tired, weighed down and unsteady, Russell trudged in dirty gravel beside broken asphalt. So far the exhilaration of the open road had proven elusive, while a profound weariness was inescapable. He questioned the wisdom of his enterprise, this so-called adventure that now seemed like a played-out folly. On his first day he was already despairing. The house to his left was a ramshackle, cinderblock eyesore whose mailbox bore no address. House numbers here were apparently assigned at random. Next to number 9 was number 14, across the street from number 11. Seventeen was next to 14, across from 12 and 15. An empty lot on his left flanked what turned out to be number 21, on the corner.
The place was real nice, right across from the lake, a two-story, old, craftsman-type house with a wrap-around porch and a climbing rose on a trellis. It looked like it had been painted recently, a clean, creamy white with lavender trim. Behind the house was a barn-like garage. Three large maples and a tulip tree stood in the open yard, the property demarcated by a pile of rocks at the curve in the road, and by a weed-entangled fence next to the empty lot. Up by the steps they’d stationed the pink flamingoes he’d given them on their wedding. He took off his pack and set it on a stool painted in fine Carmela style. On the seat she’d drawn a menacing crab, and between the outstretched pincers were the words: “Sit At Own Risk.” He knocked. A fish-shaped windsock hung limply from the eaves. The blanket of lilies heaved in rhythmic ripples. He knocked again. There was no car in the driveway. He sighed, more pessimistic than before about his prospects here. A corner of the curtain was drawn back, then the door opened and Carmela stepped out.
With a little squeal, she wrapped her arms around him and exclaimed, “You’re here! We were just talking last night about what you were up to. I even called down there, but your phone’s disconnected. Manny said you’d blown us off and you were probably in Timbuktu already, but I knew you’d come.”
She stepped back, bobbed her head, and shimmied her shoulders. Sunlight poured across her smooth cinnamon skin; her dark eyes danced above high, smiling cheeks. She wore her black hair in a thick braid that hung down half the length of her spine. The bridge of her proud nose crinkled as her smile spread, dissipating any gloom still shadowing his thoughts.
“I’m glad you’re home,” he said. “Hope I’m not showing up too early.”
“Oh no, not at all. Manny’s at work already. I didn’t know if I heard you knocking or not. I’m in my sewing room in the back. We usually use the side door.” She turned and waved him into the house. “Come in. I’m right in the middle of something.”
He placed his pack inside and closed the door after him. The room was appointed with furnishings that were threadbare in a genteel fashion, a funky array of rummage-sale finds. A faded oriental rug covered the central portion of an oak floor. Carmela had decorated the top foot or so of the walls with the intricate designs she was always doodling, a variegated band of geometric patterns that twisted and flowed with a suggestion of movement. The whole effect was subtle but striking. It must have taken a long time to complete.
“You’ve been busy,” he commented, stopping in the middle of the room. She turned and followed his gaze up to her handiwork.
“Yeah, I did that last year. I’ve started the kitchen cabinets. See?” She walked into the kitchen and pointed to the outlines sketched on the corners of the cabinet doors. “But I’m kind of stalled out on it.”
He nodded to indicate that he knew what it was like to be stalled out.
“Hey,” she continued, “I’ll show you around later, OK? I’m doing some alterations for my mom now—I’ve got to get them down there by nine, when they open.”
He raised an eyebrow and pulled out his watch. “It’s almost nine now, isn’t it?”
“No, quarter till eight.” She indicated a clock on the far wall.
“Oh, man.” He smacked his forehead. “You guys are in a different time zone, aren’t you?”
She laughed. “Time zone. I don’t know why, but that makes me laugh. Time zone.” She repeated it once more in a slow monotone, then shook her head and said, “Come on.”
She led him through a set of French doors into a small room down the hall from the kitchen. “This was just a closet, but Manny and my brother Felix expanded it for me to work in. I was set up in one of the bedrooms, but if we ever have babies, we’ll need all our bedrooms.”
She sat behind her sewing machine and took up her work with a whispered sigh. Folded clothes sat on her table, among scraps of material, boxes of thread and other items of her craft. An iron stood steaming on its board. The shelves held linens embroidered with her motifs. A needlepoint sampler she’d made when she was a child was framed on the wall.
“It’s nice in here,” he observed.
“They did a good job,” she said, tinkering with her bobbin. “Manny got the cool old doors from a salvage yard. He got these natural spectrum lights for cheap, too. They’re great—I can see true color in here when I do my needlework, like working in sunlight.”
He sat in a plush armchair, feeling comfortable in the moment. She zipped along in her sewing.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call and tell you what was going on,” he said. “I had to wait for my check, then I hung around to cop a ride off Gloria.”
“What’s the deal there, you and Gloria?” she asked, head bowed to her task.
He rolled his eyes and slumped. “Oh, I’ll tell you about it later. I can’t even think about it now. It’s just too stupid is all.”
“OK,” she replied.
Her machine ratted and tatted, her eyes were fixed in concentration. Russell noted the proximity of their place to the old widow’s farm.
“Actually, that’s one of the reasons we bought this place,” she told him. “It’s really a beautiful piece of land, and the city owns it. The real-estate agent said they were going to annex it to the rest of the park, but I guess the deal hasn’t been worked out yet, ‘cause nothing’s happened so far. Remember going out there and being scary and stuff?”
She grabbed a pair of pants from the stack in front of her and held them up. They had an enormous waist. About three Carmelas could have fit inside them.
“Now that’s scary.”
She folded the pants and said, “Hey, go get the phone book. It’s in the kitchen on top of the fridge. I’ll show you something funny I noticed the other day.”
“All right,” he said as he stood. “But explain your street numbers to me.”
“Talk to Manny about that. You know him. It drives him crazy.”
He returned with the book and stood leafing through it.
“So you see what they’ve done,” she said, directing his attention to the format of the listings. “They strung together the name and the street, and it’s just odd the way it reads. Look up Manny.”
He read: “Fuegas Manuel Mr. Melon.” It made him smile.
“Now check out W, the last Weaver,” she suggested.
“Weaver Wanda Mrs. Walnut.”
She snorted. “Don’t
