people.”
With that Clara disappeared down the hallway, but five minutes later she was
back, bing-bonging the doorbell for a third time. She was carrying a laundry
basket full of food. “You locked me out,” she said when Olivia opened the door.
“I
thought you were gone.”
“Gone? I’m not even half-finished.” She
reached into the basket and hauled out an orange. “Eat this,” she said, pushing
the fruit into Olivia’s hand. Without another word Clara marched herself into
the kitchen and set about making a chicken casserole. “It’s a good thing I got
here when I did,” she sighed, “otherwise you never know…”
“Nonsense; feeling down about Charlie’s death is the only thing wrong
with me.”
“Oh really? Do you think a person’s skin is supposed to be
grey? You think eyes are supposed to be red as a beefsteak?”
Olivia had to admit she’d been unaware such was the case; she then settled
in alongside of Clara and lent a hand to the peeling of onions. By the time the
casserole was ready to take from the oven, she’d gone through the full tale of
Charlie’s death, including the part about the unlucky opal.
“You poor thing,” Clara sighed sympathetically; then she dished up two
plates of chicken, and set them on the table. She slid into the chair opposite
Olivia and leaned forward, waiting to hear the rest of the story.
“There I was,” Olivia said when she got to the part about the
convertible breaking down, “stranded by the side of the road, miles from civilization,
no way to get home…”
“You did the right thing, honey. Getting yourself a good serviceable
car is exactly what Charlie would have wanted you to do!”
Strangely enough, sitting there and talking openly as she was, Olivia
started to feel a bit lighter—not quite as floaty as she’d felt from Canasta’s
okra soup, but close. “Is there some sort of secret ingredient in this
casserole?” she asked.
“Heavy cream,” Clara answered and shoveled a forkful into her mouth.
When Clara left what she now considered Olivia’s apartment, she went
directly to Maggie Cooper’s and told Maggie they’d been all wrong about Olivia.
“Why, the woman is devastated! ” she said. “We owe it to poor Charlie to
take care of his wife!”
Next Clara rapped on Henry Myerson’s door and gave him the same
message. She then stopped off at Barbara Jean Conklin’s, Fred Magenheimer’s,
Tillie Rae’s, and Susan Latimer’s, setting everyone straight as to what they
should and shouldn’t do about the widow Olivia Doyle.
Before noon of the next day, Olivia had received eight condolence
calls, six casseroles, three fruit baskets, and a spray of red gladiolas so
large the delivery man had to turn sideways to squeeze through the apartment
door. She’d also been invited to a Fuller Brush party, a gin-rummy luncheon and
Friday night Bingo. When Olivia suggested she was not yet up to socializing,
Gertrude Plumber turned a deaf ear and rambled on about how the group desperately needed someone to co-host the monthly pot luck dinner. “We can’t possibly ask
Louise to do it again,” she told Olivia, “…so, you’ve simply got to say
yes.”
Although nothing could replace the sweetness of Charlie’s kisses, the
sudden onslaught of friends and neighbors helped to brighten Olivia’s days. Her
skin gradually regained its color and the redness left her eyes. Every once in
a while, mostly when she was with Clara who soon became her closest friend,
Olivia would feel a strange tugging at the corners of her mouth and before
there was time to wonder what was happening, she’d find her face crinkled into
a smile.
Ethan Allen Doyle
P eople think a
kid’s got no brains, but I was smarter than Mama; leastwise I knew not to go
sassing when Daddy was on the warpath. Mama, she didn’t care. She’d sass
anyway—go shit in your hat, she’d tell him, even when she knew it meant a punch
in the face. Seems she would’ve learned,
With that Clara disappeared down the hallway, but five minutes later she was
back, bing-bonging the doorbell for a third time. She was carrying a laundry
basket full of food. “You locked me out,” she said when Olivia opened the door.
“I
thought you were gone.”
“Gone? I’m not even half-finished.” She
reached into the basket and hauled out an orange. “Eat this,” she said, pushing
the fruit into Olivia’s hand. Without another word Clara marched herself into
the kitchen and set about making a chicken casserole. “It’s a good thing I got
here when I did,” she sighed, “otherwise you never know…”
“Nonsense; feeling down about Charlie’s death is the only thing wrong
with me.”
“Oh really? Do you think a person’s skin is supposed to be
grey? You think eyes are supposed to be red as a beefsteak?”
Olivia had to admit she’d been unaware such was the case; she then settled
in alongside of Clara and lent a hand to the peeling of onions. By the time the
casserole was ready to take from the oven, she’d gone through the full tale of
Charlie’s death, including the part about the unlucky opal.
“You poor thing,” Clara sighed sympathetically; then she dished up two
plates of chicken, and set them on the table. She slid into the chair opposite
Olivia and leaned forward, waiting to hear the rest of the story.
“There I was,” Olivia said when she got to the part about the
convertible breaking down, “stranded by the side of the road, miles from civilization,
no way to get home…”
“You did the right thing, honey. Getting yourself a good serviceable
car is exactly what Charlie would have wanted you to do!”
Strangely enough, sitting there and talking openly as she was, Olivia
started to feel a bit lighter—not quite as floaty as she’d felt from Canasta’s
okra soup, but close. “Is there some sort of secret ingredient in this
casserole?” she asked.
“Heavy cream,” Clara answered and shoveled a forkful into her mouth.
When Clara left what she now considered Olivia’s apartment, she went
directly to Maggie Cooper’s and told Maggie they’d been all wrong about Olivia.
“Why, the woman is devastated! ” she said. “We owe it to poor Charlie to
take care of his wife!”
Next Clara rapped on Henry Myerson’s door and gave him the same
message. She then stopped off at Barbara Jean Conklin’s, Fred Magenheimer’s,
Tillie Rae’s, and Susan Latimer’s, setting everyone straight as to what they
should and shouldn’t do about the widow Olivia Doyle.
Before noon of the next day, Olivia had received eight condolence
calls, six casseroles, three fruit baskets, and a spray of red gladiolas so
large the delivery man had to turn sideways to squeeze through the apartment
door. She’d also been invited to a Fuller Brush party, a gin-rummy luncheon and
Friday night Bingo. When Olivia suggested she was not yet up to socializing,
Gertrude Plumber turned a deaf ear and rambled on about how the group desperately needed someone to co-host the monthly pot luck dinner. “We can’t possibly ask
Louise to do it again,” she told Olivia, “…so, you’ve simply got to say
yes.”
Although nothing could replace the sweetness of Charlie’s kisses, the
sudden onslaught of friends and neighbors helped to brighten Olivia’s days. Her
skin gradually regained its color and the redness left her eyes. Every once in
a while, mostly when she was with Clara who soon became her closest friend,
Olivia would feel a strange tugging at the corners of her mouth and before
there was time to wonder what was happening, she’d find her face crinkled into
a smile.
Ethan Allen Doyle
P eople think a
kid’s got no brains, but I was smarter than Mama; leastwise I knew not to go
sassing when Daddy was on the warpath. Mama, she didn’t care. She’d sass
anyway—go shit in your hat, she’d tell him, even when she knew it meant a punch
in the face. Seems she would’ve learned,
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