Part 4 (1/2)

”I see,” said George. ”A previous engagement”

”I guess so,” I said.

”Too bad,” said George. ”She's missing the roses. Maybe next time.”

”Maybe,” I said. ”But probably not She does things with this other friend practically all the time now. So I-” I stopped.

”I-” I tried again. ”I'm-” The tears were right there, ready to pour out if I said another word.

”You're all alone in the universe?” George suggested helpfully.

His voice was gentle and kind, and when I looked at him, his face was solemn. So the only way I can explain what happened next, which is that we both burst out laughing, is that sometimes laughing and crying are almost the same thing. They're not all that far apart sometimes. I was laughing and crying both, and then I started to hiccup, too.

As I was trying to catch my breath, I said, ”I came here to cry in the roses.”

”Looks like you got what you came for,” said George. ”One way or t'other.”

”What's everyone laughing about?” asked Mrs. Martha Brown, who was back with a tray full of napkins, sparkling silver, frosted gla.s.ses of iced tea, and delicate china.

”Debbie is alone in the universe,” said George.

Mrs. Brown smiled. ”That always makes me laugh, too,” she said. She set the tray on a low wall nearby and gracefully moved its contents onto the shady gla.s.s tabletop. After sitting down, she sprinkled powdered sugar over her blueberries, then poured thick cream on top. She put a spoonful in her mouth. She closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head slowly.

”Magnificent,” she p.r.o.nounced. ”The most magnificent blueberries I have ever tasted. Tell me what you think.”

She sat waiting for us to try them. The mountains of blueberries waited, too, dusky, round, and bluish purple in the porcelain bowls. Why did they look so odd? Then I knew.

”Are these raw?” I asked.

Mrs. Brown lowered her spoon. ”Fresh,” she corrected me. She looked at me curiously and said, ”Don't tell me you've never had fresh blueberries.”

”I don't think I have,” I said. ”Only in pie. And pancakes.”

”You don't say,” she said in wonderment. ”Well, here.” She reached over and sprinkled my blueberries with the sugar and poured the cream over them. ”Try that,” she said.

”I don't think I've ever had real cream before either,” I said.

She looked over at George and said, ”This country really is falling to pieces, isn't it?”

”In a handbasket,” he said.

”I've had iced tea,” I said.

Mrs. Brown chuckled. ”All is not lost then,” she said.

I tried a spoonful of the raw fruit and milk. It seemed like a weird idea, but it would have been bad manners to refuse.

The taste was incredible. I closed my eyes for a moment. I shook my head slowly and said, ”Magnificent.” I wasn't trying to copy Mrs. Brown; it was just all there was to say. Suddenly I wondered if the huge bowl of berries would be enough. Then I wondered if everything rich people had was better than what regular people had.

”Are blueberries expensive?” I asked.

”A little,” answered Mrs. Brown. ”But I think an occasional bowl of blueberries is within the reach of most people. A small compensation for being alone in the universe. Which, by the way, you aren't, you know.”

”I know,” I said.

”I'm here,” said George. ”At least I think I am. Though sometimes it's open to question.”

Mrs. Brown's smile held traces of pink lipstick. There was a sort of light blond peach fuzz on her tanned face, and her blue eyes were calm and thoughtful when she turned them my way.

”But tell me, Debbie,” she said, ”what is it that's making you feel so lonely today? Can you tell us?”

I hesitated. What was I even doing here? I didn't know these people. But I hadn't been able to talk about it with anyone I did know. A few yards away a squirrel had found a piece of frayed rope. He had dragged it in his teeth to the trunk of a tree, and now he was trying to climb up with it. We all watched him while I tried to think how to answer. There were some things I didn't want to say out loud because if I did, it might mean they were true.

The squirrel kept dropping the rope. Each time he scurried down and tried again. Some time had pa.s.sed now, and I thought I should say something. My throat hurt, and I felt I had to say it fast.

So I told them about how the person who had been my best friend since the third grade was spending all her time with this other person now. I might have said some unkind words about the other person.

”I can't believe it,” I said. ”I'm just left by myself, like we were never friends, like I don't even exist.” I didn't understand, I said, how someone could just forget about a person.

It was more than I meant to say.

The rope fell to the ground again.

”George, help that poor squirrel, will you?” said Mrs. Brown.

George lifted the rope and draped it over the branch. The squirrel fled, then cautiously returned and scrambled up the tree. I wondered if they had even heard me. I was wondering why I had bared my soul to total strangers when Mrs. Brown nodded her head thoughtfully.

”I had a husband who did the same thing” she said to me. ”I got a house out of the deal,” she added, nodding in the direction of the house, ”but all in all, I would have preferred the husband. It's very painful, isn't it?”

I nodded. George was nodding, too. We were like a field of tulips in a breeze.

”And hard to let go,” she went on. ”There's no getting around that. But you must remember, even if you never understand what happened, what went wrong that you will have friends.h.i.+p again, good friends.h.i.+p. Because you are a person capable of friends.h.i.+p. And sooner or later there will be someone who deserves you.”

”There's n.o.body like Maureen,” I said.

”No, of course not,” she replied. ”Apples and oranges. In the meantime, we can eat these nice berries and enjoy one another's company. Wouldn't you say so, George?”

”By all means,” said George. ”With a few moments set aside here and there for earning a living. Which I had better get back to directly before the weeds grow right over us.”

”Yes,” said Mrs. Brown. ”I have some things to do, too. But make sure Debbie sees the lower garden. Especially the path to the river. That's my favorite.”

To me, she said, ”It was lovely to meet you, dear. Please come back”

And off she whisked again, down the red brick path. Like a fairy G.o.dmother. Mine maybe.

It was late in August, when we were tired of watching reruns, that my dad and I tuned in a dance performance on Channel 13. Mom and Chrisanne would have flipped right past, but Dad and I like to watch cultural programs now and then. We had a TV tray with chip dip and pop.