and I didn’t bring him up. Between the two of us there was a silent agreement to talk only about things that moved us forward. We never could find any sense in holding on to the past. Melanie had jumped ship after just four years of marriage.
“When it isn’t going to work, you just know it. And I’m not in the mood to get my hands dirty fixing it.” That’s what she told me when she called me the first time from Bitsy’s place, and I let it go after that. I was sure her family and his family were giving her enough grief. I didn’t want to add to the mix, and anyway I had my own problems. It made no sense to take her down with me.
WHENEVER SARAH LEE stuttered, I talked over her. At first I was just finishing her sentences, and I don’t think I fully realized what I was doing. But then her increased presence in our lives required direct action. I started replying before she was finished with her sentence, not even knowing what the question was, or even if she was asking a question in the first place. Sometimes I would change the subject, or I would laugh even if it wasn’t funny. I just didn’t want anyone to hear what she had to say.
I knew what I was doing. I knew what I was saying, how I was making her feel. I knew I was being cruel. I just didn’t care. She’d survive without Melanie, she’d move on to someone new. She’d find twenty new best friends in the next year. I was the one who had nowhere else to go. I had already found my home.
AFTER A FEW months at Bitsy’s, right around when spring started to kick in and the land all around us turned to bloom and the sun started burning off the clouds early in the day, killing the fresh rain of the mornings, Melanie called me for our Sunday-morning chat with the latest news. I had really started to look forward to her calls, especially since Will and I had mostly checked out on each other. He had moved some stuff out—I guess to his folks’ place—but hadn’t bothered to tell me. Half of his closet was empty, a dozen dress shirts gone one morning, and he thought I wouldn’t notice? Or maybe he just didn’t care.
“Bitsy’s at war!” Melanie said before I’d even finished “Hello.”
“Ooh, with who?” I put my feet up on the kitchen table, leaned my head against the wall. I could see the neighbor’s dog sniffing in our backyard.
“With Madame Vanessa.”
“No! Why can’t she just leave that little old lady alone?” I said.
Madame Vanessa lived next door to Bitsy and Melanie. She was old and French and rich. Her son had bought her the house for retirement and as a weekend spot for their family a decade ago, where she had lived peacefully until Bitsy moved in next door. Suddenly there were problems with the property lines (Bitsy claimed—and won—an extra half acre), and most recently Bitsy disapproved of their disparate landscape designs at the front of their plots (a problem solved by Madame Vanessa’s subsequent hiring of Melanie who duplicated the look of Bitsy’s land).
And now, apparently, it was Madame Vanessa’s fence. It was chain link while Bitsy’s was white picket, and Bitsy couldn’t stand it.
“She’s done everything under the sun to change this woman’s mind. First she sent her clippings from a catalogue of a fence she preferred. Then she invited her over for tea so she could look out the window and see how awful the fences look next to each other. But of course this woman is perfectly happy with her fence!”
“Of course. Chain link is lovely,” I laughed.
“She has dogs, and they’re massive. She says they would just scratch up a nicer fence. Anyway, Bitsy just sits around coming up with plots to get her way. I think she’s losing her mind.”
“Are you all right there?”
“Yes, of course. I just work all the time, and Bitsy’s here only on the weekends. But still…”
“Lonely?”
“Yes. Will you come visit?”
I agreed to visit in a few weeks. I wanted the chance to suck
“When it isn’t going to work, you just know it. And I’m not in the mood to get my hands dirty fixing it.” That’s what she told me when she called me the first time from Bitsy’s place, and I let it go after that. I was sure her family and his family were giving her enough grief. I didn’t want to add to the mix, and anyway I had my own problems. It made no sense to take her down with me.
WHENEVER SARAH LEE stuttered, I talked over her. At first I was just finishing her sentences, and I don’t think I fully realized what I was doing. But then her increased presence in our lives required direct action. I started replying before she was finished with her sentence, not even knowing what the question was, or even if she was asking a question in the first place. Sometimes I would change the subject, or I would laugh even if it wasn’t funny. I just didn’t want anyone to hear what she had to say.
I knew what I was doing. I knew what I was saying, how I was making her feel. I knew I was being cruel. I just didn’t care. She’d survive without Melanie, she’d move on to someone new. She’d find twenty new best friends in the next year. I was the one who had nowhere else to go. I had already found my home.
AFTER A FEW months at Bitsy’s, right around when spring started to kick in and the land all around us turned to bloom and the sun started burning off the clouds early in the day, killing the fresh rain of the mornings, Melanie called me for our Sunday-morning chat with the latest news. I had really started to look forward to her calls, especially since Will and I had mostly checked out on each other. He had moved some stuff out—I guess to his folks’ place—but hadn’t bothered to tell me. Half of his closet was empty, a dozen dress shirts gone one morning, and he thought I wouldn’t notice? Or maybe he just didn’t care.
“Bitsy’s at war!” Melanie said before I’d even finished “Hello.”
“Ooh, with who?” I put my feet up on the kitchen table, leaned my head against the wall. I could see the neighbor’s dog sniffing in our backyard.
“With Madame Vanessa.”
“No! Why can’t she just leave that little old lady alone?” I said.
Madame Vanessa lived next door to Bitsy and Melanie. She was old and French and rich. Her son had bought her the house for retirement and as a weekend spot for their family a decade ago, where she had lived peacefully until Bitsy moved in next door. Suddenly there were problems with the property lines (Bitsy claimed—and won—an extra half acre), and most recently Bitsy disapproved of their disparate landscape designs at the front of their plots (a problem solved by Madame Vanessa’s subsequent hiring of Melanie who duplicated the look of Bitsy’s land).
And now, apparently, it was Madame Vanessa’s fence. It was chain link while Bitsy’s was white picket, and Bitsy couldn’t stand it.
“She’s done everything under the sun to change this woman’s mind. First she sent her clippings from a catalogue of a fence she preferred. Then she invited her over for tea so she could look out the window and see how awful the fences look next to each other. But of course this woman is perfectly happy with her fence!”
“Of course. Chain link is lovely,” I laughed.
“She has dogs, and they’re massive. She says they would just scratch up a nicer fence. Anyway, Bitsy just sits around coming up with plots to get her way. I think she’s losing her mind.”
“Are you all right there?”
“Yes, of course. I just work all the time, and Bitsy’s here only on the weekends. But still…”
“Lonely?”
“Yes. Will you come visit?”
I agreed to visit in a few weeks. I wanted the chance to suck
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