Page 34 of Upstate

“Okay, David, I’ll marry you,” I said to the misinformed cheers of those who heard my answer.

At our subsequent ceremony at city hall, David vowed his love was true, that the life we had was the one he’d always dreamed of, that he was excited for us to walk into the future as one. I clutched my bouquet of shamrocks and parroted back his words, quieting the alarm bells ringing in my head by telling myself this amazing man was mainly marrying me because his visa was about to expire. I put on a brave face that day, but it only took a handful of years for my worst fears to come true.

My vision returns as memories dissolve, the shelves of the bookshop replacing city hall. I may have entered into marriage as casually as a queen bee, but Sandra’s wrong about me. I didn’t leave that crowded island because I was ready for a fresh start. I was driven from the city, a colony collapsed, blighted by a mindless virus that robbed me of the one person in all the world who felt like family. A true spouse would have gone to that final gig, would have reveled in her husband’s music one last time, would have rescued his wedding ring before they wheeled him away. But if I had gone with him, would the virus have killed me, too? Maybe. Maybe not. Covid is capricious, putting some in graves while giving others a sniffle. I know what the disease has done to me: banish me to a barn full of musty books, in an out-of-the-way upstate village, all on my own.

I wipe my eyes, blow my nose, put The ABC and XYZ of Bee Culture back on the shelf. After all, I’m trying to rid myself of bees, not keep them. I give the oak a wide berth as I cross the lawn to the house. Overhead, there’s a lone white cloud in the purpling sky. Perhaps David’s vapor is part of it, following me like a loving thought.

I find no comfort in the idea. I don’t want my husband’s ethereal thoughts. I want his living arms around me, tight.

Chapter 17

March 17, 2015

Schuywich, New York

My darling Evelyn,

I saw Lulu at the Price Chopper today. She asked about you, of course. I said you were doing well—which you are, still, most of the time, no matter what Dr. Singh says about “disease progression” and “cognitive decline.” Running into Lulu got me thinking about when we took in Marcus’s sheep. You thought you knew the whole story when you wrote about becoming a shepherdess, but there’s something I never had the courage to tell you before.

We were sitting at the dining room table after supper, talking over plans for fixing up the kitchen now that the bathroom was done and the house newly painted. That was in 1960, wasn’t it? I was twenty-five then, you were thirty-one, both of us strong limbed and brimming with ambition. I was looking at pictures of walk-in pantries in a magazine. You were browsing a catalog of propane stoves. Suddenly, you declared, “It’s too damn quiet in here. We need some music.”

“Should I turn on the radio?” I asked.

“I’ve got a better idea.” You slid that Miles Davis album you’d picked up on your last trip to the city from its sleeve, set it on the turntable, and dropped the needle. Pulling me up from my chair, you said, “Dance with me, Hazel.”

“I don’t know how to dance to this, Evelyn.”

“Just groove with the music, baby, like this.”

I cracked up as you moved your arms and legs herky-jerky to the tune’s improvisational beats. I joined in, both of us throwing our bodies around with the intoxicating abandon of unwatched women. I knew the moment was magical even then. When the phone rang, I resented it for breaking the spell. I danced my way over to the wall to answer it.

“Hello, Hazel? It’s Lucinda.”

“Lulu, hello!” I waved at you to turn down the volume. You did, then pointed upstairs, a signal you were going to your study to do some writing until I got off the phone. We’ll dance like that again another night, I thought as I dragged over a chair and settled in for a chat. As I think about it now, though, I realize we never did.

“I hope you don’t mind that your mother gave me this number,” Lulu said. “I know we haven’t talked much since I moved up to Lake Placid.”

“Don’t be silly, I’m happy to hear from you. How’s married life?”

“Marcus and I are fine. In fact, we’re moving back to Schuywich. I don’t know if you heard my father had a heart attack?”

“Mother did mention it,” I said. “I should have called, I’m sorry.”

“Well, it’s all good now. We’re grateful to God every day that he survived, but the doctor says he mustn’t work as hard as he used to, so we’ll be taking over the shop. Dad will teach Marcus how to repair the cars, and I’ll do the bookkeeping.”

“Your mother will be glad to have you close again,” I said, remembering the after-school hours I spent at Lulu’s kitchen table, Mrs. Logan bringing us cold milk and warm banana bread while we did our homework.

“Close is right.” Lulu laughed a little. “Actually, we’re moving in with my parents, for now, at least. I’m expecting a baby come summer, and I’ll sure be glad for Mama’s help.”

“Oh, congratulations, Lulu!”

“Yes, well, that’s been the silver lining to a dark cloud.” She sighed. “The other reason we’re moving back is because Marcus lost his farm.”

Lucinda told me about the old loan that had come due and the new one Marcus couldn’t get. It was a shame, she said, to leave a place that had been in his family for over a century, but it had always been hard to make a living off the land up in the Adirondacks. The only thing that ever flourished on the Greens’ family farm, she said, was sheep. Back in the day, their flock of Merinos numbered close to a hundred. Now they’d dwindled to just a dozen ewes and a handful of lambs.

“In fact, that’s why I’m calling.” Lucinda cleared her throat. “Here’s the thing, Hazel. Mama was telling me you’re renting a room from the woman who bought the farmhouse up on Ridgetop Road. I remember us swimming in that pond when we were kids, and it occurred to me there’s that great big barn, and, well, I wondered how your landlady might feel about taking in the last of Marcus’s sheep?”

Acquiring livestock was not among any of the plans we were making back then. Our only domesticated animal was Maxine, a haughty barn cat who’d strolled into the kitchen one day and never left. We’d been so focused on fixing up the house, we hadn’t spared a thought for the barn.