the neighborly thing to do were quickly
shushed by their wives. “Help that hussy?” they’d snarl, “the woman who
murdered Charlie?”
Once the last of the bags had been carted into the apartment, Olivia
closed and bolted the door behind her. She fell upon the bed—the same bed where
Charlie had kissed her mouth and made love to her, the same bed where he’d
promised to love her for a thousand years. How, she wailed, could he have
misled her with such a foolish promise when in truth he had less than a
thousand heartbeats to offer? And, how could she, a woman with such a
practical nature, have given up everything and waltzed off like a love-crazed
schoolgirl? Now here she was, all alone in an unfamiliar place, with neighbors
who banded themselves together and turned against her as they would a person
carrying the plague.
By morning Olivia had decided the boundary of her new world would
extend no further than the threshold of Charlie’s apartment. For almost three
weeks, she cracked the door open early in the morning, stuck her arm out far
enough to retrieve the daily newspaper, then locked herself inside. She used
an outdated carton of powdered milk for her coffee, ate tins of Spam and baked
beans for supper, and once she’d finished the only can of orange juice in the
freezer, simply did without fruit. With her life turned topsy-turvy as it had
been, the balancing of five basic food groups seemed of little concern.
Three weeks to the day Olivia arrived back in Wyattsville, there was a
knock on the apartment door. “Who is it?” she called out.
“Clara Bowman,” the voice answered.
Olivia slid back the bolt, opened the door and without saying a word,
stood there looking Clara square in the eye.
“I hate to intrude,” Clara said frostily, “but I believe I left my
yellow sweater in Charlie’s closet and with the weather turning somewhat cool…”
Olivia swung the door open and motioned Clara inside.
“Thanks.” Clara strolled over to the hall closet, rummaged through a
jumble of hangers, and tugged loose the sweater. “This is it,” she said tucking
it under her arm. With one foot already out the door, Clara turned back to Olivia
and asked, “Are you alright?”
It was a fair enough question, for Olivia had developed the look of a
ghost. Where there had once been a fullness of face, she had turned gaunt; her
eyes were rimmed with red and a grey ash of sadness had settled upon her. “I’m
fine,” Olivia answered politely.
“But, you don’t look…” Before she could carry on with the thought, the
door swung shut. Clara, a woman known for her keen observations, was not about
to let a question go unanswered. She rang the bell for a second time; then
pounced forward when Olivia opened the door. “You don’t look good!” she said pushing
her way back into the apartment.
“Excuse me?” Olivia stammered in a somewhat indignant fashion.
“You look sick.” Clara replied and tromped through to the kitchen.
“Like a person who’s not been eating!” She yanked open cupboard after cupboard
and glared at the almost empty shelves. “No wonder,” she snarled, “look at
this, not a crumb of food fit to eat!”
“It so happens, I like canned soup.”
“You like getting scurvy? Because that’s what people who don’t have
fresh fruits and vegetables get!” Clara was shorter than Olivia but almost
twice as wide, and built like a fireplug. She charged from the kitchen into the
living room; “Why, this place is a mess,” she exclaimed, “…there’s a month’s
worth of newspapers that need throwing out!”
“I’m not finished reading them,” Olivia answered.
“You’re finished!” Clara scooped up a huge armful of papers and stomped
out the door, grumbling how it was shameful the way Olivia had been treated
when she was so obviously distraught over the loss of her husband. “It’s Maggie
Cooper’s fault,” she huffed, “Maggie never sees the good in
shushed by their wives. “Help that hussy?” they’d snarl, “the woman who
murdered Charlie?”
Once the last of the bags had been carted into the apartment, Olivia
closed and bolted the door behind her. She fell upon the bed—the same bed where
Charlie had kissed her mouth and made love to her, the same bed where he’d
promised to love her for a thousand years. How, she wailed, could he have
misled her with such a foolish promise when in truth he had less than a
thousand heartbeats to offer? And, how could she, a woman with such a
practical nature, have given up everything and waltzed off like a love-crazed
schoolgirl? Now here she was, all alone in an unfamiliar place, with neighbors
who banded themselves together and turned against her as they would a person
carrying the plague.
By morning Olivia had decided the boundary of her new world would
extend no further than the threshold of Charlie’s apartment. For almost three
weeks, she cracked the door open early in the morning, stuck her arm out far
enough to retrieve the daily newspaper, then locked herself inside. She used
an outdated carton of powdered milk for her coffee, ate tins of Spam and baked
beans for supper, and once she’d finished the only can of orange juice in the
freezer, simply did without fruit. With her life turned topsy-turvy as it had
been, the balancing of five basic food groups seemed of little concern.
Three weeks to the day Olivia arrived back in Wyattsville, there was a
knock on the apartment door. “Who is it?” she called out.
“Clara Bowman,” the voice answered.
Olivia slid back the bolt, opened the door and without saying a word,
stood there looking Clara square in the eye.
“I hate to intrude,” Clara said frostily, “but I believe I left my
yellow sweater in Charlie’s closet and with the weather turning somewhat cool…”
Olivia swung the door open and motioned Clara inside.
“Thanks.” Clara strolled over to the hall closet, rummaged through a
jumble of hangers, and tugged loose the sweater. “This is it,” she said tucking
it under her arm. With one foot already out the door, Clara turned back to Olivia
and asked, “Are you alright?”
It was a fair enough question, for Olivia had developed the look of a
ghost. Where there had once been a fullness of face, she had turned gaunt; her
eyes were rimmed with red and a grey ash of sadness had settled upon her. “I’m
fine,” Olivia answered politely.
“But, you don’t look…” Before she could carry on with the thought, the
door swung shut. Clara, a woman known for her keen observations, was not about
to let a question go unanswered. She rang the bell for a second time; then
pounced forward when Olivia opened the door. “You don’t look good!” she said pushing
her way back into the apartment.
“Excuse me?” Olivia stammered in a somewhat indignant fashion.
“You look sick.” Clara replied and tromped through to the kitchen.
“Like a person who’s not been eating!” She yanked open cupboard after cupboard
and glared at the almost empty shelves. “No wonder,” she snarled, “look at
this, not a crumb of food fit to eat!”
“It so happens, I like canned soup.”
“You like getting scurvy? Because that’s what people who don’t have
fresh fruits and vegetables get!” Clara was shorter than Olivia but almost
twice as wide, and built like a fireplug. She charged from the kitchen into the
living room; “Why, this place is a mess,” she exclaimed, “…there’s a month’s
worth of newspapers that need throwing out!”
“I’m not finished reading them,” Olivia answered.
“You’re finished!” Clara scooped up a huge armful of papers and stomped
out the door, grumbling how it was shameful the way Olivia had been treated
when she was so obviously distraught over the loss of her husband. “It’s Maggie
Cooper’s fault,” she huffed, “Maggie never sees the good in
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