She showed a faint but pretty smile.
"I just don't rent," she said, "but you knew that, right?"
I nodded, then did the only reasonable thing I could without violating Walter Trucks's constraint against bothering Mrs. O'Leary. I took out my wallet. "I can pay."
"Well Lord almighty I would hope so. I don't give rooms away, when I'm renting that is. I'm just not renting tonight."
"Will you be renting tomorrow night?"
Then she actually did smile, not a smile with which anyone would associate any mirth, but maybe some mental pleasure.
"I might be, would that help?"
"Not really," I said, "Do you know of anyone else with a room, maybe an abandoned chicken coop or a root cellar? Maybe a mushroom farm?"
"I didn't know you were that choosy. There might be a crawl space or two around, unheated, but I wouldn't know where."
"Then it's the bus kiosk for me. Thanks for your time."
I turned to leave but she stopped me. "Now wait, Calvin, there's a boarding house not far from Walter's place."
"Really? He never mentioned it."
"That's because it's probably full."
"How do you know that?"
"It's always full," she said. "There's a resort outside of town and many of the workers stay at the boarding house. It's cheap. It's clean."
"But it's full."
"Always, every room but one, and a dog uses that one."
"And I suppose he gets some sort of animal discount?"
"It's the owner's Rottweiler," she said. "Pretty gentle, but I wouldn't want to fight him for space. Now Mike Alderman down the end of the street would let you bunk with him, but you would literally have to bunk with him."
I didn't her for a clarification; I was reasonably certain what she meant.
"He might give you the top," she said, "but I wouldn't count on it. Plus they say he farts like a cannon."
I laughed, but I was more frustrated than amused. "Why are you telling me this?"
"You're new in town. How could you know that Mike Alderman has a flatulence problem? It's not out there on the Internet, not yet anyway. And if you found out tomorrow that there's a boarding house in town and I didn't tell you, you'd be angry. Why don't you sit for a minute. I hate to have you go back out into the rain like that."
"Then rent me a room—we'll both feel better."
"I'm sorry, Calvin," she said, but didn't close the door.
I found the combination of concern for my welfare and refusal to advance it unsettling, but I came in. Baby steps, maybe, temporary shelter from the elements. Some hope for the following night—if I survived this one. I really couldn't envision sleeping in that kiosk, but I thought maybe I could wheedle some space out of Walter Trucks, maybe push some chairs together. Of course I had to get back there before he too turned off the lights.
"I think I'm wasting your time," I said, mustering all the politeness I could, "and I need to find a place. You mentioned some resort outside of town?"
I think some of my frustration showed through when I spit out the last part of that sentence, because she seemed a little taken aback. "Just wait a while," she said, and her tone was more amicable. "Let's figure this out."
She pointed to a wooden rocker near the front window, then left the room. I sat.
"Where do you come from?" she yelled from, apparently, the kitchen. I heard pans rattling, but her voice rose over them, raspy but strong.
"Massachusetts."
"Long way to come…"
"…to end up here," I said.
"That's kind of what I meant."
She came back in with two cups and saucers.
"I'm making tea."
"Can I get that to go?"
"Just hold on, Cal. I can drive you where you need to be, but…just hold on."
"If Walter turns in for the night…."
"Then I'll wake him up. Odd hours don't bother him, if he sleeps at all."
I nodded, rocking slowly like the old woman in that famous painting. I kept trying to find some sympathy in her voice, sympathy that might translate into a change of rental policy. I was grasping at flimsy straws, but I had only the flimsiest: she hadn't thrown me out yet.
She sat opposite me on the couch: a red crushed velvet monstrosity like one that my mother had thrown away when I was still young enough to trampoline on it—had thrown away because I had trampolined on it, a little too wildly I guess. Everything else, including a threadbare recliner and a few lamps could have come from a lawn sale—with one notable exception. In the corner near the kitchen door stood a jumble of stereo components flanked by speakers that must have been five feet tall. I had downsized over the years and settled for my phone and a Bluetooth device; even so, I knew state-of-the-art audiophile products when I saw them. While others had reduced their music collection to a flash drive and some earbuds, Mrs. O'Leary had retained that twentieth century attitude that music should be seen as well as heard.
She had apparently lowered the volume when I arrived, but I recognized the piece, all those near silences swelling into huge fanfares.
"That's Bruckner," I said. "His third symphony, right?
"Yes, it is. How do you know that?" It was the first time I sensed any emotion in her voice.
"I just know," I said.
"Did you see the label or something?"
"A label. I remember labels, vaguely. But no, I didn't see it. I have all of them on CD."
That wasn't exactly true. Everything I claim to "have" actually sits in that second-story rented storage shed back east, a cold and odious twelve by twelve cell with overhead door access, no heat, and no electricity. Pearson, conscientious attorney that he is, assured me he would check on my things once a month; but aside from paying my bills, I don't think he's concerning himself with my paperbacks, a few cartons of mementos, several boxes of clothes and shoes, my dictionary of synonyms, and my CD and record collection.
So I kind of have them, and so did she.
"Bet you don't have Zero," I said.
"Of course," she said. How could you not collect a Symphony Number Zero? So you actually know Bruckner, huh? How did that happen?"
"Just kind of got into it," I said, and condensed my story of losing interest in rock during the MTV-eighties—of how I felt more and more removed from the musical mainstream every time I turned on the television. I reverted to the classics: my parents' Beethoven and Brahms mingled with my Styx and REO Speedwagon. (My folks liked all kinds of music too. I once heard my father humming "Mr. Roboto," though when he realized I was within earshot, he stopped.) When I returned to those serious musical roots, I went away from the classics, and gravitated towards Mahler, Wagner, Bruckner.
"The romantics," she said when I'd finished.
"Some of the music is a little schmaltzy," I admitted, "but it doesn't make me like it any less. How about you?"
"My husband liked it; I figured I should too, and eventually I did. He left but by then I was hooked."
He left. I liked the cryptic quality of that little sentence. He left. For Hawaii? Leavenworth? Tierra del Fuego? Heaven? Whatever the answer, she was able to reduce the end of her relationship to two words. I wondered if I would ever reach that point, when a question about Natalie would induce a similarly casual and impassive response like, we split. I was a little bit unnerved by her nonchalance and I fumbled through some incomprehensible reply until she stopped me.
"Calvin,