A Change of Scenery

 

 

                                       A Change of Scenery                                        by leland choy

 A  

     Beth slipped her forefinger on the edge of the laced curtain and gently pushed it aside. Her small action revealed a backyard covered with crisp, bluish snow.  It was near twilight.  Noting how beautiful the yard was in the fading light, she took in a deep breath and sighed.  Last winter, she had pruned the roses to match the height of the hedges.  It formed a pathway to the introduction of the front door, even when blanketed in snow. Out of a hard-baked, scrubby yard she had created a garden that could have appeared on the cover of any floral magazine.  Well, she liked to believe it could. 

 

      She had planned to stay until spring and plant some cherry tomatoes next to the roses.  Someone told her, she forgot whom, that the cherry tomato plants would keep the aphids away. She wanted to experiment to see if this was true.  There were so many things she would like to have done to the house and garden but she couldn't stay.  There was little bitterness; she was raised with the belief that one shouldn't have everything one wishes for.  Pining away would only be a sign of thwarted avarice and a weakness of character.

 

     Her 1947 two bedroom, one story bungalow was nestled deep in the suburbia forest of tract houses.  They were built nearly identical in its interior as well as exterior, twisting and turning with the topography of the land.  All painted in those light pastel colors that seemed to powder off and fade as time passed.  The sight reminded Beth of schools of fishes in the ocean, clustered together in the thousands, moving sharply in a fluid mass of reflected sheen, flashing in a zigzag motion, forever dodging dispassionate but hungry predators. There is safety in numbers. Yes, there is safety in large numbers.   

     The outer walls were made of stucco, and the windows were framed in aluminum. The craftsmanship wasn't very good . Being built right after the war, building supplies were still scarce.  Building codes were less stringent so studs were laid further apart, the doors squeaked and floors bounced slightly when walked upon. There were dark stains in the ceiling from unseasoned shingles. Each house had paving stones leading to ersatz oak, veneered doors.  Each had a brick chimney and a brick fireplace with a raised heath designed so one had to contort their bodies to an awkward position to enjoy the sight.  The floor plans were nearly identical, excepting for minor features added to suit individual buyers.  The rooms and closets were depressingly indistinguishable in size or shape from the other houses.  It was technically designed to make living as pleasant as possible, and at a price level insuring that only the professional, white, upper middle class, could afford them.

 

     The weather slowly turned blustery causing pin-size jets of cold air to sliver through the cracks and seams of the stucco house.  Harold never could install the door or window insulation properly.  She could hear the wind whistle and wheeze as she stood silently there by the window.

 

      Yes, the house was old. She was old. 

 

      The windows had formed an opaque sheen of condensation and she absent-mindedly slid the tip of her forefinger on the wet surface, doing it slowly, hearing it squeak, watching it leave a clear vertical trail through the damp opaqueness.  A drop of water slid slowly downward to the bottom of the pane.  Peering through the cleared strip, she spied a Blue Jay bracing itself against the gusty winds, hopping on the sheet of white frost covering the frozen flowerbeds, it’s beak tattooing the hard ground, frantically brushing aside the ice and rotten vegetation to reveal the life giving substance beneath.  A sow bug here, an earwig there. The scene was touching.  That bird will survive through the winter, she said to herself, just like I will. 

 

      She held her elbows against her chest and hugged tightly.  Harold was out there in the brittle, cold ground and it made her pensive and sad, but only for a moment.  How silly, she thought, he isn’t feeling any of it and he certainly isn’t bored anymore, no, not anymore. 

     The phone buzzed.  It jolted her from her contemplation. The living room was in disarray, cluttered with cardboard cartons of different sizes, packing crates filled with plastic foam pellets, stacked chairs and furniture pushed aside in awkward angles.  The telephone was hiding somewhere under the accumulated knickknacks scattered haphazardly over the floor: items to go, items to be left behind.  I have to vacuum the carpet before I go, she said.  She rummaged for the black telephone. It kept buzzing. 

      She wanted a white phone, If not  white then in any other color but black.  Harold, military as ever, insisted it be black.  “It’s a thing to be taken seriously.  It’s not a toy or a piece of decoration,” he would say, sternly.  “A black phone would be just fine and it is the least expensive and the most practical.”  A cell phone was out of the question.  “Hasn’t it gotten through your head that we live on a fixed income?  How many times must I repeat that fact?” and “What is wrong with having just a land line?” and “Who do we need to impress?” was Harold’s princely reply for any requests she might have had that involved the spending of money.

    The buzzing of the telephone persisted, slowly unraveling the thin fabric of her patience.  She moved deliberately, maneuvering with grace, around the cartons and packing crates, pushing one here, another there, carefully side stepping the larger ones, kicking the smaller ones, honing in on the shrill buzzing.

    

     “Hello?  Oh, it's you, Gladys.  What is it?  Why, thank you, I will miss you too.  No, no, I wish I could and you’re very kind in saying that, but c’est la vie.  One has to go where the husband’s job takes one. Yes, Harold is retired but you know how men are.  He couldn’t stand just sitting around doing nothing.  He never did develop any recreational hobbies while he was in the service.  All he did there was go to the base, come home, eat his dinner and watch TV.  Now, with a whole day and nothing to do, he mopes around the house looking lost.  And that does get on ones nerves: well, mine, at any rate.  I'm sorry we couldn't get together for a farewell bash. 

     “Gladys, Harold would have been a disaster at the party.  You know how unfriendly and curt he is to people, especially with the neighbors.  I don’t know why he was so standoffish.  Could it be because he was a full colonel, perhaps?  Having all that power  over human events and then losing it does affect one’s behavior, I guess.  You, of all people, should know.  What do I mean by that? Why, nothing.  I’m not suggesting anything, Gladys.  I’m just glad he had you as a friend to talk to.  I’m not much of a sympathetic listener, lost that art years ago.  I’m just saying how lucky Harold is to find a person he could talk to and be comfortable with.  I’m not suggesting anything.  Let’s change the subject, okay?

    “I’m just happy that he found the position he was looking for and was hired. I certainly wouldn’t have hired him.  No, he isn’t doing this because we're in need of money.  Financially, we’re in great shape but thanks for asking.  I’m sorry about yesterday but I couldn’t bring myself to meet everybody and say goodbye because it would just tear me apart.  Besides, Harold has already gone ahead, so somebody had to be here to answer the door for the moving people.  Oh, yes, he left last week.  Are you surprised? Should he have said something to you?  Oh, never mind, I’ll miss our weekly get-togethers too, and I’ll miss you, especially.  Give the rest of the girls my best and tell them not to gossip too much about me when I’m gone. 

     "Oh, Gladys, I was just teasing.  I know you didn’t say anything to the others, but if you’ve been married as many times as I have, you’d expect a little gossiping.  It doesn’t bother me; I’ve been through it so often. Yes, believe it or not, we’ve known each other for over two years.  I know, I know, it seems like a lifetime. Now, stop it, or I’m going to cry.  We’ll keep in touch, don’t you worry.  I’ll write as soon as we get settled, okay? I promise.  And we’ll visit…wouldn’t that be nice? All right, I have to go now; you take care of yourself, goodbye, bye.” And she press down on the disconnect button.

     She paused, looking down at the receiver as it lay there on the palm of her hand.  She thought to herself, she would never hear that voice again. The doorbell chimed. The movers were here.