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Building Bridges, The 2008 San Francisco Writers Conference Anthology

I’m standing here with the refrigerator door open wide, staring at the shelves like I’m going to find something edible for dinner. My gut is running on empty, and I already know there’s not a chance in hell I’m going to find anything in this refrigerator to eat. I’m feasting my eyes on a carton of cottage cheese that died days ago, a milk carton with barely enough milk to cover my Grape Nuts in the morning, a head of brown lettuce, and a jar of olives, stuffed with pimento.

Bingo. I’ll make myself a martini on the rocks and add three olives on a toothpick. I think I saw some toothpicks in the drawer, right next to the cocktail napkins. Grabbing the olive jar, I avoid glancing down at the bottom shelf, the one above the hydrator, where the three-week old casserole sits. I know that, underneath the foil covering, the casserole has to be moldy enough to trigger instant botulism. After shutting the refrigerator door, I head to the bar with the jar of olives.

If I had any sense, I’d have stopped at Smith’s grocery store on my way home from golf at Deer Creek and picked up some ready-made food. They always have some prepared entrees by the deli counter in the back, like the tasty veggie lasagna I picked up last week. But, I didn’t stop. I just kept on going down the cart path stewing about how crappy I played golf today.

I shot a damn 92, and my partner, Harry, a new sub in our group, drove me bonkers for eighteen holes. The tall, white-haired Harry was nice enough and interesting, too. He has traveled the world. We had some good conversations, but the guy never had a clue where he hit his ball. I had enough trouble keeping track of my own balls, but today, I had double duty. Several times, Harry walked up to my ball on the green, thinking it was his. Maybe I should have let him putt it. I three-putted more greens than I care to think about.

I’ve got my martini made now, and it looks perfect. Too bad I can’t play golf as well as I make drinks. I’m going to sit down in my chair now, put my feet up on the ottoman and relax. Most evenings, I read several financial newsletters to which I subscribe on the internet — my favorite is Richard Russell. After that I like to sit here in the living room with a drink and catch up on the day’s events. Some nights I get in the hot tub before my shower, but not tonight. Tonight I played poker online for awhile. And it’s a good thing I’m not in Las Vegas, because I’d be losing a bundle.

I like to sit here, look out the window and watch the boats coming in and going out of Delegal Creek. I think that’s Joe Dobbs coming in right now. He gives a grand tour of the waterways around this island, passing out interesting information about the local wildlife. When the grandkids visited, we took his tour, and I was impressed with his knowledge. We saw plenty of wild boars on Green Island — some of them weigh over five-hundred pounds. And, Joe pointed out all kinds of birds: green heron, osprey, egrets, pelicans, and, way up in some tall trees, he showed us this massive eagle’s nest. And then, the real highlight — the dolphins. Those dolphins follow Joe’s boat like puppies trailing their mother. The grandkids squealed with delight when the dolphins cavorted right next to the boat.

I had the news on for awhile tonight, but I just turned it off. I’ve heard as much mumbo jumbo as I can stomach about the latest hurricane brewing in the Caribbean. Looking out my tall living room window, I watch a bunch of egrets fly in formation overhead on their way to their roost on the lagoon down the road.

After making a second drink, I start thinking about that blasted casserole in the refrigerator. I’ve got to get rid of it. It came from Hope, an attractive blue-eyed brunette neighbor who lives around the corner. I’ll never forget the day about three weeks ago, when she came cruising up the driveway in her silver Porsche convertible. I was on a ladder pruning the lavender crape myrtle on the right side of the house, toward the front. She pulled up right next to me.

“Hello, Drew. I’m Hope Grayson, from around the corner,” she said, smiling. She had a rather pleasant smile and nice white teeth. Hope picked up a rectangular glass dish from the passenger seat. “My late husband, Frank, used to love this casserole. It’s made with tuna, broccoli, noodles, and cheese.”

Stepping out of the car, she held the casserole out and lifted the foil up on the corner. “Those are French fried onion rings on the top. It’s fresh from the oven. I just baked it today, and then I thought, what in blazes am I doing? There’s no Frank around to eat this. That’s when I thought of you.”

“Thank you,” I said, not knowing what else to say. I didn’t know her, but she seemed to know plenty about me. I figure that on this island I’m probably known as the guy down at the end of Marina Drive whose wife died.

Hope stood in front of me wearing red pants and a navy and white striped top, looking like a poster girl for the Fourth of July. Still clutching the casserole, she made small talk. She sure didn’t know everything about me, I decided as I climbed down the ladder. For instance, I hate tuna casserole with a passion and vetoed broccoli years ago. I stood there with sweat dripping off of me. I closed my eyes and stared at the ground, wishing I could make some magic genie appear and get this woman to vanish.

“I’d better come inside and give you some cooking instructions. I forgot to write them down,” Hope said. She started walking toward the house. I followed, not knowing what the hell else to do. After I opened the front door, she walked inside, uninvited and charged up the inside stairs and into my kitchen. She placed the casserole on the dark green granite counter top next to the sink. When she asked for it, I gave her a pen and notepad. She wrote down the baking instructions for the casserole and put the note on top of her dish.

“Oh, my God, just look at this gorgeous view you have,” Hope said, as she gazed out the big window in the living room. “It’s fantastic. You can see everything — the marsh, the water, the boats, and the golf course. What island is that over there in the distance?”

“It’s Ossabaw.” I explained a little bit about the island.

“I’ve seen your house from over there — on the number ten green on the Plantation course.” She pointed across to the left, across the marsh. “You have quite the grand panorama. Oh, I could look at this view for hours.”

Oh, I don’t think so, I thought to myself. I wiped my dripping forehead with my handkerchief, then picked up the casserole and set it on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator.

“Drew, I love the open feeling in your house, the way the rooms just flow right into one another.”

“Thanks,” I said. “We used an architect from downtown, and his design turned out ten times better than we expected.”

“May I go out here,” Hope asked, peeking out onto the screened porch.

“Sure, go ahead,” I said. She opened the door and sat down on one of the wrought iron porch chairs. I followed her out onto the porch. “I’m sorry about your wife, Drew,” Hope said. “I heard you lost her, not long after you moved here. It’s so sad. I know how you feel.”

I hate it. I really hate it when people tell me they know how I feel. No one knows how I feel. This woman certainly didn’t know how I felt. For one thing, I didn’t feel like having company. I felt like finishing my pruning job out front. Lying, I told her that I had to meet some friends downtown at the cigar bar and needed to finish up outside, so I could get ready.

“Oh, I’m sorry to keep you. I’ll go,” she said. “You’ve got a great place here. I love the way you’ve used the natural marsh colors in your fabrics — gold, green, blue, and that oh so subtle wine color. It’s has a real comfortable feel to it.”

“I appreciate your kind comments,” I said. I hid a big grin as I walked her down the stairs and to her car.

“I’m so glad I got the chance to meet you,” she said. Reaching into her purse, Hope pulled out a business card and handed it to me. “Call me sometime.” She paused, looked me right in the eye and said, “Perhaps, we could go to a movie or out to dinner, or you could come over to my house for dinner.”

I took the card and waved goodbye, shaken by her boldness. Hope was attractive, but her take charge attitude scared the hell out of me. I’ve had a couple of dates since Miranda died nine months ago. The guys in my Wednesday golf group, and other people, too, kept harping at me to take out some of the island widows, insisting that I’d have something in common with them. I tried, and it didn’t work out — not at all. Both women I dated ended up in tears at the dinner table. One mention of their departed spouse, and they came unglued. It unnerved me. I’ve had enough trouble dealing with my own loss. I sure didn’t need to wallow in an evening of sadness with someone else.

After I cleaned up outside, I went in the house and threw Hope’s card into the trash. She didn’t look like the weepy type, but neither did the others. I got into the shower thinking about Miranda.

The whole truth is that I’m not doing all that well with Miranda gone. I think about her all the time. We were married for forty-five years, and I can’t believe she’s gone. Damn her anyhow. If she was home tonight, we’d be planning to have our dinner out on the porch. I miss our quiet evenings drinking wine, eating dinner, talking about the weather, politics, the books we were reading, and people we’d encountered during the day. Miranda and I always had lots of laughs together. She had this wonderful dry sense of humor and told great stories.

Miranda and I spent two years building our retirement home. We lived in it less than a year, and then she did a number on me. She told me to never, ever go along when she went grocery shopping, but I did just this once. And she had to go and have a stroke in the cereal aisle.

I was upset, of course, but embarrassed and scared, too. I can still picture her lying in the aisle right below the oatmeal and instant cheese grits shelf with me kneeling beside her. Her face went white with pain. People stared down at her and asked  questions. “Call 911. Someone please call 911,” I said, still holding onto the corrugated box I had turned over, so I could see who had manufactured it. I worked in the corrugated business, so I check the boxes out of habit.

Then, I heard the loud sirens. Two paramedics rushed inside the store and checked Miranda’s vital signs. The look on their faces told me it was bad. When they lifted her onto a stretcher, she looked so helpless. I touched her hand, told her I’d follow right behind. They carried her out the automatic door in front of the checkout area. At the hospital, they put her right into a cardiac unit, hooked her up to an IV. Doctors and nurses flew in and out the door. A nurse did an EKG.

“It doesn’t look good,” the doctor said. I gave him the name of my own cardiologist. But, it was too late. She had suffered a massive heart attack.

“Drew, I will always love you,” she said in a weak whisper, holding onto my hand. I told her I loved her, and then, typical of Miranda, she said. “Don’t forget to clean your hairbrush.” And, then she took her last breath.

The phone rang, breaking my train of thought. It was my next door neighbor, Pat, wanting to know if I wanted to go to the marina for the Wednesday night shrimp dinner. She and Barry were meeting another couple, and they wanted me to join them.

“I’d love to,” I said. “You’ve saved me from starvation.” My mouth watered as I walked next door to the dock on a beautiful summer evening, envisioning a plate filled with fresh shrimp. Usually, I don’t like tagging along with other couples,

Pat and Barry introduced me to their friends, Nancy and Jim. “You doin’ okay?” Pat asked. She was a good neighbor, the kind who had enough sense to leave a guy alone and also on occasion to invite me over for dinner.

We ordered our shrimp then discussed the pros and cons of living on Skidaway Island. We talked about all of the places we’d lived before we moved to The Landings community and the towns where we’d grown up. I told them about my new volunteer job working with hospice patients. Jim described his afternoon tutoring math students at Bethesda Boys Home. Pat relayed a funny story about the time she and Miranda got lost coming home from playing golf. “We ended up on Palmetto course number thirteen, the short par three, so we decided to take the side streets back to the clubhouse. We kept making the wrong turns and got lost. Neither of us had any idea where we were. It was getting dark out by the time we finally got back to Miranda’s car in the parking lot. By then we were both doubled over with laughter. We chuckled at Pat’s story. I could picture Miranda’s happy face.

As we sat peeling and eating shrimp sprinkled with Old Bay seasoning, we said hello to several people who passed by. I’d cleared off my plate, washed my shrimpy hands in the men’s’ room, and sat back down to finish my beer, when I heard a familiar voice.

“Drew hello.” It was Hope, the casserole lady. “It’s great to see you.” She was with two other women, and all three of them carried a plate of shrimp. “This shrimp looks delicious, doesn’t it?” Hope said.

“It’s quite good,” I said. She introduced me to her friends, and I introduced her to the two couples at my table. Hope wore an attractive black sundress and gold hoop earrings. She said something about seeing us later.

“Hmm, she seems interested in you,” Pat said.

I told them the casserole tale and how it still sat in my refrigerator, and everyone laughed. “I’m sure she’s nice enough,” I said, “and she’s nice looking, too. But, I haven’t had much luck in the dating arena. Besides, Miranda always said if she died first, she’d watch me like a hawk.” They laughed. We sat in silence, watching the sunset go down behind Delegal creek.

“Drew, I hate to mention this. I don’t think you noticed, but Hope was still in the area when you were telling us about the casserole. I think she may have heard you making fun of her.”

I tried not to think about that possibility. It made me feel like a jerk.

Instead, I thought of the night, not long before she died, when Miranda said, “Let’s don’t take ever take each other for granted. If one of us should die, let’s promise to go on with our lives as a tribute to one another.” Then , she added, “just remember that I’m a damn good catch, even after over forty years of marriage. I have a good sense of humor, I’m not fat, and I love sex,” she whispered as she nibbled on my ear.

“What are you laughing about, Drew? Pat said.

“Oh, just a fun memory,” I said. While the others visited, I thought about Miranda who, as usual, was right on target. I needed to heed her advice. It was high time I stopped being a stuff shirt and have some fun.

Moments later, when the tiny “no-see-em” bugs started to bite, we decided to call it an evening. Hope walked past with her friends just as we were getting up from the table.

“Oh Drew, do you mind if I stop by your house and pick up my casserole dish?” she said. “I can just take it on home with me.”

“Uh, well… no, that’s not a good idea. Not tonight, I mean, uh … the truth is I was going to bring it to you tomorrow night. Is that okay?”

“Sure,” Hope said, with a twinkle in her eye. “That would be great.”

“Don’t say a word,” I said, walking home with my neighbors.