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There is silence. No voices or noises come from inside the house for a few moments. Then a voice comes from the other side of the door, “What is so friggin important to discuss about Island Field in the middle of a flood?”
“Can you open the door so we can talk?”
“Not until you tell me why you need to talk about that old place.”
“Okay, fair enough,” I say. So I gently leans my head against the door and whisper to her through the glass. “Can you hear me?”
“Yeah. I’m listening. Go ahead.”
So I tell her about Maura, how she passed in September. How I met Maura at Island Field all those years ago. How today was our first anniversary since she passed. And, I tell her that I feel Maura’s memory slipping from me; that I need to return to Island Field, today on our anniversary. I tried to find it on the way into town but couldn’t see it. So, it would be great, really great, if she could please, please help me.
Well, something like that is what I whisper against the pane of glass, standing there in the rain on her steps. And, when I get done with my little speech, the door opens. She looks at my eyes and face, measuring whether I’ve been telling the truth or just lying. This is a fantastical story, to be sure. I can see the woman at the door thinking it over. She looks at my eyes, and I imagine she is wondering if those are raindrops pouring down my face or if I am crying. But I know; I can taste the salt on my lips.
“My friggin husband took off and left me with the kids. He lost his job, we lost our condo. He just couldn’t face me.”
While she stands at the door, there is a sound like a slap, then another, from inside the house. A child’s voice saying “mine,” then another saying,“naw-uh.” Then there are the voices of two children screaming at each other and complaining. Then the older woman’s voice again, coming from deeper inside the small house: “Get those kids.” The woman at the door doesn’t say anything as she looks at me. The voices of the children get louder and pointier, sounding like they’re leading to a confrontation. The older voice comes again from inside the house, more insistent this time. “Quiet those kids.” The woman at the door sighs and rolls her eyes, seemingly frustrated at the confusion inside the house. I can tell that she just wants to walk away.
“Okay, so your story about Maura and you. That’s just too weird to be a lie,” she says.
The woman at the door says she will take me to Island Field. Maybe it’s what I said. It could be that I was pathetic looking, an old man standing there dripping onto her steps. Maybe it is just a chance to get out of the house and away from the ratcheting tension of the voices and struggles inside. But, we walk down the creaking steps and get in my rental car.
“It’s only about a mile over here,” she tells me once we are both seat-belted in.
About Brian Rodan
