no eggs,
milk, or juice to spoil, certainly no leftovers sprouting gray fuzz.
But then she opened the left side, the freezer, and this was when she
found her true sorrow. Predictably, the freezer was full, stocked with
carefully labeled foil packets (chicken breasts, turkey sausages, homemade
raspberry muffins, chestnut purée), containers of chicken and
shellfish stock. A dozen red velvet cupcakes, unfrosted: probably awaiting
a visit from George. There was even a large plastic tub filled with
blueberries picked in Maine the previous summer—destined for pies
and preserves and a special pancake sauce that George had just learned
to adore the way Greenie always had. Looking into the smoky hum
of the freezer, Greenie saw in its generous cargo all the mothering that
had belonged, every moment of her life till then, to her and her alone,
along with the grandmothering that would henceforth become the sole
domain of Alan's well-meaning but mostly hapless mother.
She stood there a long time, clinging to the freezer door and sobbing,
letting the cloudy chill bleed out into the room, flow heedlessly around
her body. She heard the inner workings of the refrigerator grind in
protest, but still she felt incapable of closing the door, as if that act
would be too unbearably final.
The indignant call of a crow startled her; she turned to the window
and released the freezer door. She went to another door, the one that led
to the backyard, unlocked it, and walked out. The swing her father had
hung from the elm tree was still there—a swing that George, at two, was
still too cautious to trust, even in a grown-up's lap—and as Greenie
stood there, listlessly gazing, she realized that she would have to give it
all up, literally dismantle her past. This house, where she had grown up,
belonged not to her parents but to the university where her father taught
(oh, had taught). Where would all her parents' belongings go? Still crying,
she left the house, called Alan from a pay phone in the village, and
told him to come at once. She had finally understood the monstrosity of
her loss, which, each succeeding time she looked at it, compounded
itself, sprouting head after head, cruel as a hydra.
Ultimately, from among her mother's things, she took a few pieces of
jewelry and a white cashmere sweater wonderfully preserved from the
fifties (which, though she loved it, Greenie would never bring herself to
wear—perhaps, she came to suspect, because the label bragged that it
had been made in Scotland). Most of the rest of her parents' incidental
belongings she set aside for the church thrift shop; she was grateful
when Alan insisted on packing and taking them over himself. The furnishings
that she thought they might want in the future, if they ever
moved to a larger apartment, she arranged to store at a warehouse in
the middle of nowhere in western Massachusetts.
When all was said and done and paid for, she inherited just enough
money to cover her business loan and George's nursery school tuition,
along with a real but unquantifiable—and regrettably undisposable—
share of a family cabin on an island in Maine. There were also her
father's boats, a Whaler and a small, much-loved sailboat, but they had
already been put in the water that year. Greenie called the Boston cousin
and told him he could keep both on indefinite loan. Perhaps they were
worth a lot of money; Greenie had no idea. She knew only that she
could not imagine going to the island without her father picking her up
at the marina and her mother, swanlike and stylish, serving her perfect
meals. Gently, Alan told Greenie that she would probably change her
mind, but this time she was the one with the dark, doubtful perspective.
No, she said; no, never.
MORE SERENELY THAN SHE HAD EXPECTED , Greenie went to work
on the governor's dinner; the suite's kitchen, though small by her
mother's suburban standards, was royal compared with the cubbyhole
in Greenie's apartment downtown. She measured
milk, or juice to spoil, certainly no leftovers sprouting gray fuzz.
But then she opened the left side, the freezer, and this was when she
found her true sorrow. Predictably, the freezer was full, stocked with
carefully labeled foil packets (chicken breasts, turkey sausages, homemade
raspberry muffins, chestnut purée), containers of chicken and
shellfish stock. A dozen red velvet cupcakes, unfrosted: probably awaiting
a visit from George. There was even a large plastic tub filled with
blueberries picked in Maine the previous summer—destined for pies
and preserves and a special pancake sauce that George had just learned
to adore the way Greenie always had. Looking into the smoky hum
of the freezer, Greenie saw in its generous cargo all the mothering that
had belonged, every moment of her life till then, to her and her alone,
along with the grandmothering that would henceforth become the sole
domain of Alan's well-meaning but mostly hapless mother.
She stood there a long time, clinging to the freezer door and sobbing,
letting the cloudy chill bleed out into the room, flow heedlessly around
her body. She heard the inner workings of the refrigerator grind in
protest, but still she felt incapable of closing the door, as if that act
would be too unbearably final.
The indignant call of a crow startled her; she turned to the window
and released the freezer door. She went to another door, the one that led
to the backyard, unlocked it, and walked out. The swing her father had
hung from the elm tree was still there—a swing that George, at two, was
still too cautious to trust, even in a grown-up's lap—and as Greenie
stood there, listlessly gazing, she realized that she would have to give it
all up, literally dismantle her past. This house, where she had grown up,
belonged not to her parents but to the university where her father taught
(oh, had taught). Where would all her parents' belongings go? Still crying,
she left the house, called Alan from a pay phone in the village, and
told him to come at once. She had finally understood the monstrosity of
her loss, which, each succeeding time she looked at it, compounded
itself, sprouting head after head, cruel as a hydra.
Ultimately, from among her mother's things, she took a few pieces of
jewelry and a white cashmere sweater wonderfully preserved from the
fifties (which, though she loved it, Greenie would never bring herself to
wear—perhaps, she came to suspect, because the label bragged that it
had been made in Scotland). Most of the rest of her parents' incidental
belongings she set aside for the church thrift shop; she was grateful
when Alan insisted on packing and taking them over himself. The furnishings
that she thought they might want in the future, if they ever
moved to a larger apartment, she arranged to store at a warehouse in
the middle of nowhere in western Massachusetts.
When all was said and done and paid for, she inherited just enough
money to cover her business loan and George's nursery school tuition,
along with a real but unquantifiable—and regrettably undisposable—
share of a family cabin on an island in Maine. There were also her
father's boats, a Whaler and a small, much-loved sailboat, but they had
already been put in the water that year. Greenie called the Boston cousin
and told him he could keep both on indefinite loan. Perhaps they were
worth a lot of money; Greenie had no idea. She knew only that she
could not imagine going to the island without her father picking her up
at the marina and her mother, swanlike and stylish, serving her perfect
meals. Gently, Alan told Greenie that she would probably change her
mind, but this time she was the one with the dark, doubtful perspective.
No, she said; no, never.
MORE SERENELY THAN SHE HAD EXPECTED , Greenie went to work
on the governor's dinner; the suite's kitchen, though small by her
mother's suburban standards, was royal compared with the cubbyhole
in Greenie's apartment downtown. She measured
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