my room mine
Could taxes make her lose her house?
Does she have anyone besides the Count?
Anyone at all?
A sparrow lands on the sill just inches from Zoe—so close, except for the thin pane of glass separating them. She holds her breath, not wanting it to fly away, but it sees the furtive movement of her eyes and its wings beat a line of retreat, carrying the moment and Zoe’s questions with it.
She stands, stretches, pulls her tennis skirt and team T-shirt from her gym bag, and then with a second glance gathers more laundry until her arms are full. Opal told her she was welcome to use the laundry room. She hopes that includes laundry detergent since she has none. Would shampoo work? She shakes her head. Probably not. She remembers putting a bottle of green dish soap in the washing machine when she was ten. Suds oozed everywhere and left a sticky mess on the clothes. But she was only ten. No one told her or showed her how to use a washing machine. She had to figure it out herself.
She walks down the hall, the floorboards creaking beneath her bare feet. She has never gone beyond her bathroom at the head of the stairs except for the night she moved in. She hopes it is all right to go to the laundry room this way. Opal said the washer and dryer were on the covered screen porch. She also remembers that is where Count Basil spends most of his time. He was friendly enough the night she met him, but without Opal by her side would he be just as inclined to take off a leg or two for an afternoon snack? He could. His neck is as massive as a tree trunk.
The house is quiet. She wonders where Opal is. Dancing with birds? She makes her way to the back, past the kitchen, and then past three other closed doors that she can only wonder about. More sabers behind them? Or another snarling grizzly? Or maybe something as innocent as yellow snapdragons? She cautiously pushes open the screen door that leads to the porch with her hip and tries to see around her armful of laundry.
She stops.
Count Basil
stares at her. Foam oozes from his black mouth. His lips are pulled back, exposing his canines. His eyes are unblinking, and his nose twitches. Zoe cannot hold back and erupts into laughter, snorting through her nose. Seeing him flinch makes another laugh roll from her belly. It comes out as a surprise and feels almost cleansing. He doesn’t move, though Zoe is sure she can detect some level of humiliation in his eyes.
“Ah! You laugh, but look at ’em! He’s got ’em all, with minty breath, too. Not bad for an old fart like him. He may find himself a lady friend yet.” Opal pulls back the lip on the left side of his mouth and continues to brush his teeth. Drops of foam sprinkle the floor. The Count obediently waits for her to finish. “I know he don’t care for it much when it’s getting done, but afterwards he seems to smile more.”
Zoe grins. Is that what you call it? A smile? Grandma would call him “mad dog” and phone the pound. Zoe leans down and picks up her fallen laundry.
“You said it was okay to use the washer?”
“Sure is.” Opal grunts as she wrestles the dog, who Zoe guesses must easily outweigh the old woman by fifty pounds. “There!” she says, dropping the toothbrush in the laundry tub with one hand and slapping the Count on the backside with the other. He takes it as a signal to run, and he nearly knocks Zoe over as he races down the steps to the backyard.
Opal straightens, pushing against her back like it helps in the effort. “Here. Let me show you how it works.” Before Zoe can say anything, Opal is scooping a cup of detergent into the washer and turning on faucets, showing her with pride all there is to know about the Zenith Ultra, model 750. She shows Zoe the settings, the bleach dispenser, and then the lint trap to the dryer. “I have a clothesline, too. Like it better, nothing like sunshine dried right into your clothes, but it twitches out my back lifting all that wet laundry, so these days I mostly stick with the canned air. But you’re welcome to use either—or both if it suits you.”
Zoe smiles. Why would she use both? She begins stuffing her clothes into the washer, and Opal stops her. “What’s this? A tennis skirt?”
Oh my god, Zoe thinks. Is she going to inspect all my dirty laundry? “Yes,” she answers and hopes Opal won’t see her sweat-stained, threadbare bra lurking somewhere in the pile.
Opal sits down in a wicker chair next to the dryer and brushes a silver curl from her forehead. “So you play tennis?” Her voice is soft and grateful, like she is settling into a warm bathtub, or maybe, Zoe thinks, settling into warm memories.
“I’m on the team at school. I have a match in the morning—that’s why I have to get the skirt clean tonight.”
“The team!” Opal’s eyes glitter, and Zoe catches her breath. What is that? Excitement? Admiration? What is in Opal’s eyes? Zoe drops the last of her clothes into the washer and closes the lid. She looks back at Opal’s eyes, and the glitter is still there.
“Yes. Varsity.” Zoe listens to her own voice and wonders at the low, hesitant pitch, but then she knows—it is fear creeping up in her. For two years she has either gotten no reaction from Mama or ridicule from Grandma when it comes to her tennis. Her defenses automatically ease into position, but still…the glitter.
“So you play tomorrow,” Opal says, stretching out the word like there is magic in it. She leans back. “I was on a team once,” she says. “About a hundred years ago. Calvin and I played in a doubles league. Boy, did we have some fun—and how I loved wearing that tiny pleated skirt. Calvin liked it, too.” Opal winks.
“Calvin?”
“That was my husband. Is my husband. Well, he’s dead you know, but that don’t make him stop being my husband. But it surely pisses me off that he left first. He was pretty much that way though.”
Zoe doesn’t know whether to laugh or express sorrow. Opal always seems to be throwing her curves. The washing machine finishes filling and begins its low, churning rhythm, while Opal continues her excited chatter, saving Zoe the decision to express anything at all.
“We played once a week—all over the county. It was a club for couples—nothing fancy—but Calvin and I could sure serve some firecrackers. Of course, Calvin had to do ninety percent of the running. I wasn’t much good at that, not with my bum leg and all.”
“Bum leg?” Zoe asks.
Opal smiles. “You didn’t notice?” She seems pleased and pulls up her long, loose house dress to expose her shoes. One has a normal thin sole, the other a thick, heavy one. “Three full inches shorter, this one!” She lowers her dress like a curtain ending a show. “But I don’t let it slow me down much. Couldn’t keep me from tennis!” She slaps her hands on her knees and stands. “So, Miss Zoe Beth Buckman, ace tennis player. Now that I’ve shown you the washer, let’s go take a look at your plot of garden.” She slides her arm through Zoe’s and pulls her down the porch steps to the yard.
Zoe tries to remember. Plot of garden? She remembers something was said about it, but it hadn’t been important to her. She doesn’t garden. She doesn’t want to garden. But she doesn’t want to be rude or ungrateful either. Not ungrateful. So she lets Opal pull her along in the twilight garden as Count Basil lollops behind, smiling. She will let Opal show her. What can it hurt? And she likes the alert, steady rhythm of Opal’s chatter, so much the timbre of a warbling bird that it folds into the evening air as naturally as Zoe’s breaths.