Good Riddance(8)

I might’ve said, Dad, you understand that I’m busy? You’ll have to build your own life here, with your own friends and interests and your own activities. But I didn’t. I was relieved, postdivorce, to know that my kind, brave, handsome, lonely father would be living ten minutes away.



I took the bus to Pickering to help him sort and pack. He asked if I could attend to my mother’s side of the closet. I shouldn’t have given any thought to Geneva Wisenkorn’s musings about my mother’s wardrobe, but I did. What harm in taking pictures of her most iconic outfits? If this alleged filmmaker found no inspiration in them, maybe I would; maybe I’d have daughters of my own someday, and I could show them pictures of these suits and dresses, and say, “These belonged to your grandmother; this is how a teacher dressed in Pickering, New Hampshire, at the end of the last century.”

I hadn’t realized my father was watching me as I spread a full-skirted shirtwaist dress out on the bed. “You’re taking pictures,” he said. “That’s nice.”

“One never knows.”

“What about her jewelry? She liked to wear pins. They’re in her jewelry box.”

I said that Holly had put in her requests, which was fine with me. I’d already spoken for the pearls and Mom’s jade ring. Over there was the pile of things to be negotiated.

“My girls . . .” he began.

“What?”

“In some families, there would be bickering. But with you two, it’s been ‘You want it? Take it.’ No one insisting, ‘Mother wanted me to have that.’”

He was nearly correct in his characterization. I’d be sending photos to Holly and FaceTiming the flipping of coins over a beaded shawl, three Bakelite bangles, and my mother’s dress-up watch.

I wondered if I should tell my father what had happened to the one thing that Mother did want me specifically to have. No, not yet. Why announce that her overworked yearbook might get a new life? That documentary would probably never get made, as predicted by every New York acquaintance who’d ever had a brush with Hollywood.

And, worse, I’d have to confess that I’d ditched my mother’s prized possession, and a trash-diving documentarian had rescued it.





5


Nice to Meet You



I had met across-the-hall neighbor Jeremy the day I moved in after knocking on his door to complain about the barking from within. He was tall in a gangly way, with a bony face, a not-unattractive large nose, and a mouthful of braces. He was wearing jeans and a faded Monkees reunion tour T-shirt. I stared for a minute because it had the now-deceased Davy Jones on it. I introduced myself as his across-the-hall neighbor, not even having taken up residence, and told him I’d heard his dog since the minute the elevator door opened.

“He’s a friend’s, only here for one night, and since I was at work, not a happy camper.”

“You’re sure?”

“That I don’t own a dog?” He opened his door wider. “You’re welcome to inspect the premises.”

I said, “I’m not antidog. I just didn’t want to live across the hall from a yappy one.”

“What’s your name?”

“Daphne.”

He smiled. “Like the nymph.”

That was unexpected and gave me pause. “Not many people know that.”

“I had two semesters of Greek mythology.”

“And when was that?”

He smiled. “Is that a trick question? ‘How long ago was college?’ as opposed to ‘How old are you?’”

“Exactly.”

“I’ll be twenty-six in September.”

“That’s eleven months from now.”

“I’m a very mature twenty-five.”

I couldn’t agree due to that assertion being at variance with his orthodontics. Behind him, I could see an interior hallway, which meant his apartment was not a mirror image of mine but larger. He must’ve noticed my surveillance because he stepped to one side. “Care to look around?”

“Another time. Sorry to start off grouchy.”

“Already forgotten. Where are you relocating from?”

“Most recently, the Upper East Side. But before that, New Hampshire.”

Fresh from the moving van, I was holding two potted plants that I’d liberated from my marital apartment. “Are these for me, a reverse housewarming present?” he asked. “Some quaint New Hampshire custom?”

I said no. I explained that one was mint and the other lavender, both required in my next semester.

“Studying what?” he asked.

“Chocolate making.”

He pretended to slump in ecstasy against his doorframe. “Did a chocolate chef just move in across the hall from me or am I dreaming?”

“Right now I’m just a student.” Without a free hand to shake, I said, “Well, nice to meet you . . .”

“Jeremy Wynn.”

“W-i-n?”

“That, too.” Now he was grinning.

“Daphne,” I said again. “Maritch.”

“And is there a Mr. Marriage?”

“It’s my maiden name. Maritch. I’m divorced.”

“Sorry about that.”