Spare Change (Wyattsville #1)(43)

“I don’t know,” Olivia sighed. “The bits and pieces of Charlie are like a bouquet of roses—I look at them and see a world of sweetness and beauty; but, when I try to hold onto them, the thorns rip me to pieces.”

“I went through the very same heartache after Henry died.”

“Henry?” Olivia never pictured Clara as a widow. She was someone who wore bright colored dresses and laughed at most anything, a person who could turn the simplest get together into a party. “Henry?” Olivia repeated quizzically, “…he was your husband?”

Clara nodded, “Yes indeed, of twenty-eight years.” She began walking again, this time at bit faster pace.

Olivia slipped into the same stride. “I never would have guessed,” she said. “I mean, now you seem to be so happy, so settled in your life. When did he…”

“Fourteen years ago.”

“Oh my,” Olivia could feel the pain of separation twisting in her heart. “How,” she asked, “did you handle such a loss?”

“Pretty much the same as you; I hid in my apartment and cried till my eyes were so swollen I couldn’t see straight. I quit eating and got so skinny I looked like—”

“Skinny? You?”

“Yeah,” Clara laughed, “…hard to believe, huh?”

“It’s just that now, you’re so…”

“You’d better not say fat,” Clara warned.

“No,” Olivia answered, “not fat, but robust and full of life.”

“It’s because of Martha Cunningham; she’s the one I have to thank. I was just like you, maybe sorrier even than you. I used to go to bed and sleep with a pair of Henry’s pajamas stretched out alongside of me, pretending, I suppose, he was still in them. But one day after I’d gone to work, I was still working at the insurance company then, dear sweet Martha came into my apartment and cleared out every last trace of Henry. All except the pictures of course, she knew I’d want to keep those.”

“Were you furious with her?”

“At first I was; but given a bit of time, I started to realize that although I’d loved Henry in life, I wasn’t doing him a bit of good wherever he’d gone to. And, I was doing myself an awful lot of harm. Once I came to that understanding, my life changed.”

“But,” Olivia said haltingly, “She just threw Henry’s belongings in the trash can?”

Clara laughed, and a soft look of remembering settled around her eyes. “At first that’s what she told me. But once I got over the hurting, she confessed there were eleven boxes stored in the basement and I could do with them as I wanted.”

“Eleven?” Olivia gasped, knowing the unluckiness of such a number and figuring the story would now take a hateful turn.

“Eleven,” Clara nodded. “I loaded them into my car and took them over to the Old Sailors Home. Let me tell you, those men were truly glad to have such nice things. Why, they thanked me seven ways till Sunday.”

“Eleven, huh?” Olivia mumbled as Clara turned to open the lobby door. “And nothing bad happened?”

“Just the opposite; once I quit tormenting myself with those sorrowful memories, I started enjoying life again. Oh, I still did plenty of thinking about Henry, but I’d think about the good times we had instead of wallowing in my misery and wishing I was dead too.”

“You sure it was eleven cartons?”

“Yes, eleven. But never mind about the number of cartons, there’s a more important reason for me telling you this story.” Olivia unlocked the apartment door as Clara continued to speak. “I never forgot what Martha did for me and I hope you’ll feel the same about what we’ve done here today.”

“What we’ve done today?” Olivia said with a bewildered expression.

“Not me and you,” Clara explained, “…it was the girls—Maggie Cooper, Peggy, Norma, Donna—they’re a bunch of women who want to be your friends. We’re anxious to see you get on with your life.”

“What…” As soon as Olivia stepped into the living room she noticed a different smell—not the odor of stale tobacco, but lavender, or lilacs, hyacinth maybe. Her clothes were gone from the sofa, the club chair with a seat cushion squished into the shape of Charlie’s behind was also missing; the pipes, ashtrays, stacks and stacks of magazines—gone. Uncertain of whether to scream, cry, or double over in a fit of hysterics, she walked through to the kitchen—gone was the wall calendar with pictures of scantily clad girls pumping gasoline; in its place a brand new calendar with February featuring a bouquet of red roses.

Clara followed along, worrying that maybe Olivia, who still hadn’t said word one, had slipped into shock. “Believe me, it’s for the best,” Clara mumbled, when Olivia opened the closet door and found nothing but her own things. Dresses, skirts, blouses, lined up one after another, extra hangers spaced out in between, her pink flowered bathrobe looped over the hook that once held Charlie’s.

A tear slid down Olivia’s cheek—the complete disappearance of Charlie seemed so sad, and yet in some strange way, it was peaceful. She was reminded of a balloon, held back from heaven until an earthbound soul let go of the string. After a long while of saying nothing, she whispered, “Goodbye, Charlie,” then she turned and circled her arms about Clara.