All Adults Here(25)
The Bakers lived on the east side of town, away from the river, in a small yellow house with a Little Free Library in the front yard, a birdhouse-size wooden box where neighbors could exchange books. Astrid peeked inside and saw three romance novels, two self-help books, one spider, and half a cookie. She guessed that Bob had little to nothing to do with it, and that the library would languish and die much more slowly than Barbara herself.
She rang the doorbell and waited, and when still no one came, she rang again. Astrid set the things down on the porch and turned to walk back to her car when Bob pulled open the screen door.
“Hi there,” he said. He was dressed in a white T-shirt and jeans, the waistline of which hung low beneath his belly, Santa Claus in the off-season. “I appreciate it.” Bob stepped backward into the house, propping the door open behind him. A wiry orange cat darted out and ran down the front steps. “She’ll come back,” he said, unalarmed. “They always do. Come on in.”
Astrid waved. “Oh, no, I couldn’t.” But then when Bob didn’t budge, she did, bending low to pick up the dishes and then plodding slowly into the house.
She’d been to the Bakers’ home once, for a holiday party, maybe thirty years ago. It was funny, to think of a house outliving a person, but of course they usually did. All Barbara’s things still sat in their places of honor on the mantel: her basket of yarn and knitting needles, the framed photographs of her and Bob on their wedding day, Barbara’s face thinner and beaming. Women were so much better at this than men—she didn’t know a single widowed man who had cleaned out his wife’s closet by himself. Astrid had kept Russell’s watches and tie clips, his date books and high school yearbooks, his wedding ring, an album of childhood photographs, and that was it. No sweaters, no shoes, no pajamas. Why should she—why should anyone—keep drawers full of clothes that would never be worn again? It wasn’t just sentimental, it was stupid. Not that Bob should have done it already, but Astrid knew that when the time came, and Bob succumbed to whatever it was that would kill him (for we would all be killed one day, one way or another), Barbara’s drawers would still be full of her well-worn cotton underpants and thick marled socks.
“Thank you for this,” Bob said. He took the food into the kitchen, leaving Astrid alone in the living room. She stood silent, holding her hands in front of her body like a choir girl. Bob hurried back, patting his hands against his thighs. “Barb’s sister is planning the service, she got here yesterday.”
“I didn’t know that Barbara had a sister; that must be a big help,” Astrid said. She herself was an only child, and she found old people with siblings somewhat ridiculous, as if they were eighty-year-olds who still wore water wings in swimming pools. Siblings were for the very young and needy. She had given her children siblings to occupy each other in childhood.
“Carol drove down from Vermont. Her kids are grown, and her husband is retired, so he can mind the dogs. She’s a breeder. Havanese. They love animals, the whole family.” Bob’s eyes went twinkly with moisture.
“How lovely,” Astrid said, and nodded solemnly. She looked at the unvacuumed floor, at the basket of knitting needles, at the half-empty drinking glasses on the cluttered coffee table. Bob blew his nose.
“The cats don’t know what to do,” he said. “When she left for Heron Meadows, Barb would still come back every day to visit, but now they’re just climbing the walls. They know she’s gone.”
“Creatures are such a comfort in times of need,” Astrid said, though she believed pets were useful only in teaching small children about death. She knew this was an unpopular opinion. For the first years of their relationship, Birdie had had an ancient, lumbering dog, a big galumph who slept at her feet, and Astrid thought that her sensitivity to Birdie following the dog’s eventual, gradual, endless passing showed that she’d made great strides as a person. If she’d bought dogs for her children, she might have been a better mother, though that was what the siblings had been for. “Well, to your health, Bob.”
Bob nodded. “Thanks again.” The ceiling was low, and the room was crowded with too much furniture by half. There were woven rag rugs everywhere, no doubt to keep Barbara’s feet warm as she walked from cat to cat, mewing motherly encouragement. Astrid didn’t want to hug him, so she didn’t, and she hurried out quickly before Bob started to cry in earnest.
* * *
—
Heron Meadows was set back from the road, with a large wooden fence and a tiny gatehouse for the security guard, whose job it was to make sure that no one’s granny escaped in a nightie and bare feet. Astrid parked in the lot and walked in, greeting everyone she passed. Russell’s mother had lived at Heron Meadows for the last ten years of her life, and Astrid knew the halls well. No one wanted to outlive their children, and so after Russell died, Astrid made an extra effort to bring the children to visit. It was the least she could do, nearly, just after not bringing them at all.
Like most dedicated residences for old people, Heron Meadows had a vague odor of bleach and urine, and framed reproductions of famous paintings (Monet’s Water Lilies, Van Gogh’s Starry Night, no Picasso or Caravaggio) hung on the walls. Fake plants were here and there in large terra-cotta pots, evergreen. Astrid asked at the desk where Birdie was cutting hair and wandered off to find her.