A Room on Lorelei Street - Page 34

Thirty-One

Reid won’t like it.

But there is nothing she can do about it now. And they’re only friends, after all. That’s all they’ve ever been. Maybe it’s because there has been no one since him that he thinks it meant more than it did.

“Well, tonight should put an end to that,” she whispers. It’s a favor, really. He can move on. We all have to move on. She wonders if she should tell the others ahead of time, before Carlos knocks on her door. “No, just wait till he comes.” It’s not like she planned it. She ran into him in Murray’s parking lot when she picked up her paycheck. “It’s a free country.” If she wants to invite someone to her place, she shouldn’t have to feel guilty about it.

“It’s my place, after all and—” God, I’m talking out loud to myself! She shakes her head. “Reid, you’re such a pain.” She empties the second grocery bag and checks her watch. Eight-thirty. Another half an hour or so before they come. She splurged. Cigarettes, sodas, chips, salsa, frozen taquitos, and two dozen chocolate cookies from the Food Star bakery. And a tiny votive candle from the clearance bin. It’s Friday. Payday. Her very own first company is coming. And she aced her match. More than aced it, she was the star.

The absolute star.

Everyone noticed, not just the coach. She was on like she has never been. She is entitled to celebrate. It’s only a few chips. A bit more, maybe. Altogether just thirteen dollars’ worth of celebration. Not much, considering. Rent is due next week, but she still has the rest of her paycheck. With her usual tips, she’ll have enough. It’ll work. Close—but it’s working. “Mama should see me now,” she whispers. God, she wishes Mama could see her. So what if she has to live on leftover frozen taquitos and chocolate cookies for the next week? It’s more than Mama lives on.

She folds the grocery bag and tucks it away in the closet. Time to kill. She turns off the overhead lamp and lights the candle on her hutch. Rings of light bounce off walls and ceiling. Her light. She owns it. Where it goes. When it goes. The room is quiet, so dark, except for her tiny bargain-bin circle of light. Her legs bend, easing her into the chair, and she is sitting with her hands cupped around the candle, relaxed, fingers warmed by the tiny flame, drawn into the glow, glimmer by unbroken glimmer, until she unexpectedly sees Grandma, Kyle, and a lonely night she had long forgotten.

The vanilla scent closes her eyes to the now and takes her back to the then, pulls her into a downy patched quilt next to Grandma…three rings dancing on a ceiling and Grandma cooing first to her and then to Kyle…. Those three rings are us. We’re dancing on the ceiling now, aren’t we? Having a party all our own and no one else can dance on a ceiling like us.…And Kyle giggles at the nonsense, but Zoe snuggles in closer to Grandma under the covers. Grandma’s arm around her, her touch on Zoe’s shoulder is like butter on warm bread. It melts in. Fills the holes. Kyle falls into his toddler snores, but she and Grandma watch the circles of light.

Together they stay awake and watch.

“When is Mama coming for us?” she finally asks. But Grandma nestles her in closer and talks about going for doughnuts and hot chocolate in the morning and the fine time they will have. She fills the void of Mama with talk and promises, but Zoe just notices her weathered arms holding her close—her touch, and the scent of clean sheets and vanilla candles that lock up the night to make her safe. And for that night, with Grandma’s knobby fingers rubbing close against her arm, she didn’t think about Mama anymore.

Zoe returns to her room. To the now. Rubs her arms, remembering Grandma’s hands. Dry. Chapped. Working hands. Holding her. Caring.

Trying to make everything right.

A gentle tap at the door startles Zoe. The tap is not from the outer door that leads to the stairs, but the inner door that leads to the rest of the house. A stream of light tumbles into her room as she eases it open, and there is Count Basil, holding a paper bag between his teeth. Opal jumps from the hall, her airy blue caftan billowing around her, and calls, “Surprise!”

She and the Count enter the room. “Go on,” she says. “Look inside!” Count Basil drops the bag and plops down by the stone bulldog, already tired by his efforts, but Opal is rubbing her hands together and beaming like a six-year-old. Zoe opens the bag and pulls out a flowing red crushed-velvet robe like a queen might wear. Large rhinestones are sewn across the hem, and white fur edges the collar. It is lined with royal blue satin. Zoe looks at Opal, not sure what it means. “For you!” she says. “Zoe! Queen of the Courts! I went up to the attic as soon as we got home. I hadn’t seen it for years, but I knew it was around here somewhere. Never was for me—bought it at a rummage sale—but I knew it was right for someone. They’d come along someday, so I kept it. And today was the someday! I jus

t knew it! Go on! Try it!”

Zoe hesitates. But it is only for fun. And yes, dammit, she is Queen of the Courts! At least for today. She swings it around her shoulders, and Opal squeals. “Yes! I was right! I was right!” Opal bends at the waist in a deep curtsy and rises again, “All hail to Queen Zoe!” She claps her hands like their performance is complete.

Zoe is uncomfortable. It is silliness. The play of children. Not for someone as old as she, but a smile still escapes her. Opal is crazy and for the moment she is, too—no one will know. She clutches the robe close, lifts her tennis racket from the bed like a scepter, and taps Opal’s shoulders.

“You may breathe in my presence,” she says in the most royal voice she knows.

Opal smiles back, like Zoe has truly given her a gift. Not the gift of breathing, but something else. It hangs in the air between them, almost touchable, and Zoe turns away.

“You were marvelous,” Opal says in her soft bird warble.

Zoe takes the robe from her shoulders and tries to fold it back into the neat nondescript ball it once was. “Why do you come, Opal?”

“Oh! There is so much that could happen! I might see you win! And I did! Or I might meet a beau in the bleachers! Or the Count might meet a nice girl!” Zoe takes in the way Opal says “girl,” drawn out with so much possibility. “Or you might need me to come down and hit a few balls! Opal saves the day! I can see the headlines! Or I might see you win! Oh, I said that already, didn’t I? And I did see you win! See?”

Zoe is not sure if the why was answered, but it doesn’t seem to matter so much after all, and she is satisfied with Opal’s possibilities. But then, the short space of silence tugs a few more words from Opal’s lips: “And it’s a need.”

Zoe looks up. Opal’s eyebrows are raised, smoothing the wrinkles from her eyes. Zoe tries, but she cannot read the faded green flecks in the old woman’s eyes, or the timbre of her voice. “Yours…or mine?” she asks.

Opal’s brows come together. “Does it matter?”

The something is there again, floating between them, and Zoe looks down. She picks at the ivy print of her comforter. “I think I know what you meant,” she says.

“Meant?”

“What you said the other day about fate. All those things pushing up against each other so it can’t happen any other way.”

“Hmm,” Opal says.

Tags: Mary E. Pearson
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