to butter whole wheat toast while it was still warm. Tilly set Richard’s breakfast on the table before him, and sat in the chair opposite — her mind somewhere far away. Then she poured a cup of steaming black coffee for herself, and absently rubbed the butter on her toast with her finger. She licked it clean, and rubbed again.
“That is so unlady-like,” Tilly could hear her mother say.
She thought back. Jessica Sumner had always been a proper woman. She’d been thrilled when Tilly married Richard and gave her a grandchild. Her mother died the year Mark turned five. She never saw him grow into the man he might have been, but then neither did Tilly and Richard.
However, they’d seen the hint of it, a man in the making so many times. Her mother would have been proud. She had spoiled him as only a grandmother could.
Tilly recalled the many times her mother had invited Mark to spend the night with her in her small apartment. She enjoyed the boy and lavished him with love. They played games and sang songs. Mark crawled into his grandmother’s big bed, where they watched movies on her portable black and white television set. They usually slept until nine the next morning when she made him waffles with real strawberry jam, and let him artfully squirt canned whipping cream on top.
Tilly also recalled the hysteria her mother felt on one of those Sunday mornings when she went to pick him up. Her mother was beside herself with fear.
“Where did he get them? I don’t know where he got them! she had cried.
Her mother was referring to matches. Jessica had never kept matches in her house. She had a phobia about fire, and had passed that fear to her daughter. Jessica never explained how the fear had begun, but it must have stemmed from something terrible in her own childhood, Tilly suspected. Whatever had happened had been too horrific to reveal.
As far back as Tilly could remember, there had never been candles in her mother’s house.
Tilly didn’t even remember candles on her birthday cakes. There were no campsite bonfires. No crackling fireplace on cold, frosty winter evenings. Fire was a thing to be avoided at all costs in the Sumner household. It was no surprise that Jessica panicked when she found her four-year-old grandson with a box of matches. Tilly panicked, too. She was as afraid of fire as her mother — a learned paranoia.
Tilly looked across the table at her husband. He was finishing his eggs and polishing off the last of his buttered toast. During the past two years, Richard had acquired a nervous tick on the side of his left eye. It twitched now as he drank his remaining coffee. His hair appeared grayer, she noticed, and his eyes seemed worn by pain. A pain they both shared, and didn’t know how to put in its rightful place.
What had happened to their life together? They used to tell each other they could weather any storm, survive any tragedy. That was until they actually had to face one. When the going got tough, Richard bailed out. Perhaps, she had, too. Now she felt as though she lived with a stranger, both of their lives destroyed.
Her heart ached for her son. All Tilly wanted was to look into Mark’s shining young face once more, to have him put his arms around her in one of his big bear hugs and say “Hey, Mom,” in what had become his deep, man voice. Mark was tall at the age of seventeen. His hair was a soft brown like Richard’s, his eyes deep green like hers. The boy had a wonderful sense of humor, was athletic and a great student. He was a parent’s dream. He hadn’t been perfect by any means, but Tilly didn’t want to remember those times. In the end, those things didn’t really matter anyway. He’d been her life, and she missed him.
Tilly wondered if the aching would ever stop. Would she ever be able to look at Richard again as she had before the accident? Could she ever forgive him and find peace inside her heart?
“What’s on your agenda today?” Richard asked.
“I’m having someone come to look at the bedroom windows this morning,” Tilly responded with as little interest as her husband’s question had held. “After that I’ll be in the office all afternoon.”
It didn’t really matter what she did today. Each day was the same, filled with emptiness.
Brad Bailey
Tilly stood watching Brad Bailey as he examined the bedroom windows. He was a man in his mid-thirties, muscular, strong, but not in an ugly kind of way like some muscle-engorged body builder. But rather in a nice, polished, masculine way. His brown hair was kept fairly short, except for a hank in the front that swept casually across his broad forehead. His brown eyes were surprisingly soft, his chin strongly chiseled, and his butt tight. So were his faded blue jeans, she noticed.
The young man cut around the window frame with a utility knife, and tried to jimmy the sash, but to no avail. The window was indeed stuck. Tilly watched him as he worked. He was methodical in his investigation, and was finally ready to give his report.
“I thought at first it might be a problem with sloppy painting, but I can see it’s a faulty cord system. It’s just worn out, Mrs. Jacobs,” Brad scratched his head as he explained. His voice low and smooth.
“Please, call me, Tilly.”
“Tilly. Cute name,” Brad smiled at the woman standing before him. She wasn’t bad looking for a woman her age. She seemed nervous. Was that just her nature, or the fact she was alone with a strange man in her bedroom?
He ran into this all the time. These broads were all the same when they were up against a handsome, virile young man such as himself. The insecure meets macho man. Brad chuckled to himself. Removing a tape measure from his toolbox, he set about measuring one of the casements, and made some notes before measuring another.
“Do I need new windows?” Tilly asked.
“I don’t think so, Mrs. Jacobs ... uh, Tilly. I like to keep the windows intact in these old beach houses, if possible. Keeps the integrity. They don’t build them like this anymore. Can’t with today’s codes.
“I agree with you,” Tilly replied. “The house has so much charm.”
And this room — it was her favorite room in the house. The walls were covered in a blue on white flowered wallpaper, the windows dressed in white ruffled curtains. The large brass bed dominated the space with a blue chenille bedspread, and white throw pillows arranged neatly on top. A white dresser held a tray of assorted perfume bottles, and framed pictures of herself and Richard, of Mark at Rockaway Beach when he was four years old, and skiing when he was fifteen, all organized according to height. The bedside tables were also white with a blue porcelain lamp on each. And in the corner was a reading nook, a slipper chair, which had belonged to her mother, and a table made of burled wood that Richard had bought her soon after they’d been married. On it was a stack of her favorite books.
Tilly continued to watch Brad. She patiently waited as he worked up some numbers on a scratch pad, and handed the slip to her. “That’s the bottom line, Tilly. If you want to talk it over with your husband and let me …”
“No. No, that’s all right, Brad.” Tilly said looking over the tallied price on the sheet. “Three hundred twenty for both windows is a fair price for replacing the pulley-work inside.”
Brad smiled at the woman. She would never know he’d kicked up the price fifty percent. He did that sometimes. To Meredith Connors and Sophie Craft. He’d added two hundred-fifty dollars to Sophie’s bill when he built her porch railing. And these women loved his work, were willing to pay anything, and even passed
