The commotion, the tension, the air of sadness, together they left me feeling beat up and haggard. I want nothing more than to go home and barricade the door, slip into something flannel, and then sit on the porch and vegetate until it's time for bed. It occurs to me while driving; I haven't cried. I feel sorrow and loss. I feel an emotional ache in my heart. But other than one or two stray tears while watching Dad's video, and a brief well-up during the church service, I have yet to cry. Somehow, that makes me feel guilty. As if the absence of tears means the absence of grief, and in my often-simplified way of thinking, the absence of grief equates to the absence of love. As silly as it sounds, maybe my lack of tears is the result of subconscious vanity. The fact is, I'm not a pretty crier. When I cry, my face turns thirteen shades of mottled red and distorts until I resemble a Shar Pei. I don't have Mia's petite face. When Mia cries, her eyes seem to droop on their outside corners, tears flow evenly and in straight lines down her cheeks and somehow, her makeup never runs. And rather than the walrus sobs that leave others feeling uncomfortable and searching for an exit, her cries sound more like snivels, frightened puppy whimpers that have the power to engage others in her emotion. She has a crier voice and face that cause men and women alike to whip out their hankies and fight over who will dab her eyes and rock her calm.
Everyone knows tears are part of the package when you lose someone you love. Since I'll have the house to myself once Val and Michelle leave maybe that's what I'll do, dedicate the afternoon to a good old-fashioned crying jag over old pictures and cheesecake.
I pull into the driveway and see a man in a blue-gray suit sitting in one of the rocking chairs on the front porch just as peaceful as if he lived there. I shut the car off and stare straight ahead for a moment. I look back to the porch. Still there. Pulling my purse behind me, I step out of the car. He stands when the door slams shut behind me.
Even before I reach him, I ask, "Can I help you?"
"Yes. Well, no. I live next door." He motions to the house to my right. "My name is Nixon. Nixon Shepard. I came by the other day."
I give him a subtle once over; So, you're Adonis. "I believe my sister mentioned that. I'm sorry. It's just... Well, I've had my hands full this week and I know I should have stopped by, but—"
"I'm the one who should be apologizing," he interrupts. "When I came by, I had no idea... only afterward did I learn of your father's passing." He shifts his weight and extends a hand. "I went to the funeral but couldn't get in, so I thought I'd come by to offer my condolences in person. I'm so sorry. I didn't know your father personally, but," he holds the pads of two fingers together, "in a small way, I felt like I did. I've read everything he's ever written."
I accept his outstretched hand. "Thank you, very much." I look to the front door, and then back to Nixon who has yet to release my hand. I ignore the temperamental voice in my head that's screaming, "get rid of him," and instead ask, "Would you like to come in for a minute?"
"No thank you." His answer comes fast. "I mean, yes I would, but not today." My nerves relax in collective relief, and he lets go of my hand. "I'll take a rain-check though."
I offer a less-than-excited "absolutely." The truth is that to be left alone I would have agreed to almost anything.
"Great. I'll just take my rain-check and be going then." He turns and covers the distance between our homes with long strides through the wet grass. I watch him for a moment and then unlock the front door.
"Hey..." I turn toward the sound of his voice. "I meant to tell you, I'm sorry about the hole my dog dug. As soon as the rain lets up I'll be over to fill it."
"I'm not worried about it, but thanks," I yell across the yard.
He waves, turns, and takes several more brisk steps until he reaches his driveway.
I close the door, lean back against it, and let out a loud and deep breath.
* * *
The first thing I do in my bedroom is remove my earrings. I have never been much for jewelry anyway, but today the tiny diamond studs have acted like spiders, their venomous bites making my earlobes itch to the point of swelling soon after I put them in. Once I tuck the earrings away, I strip off my clothes down to my underwear and pull on my favorite pair of stretch pants. I top them off with a Yale hoodie and fall like fruit from a tree onto my bed. I take several calming breaths and lie motionless while one-by-one each muscle in my body relaxes allowing my heart rate to settle into a normal rhythm.
Nixon Shepard. Such an unusual first name. Nix-on, I let it roll off my tongue as if I had said it a hundred times before. Val was right; he is worth a double take, but not in the ordinary square jaw would-only-date-a-supermodel kind of way. There are men who attract women like ants to spilled soda, not because they possess a God-bestowed beauty worthy of gracing the covers of romance novels, but because they make women laugh. They're able and willing to laugh at themselves; they smile often and in the face of adversity, and are astute enough to realize laughter is the way into a woman's panties. An unexpected and well-delivered punch line is almost as good as having one hand up her shirt. I know this because that's how Scotty got me into bed the first time.
Then there are men women fall all over because they're interesting by either vocation or breadth of knowledge on topics the average person knows— and usually cares — nothing about. Nixon Shepard is a fine-looking man, but not because his face is the material cologne advertisements are made of, or because he rapid-fires sidesplitting jokes although I did note an underlying sense of humor. I think it's the extraordinarily ordinary thing he has going on that enhances his warm green eyes. He's paid two visits in just as many days to apologize for one hole, while the neighbors on the other side of me have never paid a visit or apologized and their dog has been using the back corner of my yard as his own personal toilet since they moved in four years ago. I've been meaning to say something to them.
On any other day, Nixon Shepard would be a most tantalizing vision to fall asleep to, but today, I decide to put him to the back of my mind and save him for a day when I'm not saturated with negative thoughts and feelings. One day, when most of this is behind me, I'll stumble over today's encounter and open the memory like a present forgotten underneath the Christmas tree.
Sprawled like a starfish, I'm not sure how long I have been lying on the bed when the doorbell jars me awake. Groggy and unable to remember whether I locked the front door when I got home, I manage to pull together and hoist myself off the bed, each clumsy step a race between me and the second chime of the annoying sound.
* * *
"All I'm saying is it might be therapeutic... Hi Lilah." Pausing long enough to take a breath, Michelle continues. "And whether you want to believe it, I can manage without you."
Val casts a raised-brow glance, cocking her head to one side.
Michelle adds, "For a week or so."
I ask, "What's going on?"
"Michelle thinks I haven't mourned enough and that by staying here—with you—I'll rid the tears from the deepest corners of my soul."
"You know I don't like it when you patronize me," Michelle says.
Val throws a leg over a stool at the island. "And you know I don't like it when you mother me."
"Why don't you?" I ask. "Seriously, I haven't seen you more than a handful of times since you moved away. I'd love to spend some time with you." I turn to Michelle and extend an arm. "Both of you. I have plenty of vacation time coming."
"We have friends looking after the inn and the dogs. They're great, but they leave for vacation in two day. One of us has to go back, but that doesn't mean we both have to. I think Val should stay and spend some time with her family. Am I wrong?"
Ouch. Three small words that when translated mean: pick a side. "Listen, it's not my place to say who should do what. But, it's an open invitation, for one or both."
A look passes between them before they each turn toward the front door. "I wonder who that could be," I say, as I head in the direction of the knock.
"Maybe a disgruntled fan who couldn't get into the funeral." Michelle shakes her head as if to disagree, but Val continues. "I'm serious, every celebrity has their own little following of crazies. Make sure you use the spyhole before you open it."
The chance of Val being right about crazies at the door is remote at best, but something makes me lift up on my toes and give a peek through the small, round hole.
I'm limited as to what I can see, but I recognize the bright flowers splashed across the white dress worn by the dark-skinned mystery girl at the funeral. I turn back and shrug before opening the door to my guest.
"Hello. Can I help you?" I ask.
For a stretched-out second the young girl stares in silence. She wrings her hands and shifts her weight, never taking her eyes off me. When she finally speaks, her voice sounds fragile. "Are you Lilah?"
I nod.
"My name is Avery Alice, but everyone calls me Avery. I'd like to talk to you, if I may." She lets her hands drop to her sides and straightens her posture.
I open the door a bit further. "Sure. Come in."
For the first time, the young girl's shoulders relax and she looks away. When she looks back, she says, "Thank you. Let me get my grandmother, and I'll be right back."
The girl turns away, and I look past her unable to able to make out the person in the passenger seat through the window tint. I close the door all but a couple inches and turn back to Val and Michelle.
"That's the same girl who stopped by the other day," Val says. "Seems she was hell-bent on seeing you."
"She was also at the funeral. I'm not sure how she got in, but she kept to herself and disappeared ahead of the crowd." I roll that over in my mind. "A fan?"
"Doubtful," Val says.
"Val's right," Michelle adds. "Young girls read books like Twilight, not criminal thrillers."
I hear footsteps on the porch. "What then?" I ask, as I open the door.
My body falls still and my heartbeat quickens. In an instant, I'm taken back almost twenty years, a flood of emotion welling up inside of me. Although there is an age span of five or six decades, standing side-by-side, with their arms interlocked, the resemblance is striking. I reach up and touch the imaginary hand squeezing my throat and blink ahead of the first tear and the only two words I am able to say.
"Heddie Mae?"
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