May usually represents hope reborn in the Upper Midwest. Winter laid to rest. Spring-almost-summer putting down taproots. Vivid colors. Lilied and peonied air. Leaves so fresh, they look damp. A vibration of exuberant life that thrums like a baby robin’s heartbeat.
Despite the only partly cloudy sky, Lucy saw dull colors, faded, fogged over. She heard only muted tones. The smell of her car’s citrus air freshener choked her. While stopped at another stop sign, she ripped the freshener from its resting place and jammed it into the litterbag.
Was it just her, or did the street sign on Cottonwood look tilted? Not much. Just enough to notice. And the mailbox leaned the opposite way. Dr. Seussian.
She turned off the engine and stared at the front door of her house. What made her think she could pull off a turquoise door on a moss green house? Ania’s idea. Ania didn’t know everything. But who was Lucy to talk?
In a motion so automatic she didn’t have to think about it—which was good on a day like today—Lucy pocketed her keys, slid her purse and tote bag from the passenger seat, and exited the car in one nearly smooth motion. The glaringly bright turquoise door swung open as she reached for the knob.
“I found my passion!” Charlie’s graying eyebrows danced. Nothing else moved. A statue of a man with jive eyebrows.
“Happy for you. Is it okay if I get all the way into the house before you tell me the rest of your story?” Lucy nudged her husband with her shoulder as she scooted past his Ed Asner form. How much could a doorframe swell in mid-May’s premature humidity? Were the walls swollen too? The whole house felt smaller. Shrunken.
Charlie stayed on her heels as she deposited her 2014 Milner County Teacher of the Year tote bag and leather hobo purse on the repurposed vanity/hall table. “Charlie. Some space?”
“Don’t you want to know what it is?” Charlie’s head tilt reminded Lucy of a terrier pup they’d seen in the neighborhood. Cute, on a puppy. Mildly cute on the sometimes-annoying love of her life.
“Can I have a minute to acclimate?” She cupped his jaw and kissed the tip of his decades-familiar nose. “Not my best day, Charlie.”
“Mine,” he said, pulling her close, “got decidedly better when you walked through the door.”
“You read that line in a book, didn’t you.” Her heart warmed a degree or two in spite of the icy talons holding it in their grip.
He pulled back. “Am I that transparent?”
“Like a sixth-grader’s homework excuse.”
“I never claimed to be a romantic.”
She tugged at the silver curling in front of his ears. “Time for a haircut, young man.”
“My barber had a bad day, I hear. Not sure I trust her with scissors.” Charlie pressed his palms to the sides of his head. “I can’t afford a distracted stylist. Or shorter ears.” His grin would have seemed impish on an ordinary day.
“You could spring for a professional barber once in a while, you know. We can”—could, she silently corrected—“afford it.” She turned to the stack of mail on the table. Not yet. She wasn’t ready to say the words. “And they’re shears. We semiprofessionals don’t call them scissors. They’re shears.”
“You bought them at Walmart.”
“Touché.”
The fencing foil—lodged in her throat since eight hours earlier—slipped farther down. To the hilt.
She’d have to tell him.
So . . . after all these years, he’d found his life’s passion. On the day she lost hers.
***
“Worms, Lucy.”
She’d only managed to kick off one shoe before he spewed his news. Hers would have to wait. “You have worms?”
“Not yet. But I will.”
“You need to stay away from the pet rescue center for a while.” Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. “And keep hand sanitizer in your truck.” Second shoe. Coffee. Need coffee.
He bent to line her abandoned leather mules in a row with the other shoes on the mat beside the entry table. Who knew retirement would turn him into a neat freak? So not his style.
“Worm farm, LucyMyLight.”
The nickname he’d started using when they dated in college had never seemed aggravating before. But it felt as uncomfortable as a fiberglass sweater today. She blamed it on the barbed letter.
He took her hand as he had so often over the years and tugged her toward the kitchen. She slumped into the chair he pulled out for her, then forced her posture into a neutral, unreadable position. The man was pouring her a cup of coffee, eyebrows still dancing, and launching into a personal infomercial about worm farms. Now was not the time to collapse.
“I think this is it, Lucy. The thing I can get passionate about.” He slid her treble-clef mug toward her and lowered himself into the chair opposite hers. The pale beige brew in his nondescript coffee mug looked more like anemic chocolate milk rather than the Costa Rican mahogany that filled hers.
Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. “You want to raise bait? Fishing bait?”
“Now, see? That’s the common misperception—that worm farms are only good for producing night crawlers. Which, honestly, is reason enough by itself. I think anyone would admit that.”
She held the coffee under her nose. Too hot to drink. The aroma helped her mood about as much as a photograph of an antidepressant.
“A high-tech worm farm can produce—”
Had he just used high-tech and worm farm in the same sentence? His words squirmed in the air between them.
“—and soil enrichment, because of their . . . you know . . . feces.”
Collapses hold to no schedules. She pushed her coffee out of the way and laid her head on the table like a toddler falling asleep in her SpaghettiOs.
“Lucy! What’s wrong? Is it your heart?”
Her heart? She was not that old. And, sure, heart attacks knew no age limits. But really? His first thought was her heart? “No. Yes.” Her words disappeared into the tabletop. The scent of oranges cocooned around her. He’d bought the off-brand furniture polish again.
His chair legs scraped the ceramic tile. “I’ll get a baby aspirin.” She heard his footsteps pounding toward the powder room. Who knew he could move so fast?
She lifted her head long enough to say, “I’m not having a heart attack.”
“Stroke?”
Such a helpful man. “No. Close, but no.” She propped her elbows on the table and cupped her forehead in both hands. Her skull still seemed two sizes too small.
“Look, do I call 9-1-1 or not?” Charlie’s voice shifted from panic mode to irritation.
“Not. They can’t do anything about this.”
She knew without opening her eyes that he’d set the portable phone back in its base. A moment later, she felt his hand rubbing her upper back, tentatively, as if unsure if touching her would make it worse. “Lucy . . .”
The only warmth left in her lay across her shoulders, under his hand. “I lost my passion.”
“For . . . me?”