Page 26 of First Street
Eons ago, back when I was still in college, I wanted to be an engineer. But that lasted only three semesters before I switched to English. As it turned out, that unlikely combination would shape my career. I became a freelancer, writing articles for tech journals and translating complex research pieces on innovations into accessible, engaging and readable stories. I interviewed developers and startup entrepreneurs, always looking for the human angle behind emerging technologies. Working remotely meant I could be there for Ocean as she grew up.
Because of my line of work, I’d already looked into the steps I needed to take, now that Clare was gone. I knew I had to locate the important documents. Checkbook, credit cards, insurance papers, Social Security information.
I went right for the file cabinet in the front room that sat beside my mother’s desk. It was half-hidden now behind a stack of mismatched furniture. I knew it would have everything from my childhood immunization records and middle school art masterpieces to the ledger books she used while running the antique shop.
The disarray was so unlike Clare. She was always meticulous about how she kept that business space. There was barely enough room for me to pull out the battered old desk chair she’d used since I was a kid. And I still had to move a few things around to gain access to the cabinet.
Jo had not made an appearance so far today, and Ocean was still asleep. I’d been doing my best to shift the furniture around as quietly as possible.
A sharp knock at the front door broke the silence, and I froze. I hustled over to a front window and peeked out.
An ancient pickup truck was parked crookedly in the driveway behind Clare’s station wagon. Bernie Doyle. It was the same truck he’d been driving since I was in grade school.
When I opened the door, Bernie seemed to be studying the overgrown weeds in the yard. A lit cigarette hung from the corner of a hard mouth. Average height, wiry build, completely bald except for a few stubborn wisps that refused to give up. A retired fireman. And for as long as I could remember, he always sported a Band-Aid on his forehead from run-ins with doors, ladders, or life itself. He had one there today too.
Bernie was Clare’s go-to guy. Handyman, moving guy, errand-runner, and occasional partner in gossip. If there was something she couldn’t do and needed done, he was the person for the job. When he showed up, usually unannounced, he always smelled of cigarettes and WD-40.
He dropped his current butt and crushed it under his boot when he saw me.
“How ya holding up, kid?” he growled with a voice like gravel.
“Okay,” I said softly, opening the door wide and motioning for him to come in. “Want some coffee?”
“Yeah. Why not,” he grumbled. “I’m already jittery enough to climb a ladder and never touch a rung. Doctor keeps nagging me to cut back, but at this point, coffee’s the only thing keeping me civil. Pour me a cup.”
“Did your doctor say anything about quitting smoking?”
Bernie closed the door behind him and followed me into the kitchen.
“Yeah,” he said. “Told me to quit a dozen times. I told him I’ll think about it right after I stop breathing.”
I hid my smile, remembering all the stories Clare used to tell me about riding Bernie to quit. She didn’t want him kicking the bucket on her watch.
And now, she was gone.
“A dash of milk and two sugars?”
“Good memory.” He took the cup from my hand, pulled out a chair, and sat down.
Every time I saw someone who knew my mother, grief surged up, threatening to choke me. I just hadn’t fully grasped the fact that I’d lost her. Not yet. Historically, the women in her family lived well into their nineties, and Clare still had so much life left in her.
I sat down across from him.
“She should still be sitting right here,” he said.
“That’s true. Her story wasn’t close to finished yet.”
“Nope. She still had too many chores to do.”
“Talk about chores.” I pointed toward the front of the house. “What the heck’s going on here? All this extra furniture. The barn’s packed too. What’d she do, buy someone else’s business?”
He raised an eyebrow and shook his head. “Nope, just some stuff from a big house over on Fourth Street. I told her it was crazy. She had no room for that much furniture. Took us two trips to get it all here. Clare just said, ‘Drop it wherever you can find room.’ Me and my crew were supposed to come back the next day to either move things around or haul what she didn’t want to the dump.”
“You saw her the morning before she died.”
“Sure did.” He took a gulp of his coffee. His face grew sad, and he stared into his mug. “Next morning, I had a job early, and by the time me and my boys got here, the ambulance was in front. The EMTs were already in the barn. Arthur and I just stood in the driveway while they took her out.”
A sharp ache pulsed behind my eyes as I rubbed at the tension headache gnawing at me. The thought of her on a gurney, being handled by strangers. It was too much to bear. Bernie must’ve seen it in my face, because he reached over and laid his leathery palm gently on my hand.
