CarolSue
I don’t know what I expected when I turned the knob on Louisa’s bedroom door and pushed it open, but certainly not that time had stood still three-and-a-half years ago when my brother-in-law Harold killed himself by stepping in front of a Dwayne County Waste Recycling truck. Good Lord, and bless my sister’s heart, but Harold’s pajama bottoms were laid on the bottom of the bed, and his good brown shoes left in front of the dresser. His wallet and keys and what must have been the change from his pocket scattered themselves all casual on the dresser, in front of their wedding picture, and their grandson Cody’s framed picture—a different one than was in the living room—right there next to it, plus Harold’s spare pair of glasses, as if he might need them again. By his side of the bed, on the nightstand, the Farmers’ Almanac under the lamp. Harold was more a television man than a reader. A basket with his dirty laundry was next to the wall; I recognized his blue plaid shirt on top, the one Louisa said she loved.
I looked around and startled. Glitter Jesus. Hanging behind me on the wall. He was Gary’s creation, a depiction on black velvet that vaguely resembled a blond Elvis, add on a sparkling halo. Utterly sincere, Gary had made it himself as a gift for Louisa after he was Saved. He always did fancy himself to be artistically talented, which was wrong, so wrong. It was as bad as Louisa had told me on the phone. I’d chided her that she needed to hang it anyway, but she’d kept stashing it where she needn’t look at it. Other than Glitter Jesus, though, the rest of the room was entirely Louisa and Harold’s, as it had been the day Harold died.
I made my way into the master bathroom. There on the counter was Harold’s toothbrush nestled in a glass next to what I assumed was Louisa’s at the time. His razor, on the sink. Shaving cream, definitely for men. A man’s hairbrush, too, gray hair matted at the bottom of the bristles. Prescription bottles lined up with Harold’s name on them. It was too much, too much.
I left the bathroom, quietly pulled the door shut behind me. I looked around the bedroom again. This time I scanned Louisa’s bureau. Of course, I’d seen the picture of Harold there before. There was an anniversary card standing up. It must have been the last he’d given her. For My Wonderful Wife, curly script flourished over a bed of roses. Oh, how those two did love each other. I always knew that. My eyes started to water. I had cards like that from Charlie. They were packed in one of the boxes I’d brought, one that I’d not been able to bear opening.
On Louisa’s dresser, I saw a scrap of paper, too, with Harold’s handwriting, and picked it up to read. I shouldn’t have taken the time. That was my mistake. Otherwise I might have gotten out of the room, shut the door, and she’d not have caught me in there. As it turned out, she was able to tiptoe in behind me while I was engrossed in Harold’s last list, which apparently had to do with parts his tractor might need.
I was so startled I jumped and screamed. Which, of course, made me look guilty.
Louisa just stared at me, waiting for me to give it up. I’m the older sister, though, and I know all about the best defense.
“You’ve let your hair go way too long. If you get some Miss Clairol in town, I’ll do your roots for you,” I said. It was a decent try, but she just stood there, hands on her hips, narrowing her eyes to slits.
I took another shot, going for a direct hit this time. “So what is this, some kind of crazy memorial to Harold? I thought you had finally moved on,” I said. Perhaps I could have phrased that better.
“Looking for something?” she shot at me angrily. “Put that down,” she said, meaning Harold’s note. I did and took a couple of steps away from his dresser toward her.
“What’s going on?” I wasn’t about to back down. “I thought you were doing . . . better.”
“I. Am. Fine.” This wasn’t good. She’d crossed her arms over her chest.
“Louisa.” I softened my tone. “Honey, it’s me. What’s going on? You can tell me.”
“I told you after he died. I’ll always be Harold’s wife. This is Harold’s space, Harold’s bathroom, Harold’s bed. I’m not sharing it with another man. Please close the door behind you and keep it closed.” Then she turned and walked out.
* * *
After that fiasco, things settled down some. It was a whole peaceful three days before Gus showed up, probably scared to death of what Louisa’s big sister might have to say, having doubtless heard all kinds of stories about me, entirely true, since I’m the sensible one of the two of us. I remembered Gus from high school—skinny, acne, undistinguished. When he did make an entrance, it was in an entirely different body (“puffy,” Louisa called it, with a gray crew cut, and glasses too tight on his face), and with a peace offering of paint charts, telling me to pick any color for my room I wanted, because Louisa had a charge account at the Supply Company and he was authorized to sign for any improvements she wanted to the house or property. And she wanted my room done to my specifications. She’d already laid out catalogs for me to pick out a bedspread and new curtains once I chose the wall and trim colors.
I wanted a woodsy green with white trim. Louisa rolled her eyes but managed to bite her tongue. She’d suggested hydrangea blue, her favorite color, pointing out for the thousandth time that it would match my eyes. It was a good thing she didn’t persist. Maybe she didn’t even remember that green and white were the colors of Charlie’s and my bedroom, or did she think I’d lost my memory as well as my husband and home?
Oh, maybe that sounds ungrateful, and truly I wasn’t. I needed my people, including Gary, who drives Louisa up a tree sometimes. It was that somehow Louisa’s mourning managed to fill the available space, like a canvas already fully painted, with the length of her marriage and the magnitude of the two tragedies, that there seemed no room for mine. I kept it to myself, releasing it in private, in my room at night, and when Jessie decided she wanted to sleep with me—though I’d never been a dog person in my former life—I welcomed the familiar comfort of soft, steady breathing and occasional soft snoring, the felt safety of a near body. Charlie, my Charlie. I’ve not forgotten, I’d whisper. I love you. I miss you. Stay with me. Thank you for our time.
“I have my own money,” was all I said about the bedroom paint colors I wanted, which weren’t on the chart Gus had brought. “I want to pay for this.” I knew perfectly well that Charlie had left me far better off than Harold had left Louisa, and her own pension, after all those years in the classroom, was shameful. “I insist on paying my share of the expenses around here, too. Or I can’t live here. That’s the way it’s going to be. Isn’t Gary going to be upset about losing his room?”
“Gary’s in his forties. Don’t you think it’s time?” Louisa had brushed me off about that, and she had a point there. I didn’t bring up the stupidity of Louisa’s refusing to use the second bathroom, knowing it was too delicate a subject to argue about. And besides, Gus hadn’t been around to crowd the one in the hallway with a man, either, so I knew I didn’t have an upright toilet seat to fall into yet. Really, though, I was chafing about my not getting the guest room, which was bigger than Gary’s old room and had better light and a queen-size bed. It just seemed silly to me for Louisa not to acknowledge that Harold was gone and that she was sleeping with Gus, that it was perfectly fine for her to go on with her life by redecorating the master bedroom and bath.
I didn’t know then what a good thing it would turn out to be that that room was sacrosanct, that everyone knew not to open the door, how badly we—I—would need it for the Grand Plan of my life that would make Louisa look like an amateur Planner. I suppose I should admit, she did assist me, even if she didn’t want to at first.
* * *
During the daytimes, I’d distracted myself from thinking about Charlie: unpacked, gotten used to Jessie, who’d taken to me like a yellow shadow, and to Marvelle and the girls wandering around. Louisa talked to the chickens and the animals so much I was never sure if one of her comments had been addressed to me. That was a bit of a bump in the road until I caught on