course I do.” Bobbie walked around her to the Volkswagen. “Hunter threw the check at you, didn’t he?” she guessed as Sandy beeped the door open.
“No.” Sandy placed the box on the back seat while Bobbie held the door. “He tore it in two.
They’d been college roommates at Portland State and since then had supported each other through major life crises. They were dear friends. Bobbie’s tone turned from teasing to gently rebuking. “Sandy, he’s told you before in no uncertain terms that he won’t accept money from you. If you’re ever going to have a permanent relationship with him, you’ll have to pay closer attention to what he wants.”
“He wants to never get married.”
“That’s what every man wants. But he cares about you.”
“Yeah, well, caring isn’t loving. He wants his self-respect. I guess the girls and I rate somewhere behind that.” She closed the door on the Closet’s first official donation. At least that was off to a good start.
Bobbie patted her shoulder as they walked around to the driver’s side. “You do realize that many men in such a position would be happy to let you solve their financial problems and take care of everything? I think it’s to his credit that he won’t.”
Sandy gave Bobbie a hug. Despite her own anguish, she noted that her friend looked healthy and happy. After battling cancer, falling in love and relinquishing her dream to study art in Florence, Italy, she appeared remarkably grounded and serene. Her dark hair had even grown sufficiently to now curl around her ears. Sandy was happy she was doing so well. She got back to the subject at hand. “Did you know that Hunter was engaged to the woman who embezzled from him?”
Bobbie looked surprised. “No, I didn’t. Geez.”
“Yeah. And he never told me.”
“Maybe he was embarrassed that someone he loved stole from him.”
Sandy growled. “Then wouldn’t you want to tell everybody how badly you’d been treated? But not him. He keeps his distance.” Sandy climbed in behind the wheel. “Thanks for the help. And thank you for coming to Celia’s rescue with the Shop-vac.”
“I was in the backyard and heard her screaming. I ran over to investigate. I couldn’t do the plumbing, but I could get the water up. You know, you’re a pretty handy warrior goddess. Did you tell Hunter you can do plumbing? It might change his mind.”
“Cute. You can joke about my pain.”
“What are friends for? If you have more flan than you can eat, call me.”
Sandy drove home and turned into her driveway lined with yellow and orange nasturtiums. Her small, gray two-bedroom on Fifteenth Street had a beautiful view of the Columbia River from the front and a fenced backyard for the girls. Built in the sixties, it was the only single-level house in a block of two-story Victorians constructed around the turn of the Twentieth Century. With the girls already beginning to stretch their personalities, the house was starting to feel too small. Still, it was affordable and, she reminded herself archly that she had just refinanced it, so she had to be happy with it for now.
She carried the box up two steps onto the porch formed by a brick wall with built-in flower boxes. In another month, they’d be filled with purple petunias. She put the box down, unlocked the door then hefted the box again and walked into the cool, cozy living room. Her furniture wasn’t new, but after Charlie had left she’d reupholstered it herself, unable to look at the blue-patterned sofa and chairs he’d picked out. She’d repainted the walls pink and chosen a largish lavender-and-white floral pattern for the upholstery. The curtains were lace and the other furniture pieces a motley collection of things from friends—a white spindly bench from her mother, a pair of ginger jar lamps Nate and Bobbie had given her when they’d redecorated after getting married, and an old trunk she used as a coffee table. That had been her grandmother’s. She had photos of the girls all over, and a few of Bobbie’s paintings.
Bobbie also did calligraphy on handmade paper. When she was still living in Southern California, she’d done a piece of calligraphy for Sandy’s birthday that read, “A friend is never known till a man have need.” The quote by John Heywood, who lived in the sixteenth century, was on handmade paper with tiny leaves in it, and set in a filigree frame.
Sandy valued the work for more than just its wonderful, esoteric quality, because Bobbie had done it while ill and struggling to get from day to day. She’d said she wanted Sandy to know how touched she’d been that Sandy had left the girls with her mother and flown to Southern California to sit with her for her first chemo session. Sandy always looked at it whenever she walked through the living room.
In her cream-and-yellow bedroom, she dropped the box in a corner, designating that space for the Clothes Closet things. Then she sat on the foot of her bed and let herself plop backward.
So much time had passed since she’d shared this room with anyone. She hadn’t forgotten what it felt like to love a man and be loved in return, but the process seemed to have forgotten her.
She wondered if something was wrong with her. Oh, everyone liked her, men were attracted to her, and she had the opportunity to meet many of them in her job at the law office and her work for the community. But she seldom had long-term relationships.
Her mother insisted that Sandy was too competent, but always smiled when she said that. “Thank goodness for your competence. Remember when your father left and I couldn’t pay the rent? The landlord was so mean to me, and you went and told him off, though I pleaded with you not to.”
She did remember. They were still living in Salem. She’d been mad and scared and had trembled inside, but she knew if they had to leave the apartment, the only place they could go was a shelter or the street. Her mother’s depression prevented her from explaining the situation to Mr. Fogarty, the landlord, so Sandy had taken charge. First, she told him how cruel it was for a man who had several businesses and an apartment house to evict a woman and her daughter who were destitute through no fault of their own. Then she told him she’d seen the Help Wanted sign in the window of his hardware store. She said if he’d give her the job, he wouldn’t have to pay her until she’d earned the amount of their rent. “I can work weekends and after school,” she’d told him.
He’d folded his arms and frowned at her. “You’re not old enough to work.”
“I’m fourteen.” She stood straighter to give herself more height. “I have a social security card and an Employment Certificate from the State of Oregon. I can start this weekend.”
And that was how she’d helped get their lives on track again. Her mother had been amazed and grateful.
Sandy remembered those days well and was happy they were behind them. She’d had a part-time job until she graduated from high school with a scholarship. The summer before she went away to school, Mr. Fogarty had given her a raise, full-time work, overtime opportunities and a bonus that provided her with spending money for school. Her mother had gotten a job scheduling appointments and doing the billing in a doctor’s office and had even saved a little to help Sandy on her way.
No, competence wasn’t the reason men didn’t want a permanent relationship with her; most men now realized women could do most things they could do, even those involving muscle. The smart ones appreciated that.
Maybe it was because Sandy had two lively, often loud little girls. Hunter had dealt well with them, whereas even she needed
