The Long Road Home. Mary Monroe Alice
could find them. So she had pursued her art and antiques collections with a vengeance, earning for herself a reputation for a keen eye and a handy checkbook.
Nora ran her hand across the French high-gloss finish of a table. Her unpolished nails seemed so mortal against the ageless wood. These things, these precious things, she thought with sadness. Now they were her champions. It was up to them to bring in enough cash to pay back the debts and to keep her going. She had depended upon Mike for so long, and in the end, it would be her own abilities that could save her. How ironic life could be, she thought.
From one room to the next, Nora strolled through memories. In here, she thought, gazing at the Sheraton dining table, at this table she had presided over countless dinners. Seemingly effortless soirees that displayed Mike as the successful financier and herself as the stable dot beneath the exclamation point. Her husband used to smile his approval from across the long damask-covered table. His Irish blue eyes had sparkled beneath his heavy dark brows. He’d seemed so handsome then, so powerful, so hers. In recent years, she remembered with a pang, he had awarded his approving smile to the lovely lady he had selected to sit at his right.
In those Victorian chairs, she thought, entering the morning room, she and Mike would lean back and read the newspapers. In the early days of their marriage they’d blurt out comments and questions that always sparked remarks or laughter. Later, however, only she would persist, making comments that never brought a response.
Her heels clicked upon the polished parquet as she completed her rounds. The coordinating patterns of fabrics, the dominating pieces of art, the soft-hued paint and carpet, and the lemony smell of polish and soap enveloped her in their security. Each room was perfect.
Mike had hated them all. He hated every detail of the small, well-appointed apartment. He wanted a house as big and brawling as he was. Full of unruly children, a basketball hoop in the driveway, and a big hairy dog in the yard. He had expected a family in the suburbs—he had demanded an heir.
“If you spent as much time trying to have a baby as you did buying furniture,” he’d mutter, cutting her to the quick.
Nora paused, the pain as sharp now as it had been when spoken. So many mean comments, so many slurs. She shook her head, loosening pain’s hold. Oh yes, it was time to go.
Nora went directly to her bedroom to gather her suitcase. She had to get out of here. Let the movers fend for themselves. At the door to her bedroom, however, Nora froze. The trip through memories was not yet over. A farewell was due to this room as well. This room, where dreams had been dashed, battles waged, and a marriage lost. Her eyes roaming over the heavy four-poster, Nora wondered for the hundredth time how so much love could have engendered so much hate? Despite her resolve, old questions nagged. When had Mike begun to loathe the sight of her? To find her too repulsive to touch? In how many ways had she failed?
Mike was everywhere. He haunted every room in this place. Still mocking, relentlessly accusing her.
“Please, Mike,” she muttered. “Let me go.”
Nora heard the front door unlatch and after a hasty wipe at her eyes, she checked her watch. It was only 8:00 a.m. Could the movers be arriving so soon? She peeked out from behind the bedroom door. Down the hall she spied a stocky, robust figure impatiently jerking her arm from a too-long coat. With a sigh of relief, Nora flung wide the door.
“Trude, what are you doing here?” Nora walked swiftly down the long hall to take her maid’s hands. “Yesterday was your last day. I thought we said our good-byes.”
Trude puffed herself up. “I no could stand think of you, here in this place, by yourself.” She looked around then jerked her shoulders. “He still here, you know? Bad feeling. You go through too much.” She sniffed loudly. It had never been any secret how Trude felt about Mike. Trude stepped back and surveyed the coffee cup in Nora’s hand. “You have no breakfast, right?”
Nora smiled, knowing it was futile to argue. “I’ve been busy. I’ll catch something on the road.”
Trude took the coffee cup. “I know you. You forget. Look at you. All bones. I go make something.”
“No, really. I couldn’t eat. I’ve got too much on my mind.”
Trude shook her head and Nora read worry rather than irritation on the older woman’s face. In fact, Trude couldn’t be more than forty-five, but she was the type to mother, regardless of who or what age. Nora had been her special project for seven years.
The intercom buzzer rang.
“Oh boy, look out. Here they come now!” Trude called with hand raised. “I go get some coffee going.” Trude’s answer to all problems was a cup of coffee.
The apartment was soon crowded with men and women of all shapes, sizes, and nationalities. Nora could smell the different spices, as well as the common scent of fast food, in the close air of the apartment. There was no more time for sentiment. It was time to pack up and go.
The day sped by as she worked alongside the crew. Some of the men were efficient, others had to be hawked. Nora cataloged her furniture, checking it without emotion against the computer list. She watched, impressed, as the men slipped her heavy glass-front antiques into specially constructed, padded crates as easily as a hand fit into a glove. Trude backed her up, offering fluids and snacks and cleaning floors as soon as they were bared. Room after room was emptied, leaving emptiness behind.
“You wanna check this out?”
Nora bobbed her head up toward Mike’s breakfront desk where a mover was waving her over. “We were lifting this top piece off when this panel here broke open. We didn’t do nothin’.”
Nora stuck her pencil behind her ear and hurried over to the desk, disassembled now for the crate. One side panel, disguised as molding, had popped open to reveal a thin niche. Nora hid her shock. Mike had purchased this desk, and all these years she had never known this hiding place existed. She knelt beside the open panel and, turning her body, reached far in. The wood was raw, unfinished, and dusty. Something was in there, she realized with a sudden intake of breath. Grabbing hold, she eased out a burgundy leather notebook. She stared at the leather volume, worn in spots to a dull luster, and knew with every fiber in her body that this held secrets.
She looked over her shoulder at the two men huddled together, staring in curiosity. “Oh, my goodness. My diary! I forgot all about it.”
She tucked the notebook under her arm, then forced an airy laugh. “Thank God you found it. I’d hate to think of some stranger reading it!”
“Yeah. Bet it’s loaded with good stuff,” one of the men jeered. Nora cast him a wary glance, unsure if he was complimenting or insulting her. Without response she turned heel and immediately hurried to her bedroom and closed the door. The furniture had already been removed and the carpets rolled. Only her suitcase sat square in the middle of the floor, under a brass and crystal light fixture. Nora plopped down Indian-style beside the suitcase and looked long and hard at the notebook. Around her, she could feel Mike’s presence, hear his voice inside her head. “Open it. Read it.” She obeyed.
The notebook was filled with pages and pages of numbers; more a bank ledger than a diary. Notes were scattered here and there in Mike’s distinctive, heavy script. Leafing through the pages, a pattern of desperation emerged. Neat lines and columns filled the early pages. As the pages progressed through the months, the nature of the writing changed. Instead of neatness, quick notes were scribbled in an illegible hand. Crossed-out computations and many underlined words and dashes scrawled across the final pages. An artist, Nora recognized the design of mania.
She closed the book and rested her hand upon it, as though to force quiet memories of the last months of Mike’s life. He had gone through a period of marked deterioration. Although he had once taken a vain interest in his appearance, he became unkempt. In the few weeks before he died, Mike grew argumentative, obsessed, even erratic.
The parallels with his handwriting were too strong. She needed time, away from prying eyes, to decipher the message held here. Time to hear Mike’s final words