved in? Her mind raced, but that was gossip she’d missed. The house didn’t look different, except for the brightness of the front porch. She could ask Old Miss Jones across the street. Nothing slipped past her and not in a good way. She was a prime
