The Book Club. Mary Monroe Alice
“hot” property.
Back in the 1970s when Midge returned home after college and a failed marriage in Boston, the transient area fit her needs. She was searching for large, open space in which to paint that was affordable, architecturally beautiful and reasonably safe. This was usually synonymous with antichic—and that suited Midge fine. She was never one to worry about fashion. In fact, she made a point of living against the grain. She’d purchased a large loft in one of the area’s first conversions, long before the current wave of lofts hit the country, and liked it so much that she bought the whole building for a good price during a period when the owner thought the area was going downhill.
Over the course of time she’d watched the area spiral from a solid blue-collar neighborhood to an increasingly crime-ridden one, then later find rebirth under the loving care of a gay community. Gradually the neighborhood evolved into the charming blend of solid ethnic families, gay couples and artists that it currently was. In the process, she’d watched her investment go up, down, and back up again like an economic roller coaster, all because people were afraid their houses were worth less if minorities moved in. When people congratulated her on her investment, Midge always snorted and replied, “Hey, it pays not to be prejudiced. Why not try it sometime?”
Still, prejudice was an everyday fact of life for Midge. As an art therapist, she worked with young children and teenagers who were seething in anger against poverty and prejudice. She saw that anger as a powder keg waiting to explode. What made her job—her life—hard was that, when her work was done and she came home drained, there was no one to wrap arms around her and hold her, to tell her that she was loved and secure.
Midge well understood loneliness, and her heart broke for her friend, Eve, knowing what was in store for her. The transition from married to unmarried, from beloved to forsaken, was long and bitter. In time, a strong individual adapted and prospered, like any solid building. But, as any building needed loving tenants and a cohesive community to avoid crumbling, so Eve would need the love and support of her friends.
At least Eve had her family, Midge thought as she approached her building and pulled out a large metal ring of keys. The broad-based, redbrick building covered half a city block and housed several small studios and shops at street level. The top two floors had been converted into lofts, many rented by the shop owners. In the rear she’d created an enormous garden from what was once an old rubbish heap. Today, vegetables, flowers, a gazebo, chimes and birdbaths flourished in the haven for all to share. She was proud of the way she maintained this building and the relationships she’d forged with her tenants. They were her family.
Yet, they were not family. A realist, she didn’t kid herself about that fact. As she made her way up the dark flight of stairs to her own door, the sound of her heels on the wood stairs echoed with a hollow loneliness. Yes, she knew this journey so well. She stood at the threshold of her loft, her arms hanging dejectedly at her sides, not ready to step inside and face her isolation.
It was an airy space, bold and modern, even masculine in the rugged disregard for feminine comfort or style. Much like herself. Usually she felt a tremendous release of pressure when she shut the door behind her. She’d throw her coat and purse over a chair and sigh with relief upon entering her own space. She might grab some cheese and crackers or a bowl of cereal—she never much cared what she ate—then head straight for a book or her paints.
Sometimes, however, the loneliness hit hard and unexpectedly. At times like these, there was a silence so intense she could hear herself breathe and she felt closed in, buried alive. Today, something about the funeral stirred the depths of a melancholy she strove to keep at bay. Was it witnessing the demise of a family? Or was it seeing the endurance of family ties even under the worst of adversity? The image of Eve clutching the hands of her children stayed with her. So beautiful…and for her, now so unattainable.
Midge closed the door behind her, mentally closing the door to those depressing thoughts. Tom Porter was her age when he died. At fifty, it was unlikely that she’d find that kind of security and joy in a marriage or with children. She had to face the fact that when she was depressed or frightened, she’d have to dig deep and find her own security. When she wanted to watch a movie in bed on a cold night, she’d better get a cat for company. When she woke up alone on Christmas morning, well…Midge paused and took a deep breath. Well, she told herself with a stern voice, she’d just have to look around and see all that she had to be thankful for. She had a career, her art, good friends. This was her life; she’d made choices and now she must live them out.
She moved quickly to do something, anything, to divert the melancholy. Stretching out her arm, she punched the button on her answering machine and waited while the tape whirred. The nasal voice pierced the silence.
You have no messages.
Gabriella stepped into her modest, brick home in north Oakley and walked straight to her bedroom, not saying a word. She closed the door and quickly stripped off the confining navy linen dress and the sweaty, dark nylons, sighing mightily when her skin breathed openly again. She hated to wear constrictive clothing; it felt as though she were wrapped in a vise. But today especially, standing in the stifling, thick humidity of the crowded church, holding back her tears and agonizing for her friend, Eve, and those poor, fatherless, bebés… It was all she could do not to weep out loud, like that crazy redhead. After the mass she soundly kissed her husband and each one of her four children and made them promise never, ever, to die before her.
She pulled back her long, thick black hair with a clasp, then sat in the cool porcelain of her tub. As she sponged down her round, softening body, her pent-up sadness trickled down into the drain with the rivulets of cool water. No, she sighed, closing her eyes as a worried frown creased her brow, she didn’t need any bad thoughts to hover over her. She didn’t want any of the sadness of the funeral to infiltrate her home. She wasn’t superstitious…but things were going too good lately. Just too, too good.
Oh God, why did she even have the thought? It tempted fate to think of one’s good fortune. Whenever things went too well, something always happened to clobber her. Gabriella abruptly turned off the water, wrapped herself in a soft cotton towel and quickly dressed in a flowing, bright-yellow sundress.
“Mami, I’m hungry.” Her youngest was still dressed in his summer best, leaning against the kitchen counter watching television and nibbling Gummi Bears.
“First you change your clothes, eh? And hang them up, too,” she said, rubbing his hair as he ducked away. “I’ll make lunch. Go on now, put down that candy and no more TV.”
Gabriella began pulling out the pots and pans to prepare a quick lunch for her family. Weekends were always hectic, but she loved being at the center of it all. The mother was the heart of the family, no? Her eldest two boys had soccer games at the high school and she never let them leave without a substantial meal in their bellies. Her sixteen-year-old daughter, however, was always dieting and it was a constant battle to get her to eat anything. What to make, she wondered, rummaging through the stuffed refrigerator. She turned to look over her shoulder when she heard her husband’s step.
Fernando was a bear of a man, broad with dark hair all over his body and a soft rounded belly that protruded over his belt. He often scratched or patted it when he was lost in thought. He was scratching his belly now, Gabriella noticed as she followed his path into the kitchen, and her brow knitted when she caught sight of the pensive expression on his face. They’d been married for twenty-five years and she could pick up signs of a quake better than any Richter scale. And right now, her alarms were going off.
“Are you okay?” she asked him as he stepped beside her to grab a beer from the fridge. “Did the funeral get you down or something?”
Fernando flipped off the cap and took a long swallow. “Yeah, I guess so,” he replied in a distracted manner. “Tom Porter was about my age, you know.”
“Your heart is fine,” she replied too quickly, dismissing the notion. Gabriella was a nurse and knew well that heart attacks struck men of Fernando’s age with little warning. Her eyes narrowed as she studied his face, and when she saw the pallor there, blood rushed to her own. “You just saw the doctor for your physical. Your