Dovetail: A Novel(34)
Still, the biggest tragedy of her life? Worse than the death of her husband? The decades-long estrangement from her only child? The deaths of other family members? What made this loss such an enormous tragedy? She didn’t seem to want to elaborate, and he hadn’t pressed the issue. Maybe, eventually, she’d tell him more. Or maybe it was just one of those things old people were fond of saying. I remember it like it was yesterday! In a moment, my life changed forever. If I knew then what I know now.
Just something to say. No need for him to attach too much importance to it.
The day had been busy. Once Pearl had looked over his inventory sheets and approved all his plans, he set to work. Anything he couldn’t move himself using the wheeled dolly, Pearl had told him to leave behind. When the house was put up for sale, they’d list it as partially furnished. And she added, “Leave the kitchen and guest bedroom untouched until the end because you’ll be using them while you stay.” She also suggested he leave at least one comfortable chair so he’d have a place to sit and relax when the day was done. It wasn’t a bad idea. He tried out every upholstered chair in the house until he found the one he’d be saving for last. It had a floral pattern with a doily draped across the top—not what he’d pick for himself, but it was as cushy as his father’s easy chair back home and came with a padded footrest.
Cleaning the house and moving furniture was hot work. To make matters worse, the old place had no air-conditioning. The house itself was surrounded by tall trees, which helped, and there were plenty of fans, six different box fans that he could move as he worked, but they did nothing to help him as he went back and forth from the house to the outdoors. He worked up a sweat, cleaning and moving. He made countless trips to the dumpster, carrying moth-eaten linens and faded boxes. Old, musty books for the most part, but there were some other oddities as well. A tarnished birdcage. A carton containing nothing but scrub brushes. A hamper filled with fabric that had presumably once been clothing but now smelled and looked disgusting. Anything plastic that he came across in the attic had warped and faded, including Christmas decorations and food storage containers. All of it he threw over the side of the dumpster, waiting for the satisfying thud as it fell inside.
He’d decided to empty the house from the top down. As hot as it was outside, the temperatures were even higher in the space under the roof. He would have categorized it as oven-like with a touch of sauna. He consoled himself by thinking he was getting the most difficult part out of the way. It could only get better. After emptying the attic, he sorted and discarded the worst of it, keeping anything that looked of value, then followed up by loading the pickup truck with his first load. He parked it in the barn for the night, ready to drive into town first thing in the morning. He’d called Secondhand Heaven earlier and talked to the owner’s assistant, some lady named Marcia. Marcia said both she and Kathleen would be there all day tomorrow to help him unload.
This was good news. After the last few days, Joe was ready to have some social interaction. Besides a quick run to the grocery store, he hadn’t seen anyone but his grandmother. He’d taken to singing along with the radio and had started talking to himself. Funny how much he was looking forward to unloading a truck and conversing with other people. His grandmother had paid him for the first week in advance in cash, so he was ready to catch lunch in town and maybe poke around in some of the stores. If he identified himself as Bill Arneson’s son, maybe someone would know the story behind the family rift.
He showered before going to bed, luxuriating in the coolness of the water. He stood for the longest time, eyes closed, his face tipped up to the showerhead. The temperature outside had dropped considerably since midday, and the open windows allowed for a cool breeze, helping him to relax. He was so tired from physical labor, sleep came quickly.
Before long, he’d drifted into the darkness of the unconscious and into another place and time. The Rowboat Dream. It was nighttime. A full yellow moon hung overhead, casting a glow onto the surface of the lake. He was seated on the middle slat of a wooden rowboat, hands gripping the oars, rowing in perfect rhythm. She sat across from him, their knees not quite touching. Like in the other dreams, he had only an impression of her. He could never see her face.
They rowed across the water, heading to a specific destination, one that his dream self knew, but Joe himself never found out. The destination didn’t matter, though. It was just that he and the lovely young woman (and she was young, he knew that much) were alone at last. She laughed, and the sound of her mirth trilled across the water. He thought that if he could hear that laugh for the rest of his life, he’d be a happy man.
He kept rowing. Ahead of them came a little splash, startling him. She laughed again and said, “Don’t be so jumpy. It’s just a fish.”
Their world closed in and became the boat, the lake, the moon, and each other. When they landed where they were heading, he knew one thing for certain. He would help her out of the boat first, of course, and as soon as the moment was right, he was going to tell her he loved her. When she said she loved him back, he would lean in for a kiss. The thought was intoxicating. The idea of kissing her filled him with an anticipation he’d never experienced before. If only she felt the same way.
He leaned back and swung the oars as far back as possible, then pulled deep, making the boat skim quickly across the water. “Show-off,” she said, teasing. Her hand trailed into the water, her fingertips skimming the surface. He imagined her hands touching him, running the length of his body, then sheepishly brushed away the thought. There would be time for all that, if and when tonight went well. They’d have the rest of their lives.