French Braid(20)

On Perth Road, she took a right at the third house from the corner—a white clapboard house with a patchy little front lawn—and followed a worn path around back to the garage. A fragile-looking wooden staircase ran up one side. She climbed it and unlocked the door to her studio.

It wasn’t the sort of studio originally meant to be lived in. At some point someone must have fixed it up for a teenage son itching to leave home, or a husband longing for a den. Not counting the tiny bathroom carved out of a rear corner, the space was a single open square with one window overlooking the patio. The kitchen area was merely a linoleum-topped sink counter with a hot plate sitting on top of it and a miniature fridge alongside. There was a small Formica table and a single chair that Mercy never sat in, because she liked to stand when she was painting. Tubes of acrylics and jars of brushes and various-sized pads of canvas paper were strewn across the table’s surface—the only clutter she allowed herself. The couch was a daybed with a faded brown corduroy slipcover, and the bureau beside it bore a tasseled lamp that couldn’t take a bulb over forty watts. More linoleum on the floor, but in a different pattern from the linoleum on the counter. No curtains; just a yellowed paper shade. No rug. No closet.

Mercy loved it.

Robin had balked, at first, when she’d proposed renting it. That was three years ago, when both girls were already long gone. He’d said, “Why not paint in the girls’ room? The girls’ room is standing empty!”

“The girls’ room is our guest room,” she told him.

The Garretts never had overnight guests. Mercy’s few relatives lived nearby and Robin’s were mostly dead, and they knew nobody out of town. But Robin couldn’t argue further, because even though he was the family’s sole earner, the store belonged to Mercy and so she had some say in their household finances. She wondered how the conversation would have ended if that hadn’t been the case. He was proud to have a wife who painted, she knew, but she suspected he thought of it as a hobby, like embroidery or crochet.

This was about to change, if Mercy had anything to say about it.

She removed the few items in the chest of drawers—extra art supplies, an out-of-date Life magazine—and replaced them with the clothes she’d brought. She had also brought a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste, a shower cap, a comb, and a bottle of shampoo. She put these in the bathroom, which till now had been outfitted only with a bar of soap and a hand towel. Then she sat down on the daybed and stared out the window. This was what she planned to do here: sit and think, all by herself. Or not think. Be a blank. In addition to painting, of course.

From where she sat, all she could see was the top of the oak tree that towered in the Motts’ backyard. Beyond that was sky, but she couldn’t see the sky right now, because the oak was still fully leafed out. The leaves hadn’t even started to turn; they were a deep, lustrous green, and they gave her a feeling of peace.

Finally she stood up and retrieved her empty carton and went home.



* * *



—

On Tuesday she brought a bath towel, a washcloth, a set of linens, and a flannel blanket. She stripped the daybed of its cover and made it up and fitted the cover on again, leaving the pillowcase on the bureau for when she had a pillow. She’d forgotten there was no pillow here—just a row of corduroy cushions propped against the wall. She would have to buy one on Saturday when she had the car.

And if Robin happened to be down in his basement workshop on Saturday, she might even load some of the heavier items—a few dishes, a saucepan or two, the clock radio from the girls’ room—and drop them off at the studio while she was out and about.

She experienced a kind of inner leap at this thought, a sense of enthusiasm she hadn’t felt in years.

Wednesday was the first day they could hope for a letter from David. That is, assuming it took only a day for mail to travel from Pennsylvania. But since it was western Pennsylvania, it might take longer. Also, there was no guarantee that he would write so soon. She had asked him to; she had begged him to. “Drop us a line the minute you’re settled,” she had told him, “just to say if you’re okay.” And Robin had added, “You know how your mother worries, son.” But you never could predict with David.

Anyhow, even so, she lingered at home that morning and waited for the mailman. All for nothing, it turned out. Robin called from the store to check, even, which proved that she was not the only one who worried. She said, “I wish we could phone him. I did make a note of the number for his dorm.”

But Robin said, “What, and listen to the money ticking away while they try to track him down?”

“No, I know. You’re right,” she said.

So instead, she phoned the girls. Alice was a stay-at-home mom now—she and Kevin had a nine-month-old baby—so she was easy enough to reach, but hard to keep on the line. “What do you expect? David’s a guy,” she told Mercy. “You’ll be lucky if you hear—no! Robby! Take that out of your mouth!” (They’d named the baby Robin, even though she was a girl.) “Give it to Mommy, sweetheart. Mom, I have to go. She’s eating kibble out of the dog’s dish.”

Lily was more difficult to reach. This was surprising, since she was between jobs at the moment. (She was between jobs an awful lot, it seemed to Mercy.) But maybe she’d landed something new. At any rate, her telephone just rang and rang, so eventually Mercy hung up and went to her studio after all.