The Goodbye Summer Page 13

  He looked so tickled, Thea laughed, too. “Cornel, what is your best memory? Tell it right now, because I don’t expect we’ll be hearing it next week.”

  “Damn right. Nobody’s business.” He’d scoffed at the idea of telling Caddie the story of his life for the memory book, too; “Wait’ll I’m dead for my damn obituary” was the way he’d put it. “What’s yours?” he demanded, pointing his chin at Thea.

  Caddie sat back, out of their line of sight. She felt in the way.

  “Oh, you’ll have to wait. I’m a team player and I don’t want to repeat myself.”

  “Haw.” He ran his thumbs up and down behind his suspenders, tilting his head, squinting his eyes. Thinking. “Okay, I got mine. Want to hear it?”

  “Why, I do, I surely do.”

  “It’s the time my brother and me got stuck in the schoolhouse all night in a snowstorm.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Ten, and Frank was eight. We’d stayed late to help Miss Kemper clean the stove. Wasn’t a punishment,” he wanted her to know, “it was a reward.”

  “For…?”

  “High marks and good behavior. Well, it started to snow around lunchtime, but in those days, of course, they didn’t close school down because a few flakes fell.”

  “No, indeed. We were made of sterner stuff.”

  He eyed her, not sure if she meant that sincerely or not. “Anyway, Miss Kemper lighted out quick when it started to pile up, and we did, too, in the other direction, but before we got too far Frank fell over a log hid in the snow and sprained his ankle. Well, home’s another mile and a half away, so we limped back to school, which was locked, so I crawled in through the cloakroom window and opened up for Frank.”

  Cornel was one of those people whose mouths form a little dot of spit in the corners the longer they talk. He took care of it by a quick sweep inward with his thumb and forefinger every now and then.

  “Somehow we got the stove going again—good thing, because otherwise we’d’ve froze to death. Turns out it’s a blizzard we’re having. Foodwise, Miss Kemper’s desk was a bust, not even an apple. We looked everywhere, every desk, every sweater pocket in the cloakroom, and all we came up with was four pieces of horehound candy, some redballs, and a Rocket toffee bar.”

  “Oh, I remember Rocket toffee bars,” Thea said.

  “I told stories to keep Frank from getting scared. Well, keep me from getting scared, too. We fell asleep sometime on our coats in front of the stove, hanging on to each other like a couple of bear cubs. Afraid and all, but excited, too. Wondering what was going on at home, how they were taking our absence. Well, about daybreak our dad busts in with his red face and his snowy hair, just a -roaring at us. Frightened us out of our wits.”

  He sat hunched over, contemplating his wrinkled hands, a faraway look in his eyes. He looked up when Thea said “Well,” in a polite, uncertain tone.

  “Well, see—” He cleared his throat harshly. “It’s a good memory because he was so damn relieved. We cried and carried on, apologizing and explaining and justifying, but inside, we had this perfect kind of…”

  “Joy.”

  “Well, anyway.” He rubbed his cheeks, embarrassed by “joy.” “Our big, scary papa had to shout to keep from crying in front of us, and we liked that. Liked being rescued and screamed at and pummeled and hugged…” His bony shoulders shrugged, nonchalant, under his pressed white dress shirt. “I just liked it. Never forgot it.”

  “No.”

  He tightened his lips. “Course, they’re all dead now, Frank at age twelve in a stupid accident. They’re all gone.”

  “And your family…”

  “Dead. My wife and my son, Frank Junior.” He used the sofa arm to stand up. “So what good does a happy memory do you?” He looked angry, duped.

  “Oh, happy memories are nice enough,” Thea said before he could make a solitary dramatic exit. “As long as we don’t have to stop making new ones, that is. I for one am not through making memories.”

  “Hmph.” He stood, indecisive. “Going outside. Nice day. Wanna sit with me?”

  Was he inviting both of them or just Thea? Caddie had that third-wheel feeling again.

  “In a minute,” Thea answered. “I have to ask Caddie something.”

  “Right.” Cornel saluted them and stalked out.

  “Sheesh, what a grouch,” Thea said, smiling after him. “Why do we put up with him?”

  “Because he’s sweet, deep down. Plus—I think he’s got a crush on you,” Caddie whispered.

  “Oh, pooh.” She laughed and flapped her hand. Either she didn’t believe it or she was so used to men having crushes on her it didn’t impress her. “Here’s what I wanted to ask you—are you all booked up with students this summer?”

  “No. Summer’s my lightest season because everybody goes on vacation. Why? You want to take lessons?”

  She was kidding, but Thea wasn’t. “Yes, I do. Piano.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, it’s now or never. When I was little I wasn’t interested, and when I grew up there wasn’t time. Now there’s nothing but time, and nobody I want to teach me but you.”

  “Oh, how fun! I’d love to. I’d love to.”

  “You are the sweetest girl,” Thea said, and kissed her on both cheeks. “I absolutely adore you.”

  Mrs. Doré Harris didn’t want Caddie to write her biography for “We Remember,” she wanted to write it herself, “an auto biography,” and have Caddie type it up on her computer. “I believe I’ll write it in the third person, though, so it’ll sound more authentic. Don’t you think? And you can turn on that spell-check thing, but I bet you won’t find a single mistake. Spelling’s always been my forte.”

  Mrs. Stewart R. Harris was born Doré Arnette Sloan on April 2, 1927, in Spartanburg, South Carolina, the only daughter of Bynel and Eunice Sloan. Mr. Sloan distinguished himself over a long career in the wholesale feed and grain trade, and Mrs. Sloan, an accomplished musician, floral arranger, and amateur watercolorist, was also famous for her unique cooking and gardening skills, which took many prizes in local fairs and contests.

  Doré was a lively, attractive, studious child with many friends and interests. Her best subjects were spelling, grammar, and math, so it’s no surprise that upon graduation from Robert E. Lee High School she decided to go into the secretarial line of work. But she was also anxious to see more of the world, so when she was nineteen she moved to Washington, D.C., where she worked briefly for the phone company, honing her clerical skills. In 1948, she took a job as secretary-receptionist in the office of Dr. Drew McDonald, a noted podiatrist in the suburb of Wheaton, Maryland. Doré worked for Dr. McDonald until 1950, when the two became engaged and got married.

  After a honeymoon in Miami, Florida, the couple moved into their new home in the Springfield section of Wheaton, where they particularly loved to entertain around the in-ground swimming pool. Doré was active in the Garden Club, the Welcome Committee, the Neighborhood Beautification Auxiliary, and the annual Springfield House Tour. In 1952, the couple gave birth to their only child, a beautiful daughter, Estella Doré. In 1956, Dr. McDonald was named Podiatrist of the Year by the Montgomery County Podiatry Association, and he was feted that year at the state convention in Annapolis.

  In 1959, the couple separated, and in 1961 they were divorced.

  Doré remained in the Springfield home for the next seven years, occupying herself with motherhood, neighborhood projects, and volunteer work, as well as trips to Paris, France; Vancouver, British Columbia; Reno, Nevada; and New York City.

  In 1969, with Estella away at school (Shepherdstown College, Shepherdstown, West Virginia), and in search of a quieter, more contemplative life, Doré moved to Damascus, Maryland. There, to make herself useful and give meaning to her days, she took a part-time job at Nawson’s Jewelers. In a short time she was promoted to assistant manager. More surprising still, a year later she became affianced to Clarence “Bud” Nawson, and the
couple were wed on June 4, 1971.

  Doré continued her volunteer and community activities in Damascus, and also enjoyed success and some acclaim as a model for the Mrs. & Older line of clothing at Jewell’s Department Store. The Nawsons enjoyed vacations in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, and Las Vegas, Nevada.

  Tragically, their happiness was short-lived. In 1974, Bud, a lifelong smoker, was diagnosed with lung cancer, and in three months he was dead.

  Grief-stricken, Doré sold the store and moved west again, this time to Michaelstown, where she bought a condo on Marshall Street and set about rebuilding her life. Never one to remain idle for long, and even though finances were not a problem, she soon found meaningful work in the accounts department at Harris Recreational Vehicles on Route 15. There the friendliness and camaraderie of her coworkers acted like a tonic on Doré’s downcast spirits. She took up ballroom dancing, studied French at night at Boormin Community College, and renewed an old, neglected passion, Japanese flower arranging.

  Fate took a surprising twist in 1978. Having vowed never to remarry, Doré could hardly believe it when she found herself falling in love again. Stewart R. Harris swept her off her feet, and after a short, whirlwind courtship, the couple flew to Acapulco, Mexico, where they became man and wife.

  “With Stewart, I found what my heart had been searching for. We were a purely blessed union. I had never known such happiness, nor will I ever again. He was my Galahad, my Lancelot.”

  Stewart wanted to name their new Airstream, a wedding present, after his bride, but Doré insisted on calling it Excalibur. In it they took many an idyllic road trip, and Doré now has seen every state in the Union except Alaska, Hawaii, Vermont, Maine, and New Hampshire.

  And so life passed in a happy glow, and as the couple’s golden years beckoned, Stewart began to think more and more about retirement. They planned trips—Stewart had never been to Europe, unlike Doré—and joked about what he’d do with himself if he weren’t selling RVs. In preparation for their new life, Doré finally retired from the Women’s Auxiliary of the Michaelstown Key Club, where she had served for many years on the planning committee and one year as treasurer. Best of all, they bought their dream house: a four-bedroom split-level on three and a half semiwooded acres in the Tortoise Creek Hills subdivision.

  And then, on June 4, 1988, thirteen days shy of their tenth wedding anniversary, tragedy struck again. While cutting the lawn on his riding mower, the John Deere Cadet Doré had given him for his combination birthday/housewarming present, Stewart suffered a massive heart attack. Paramedics were summoned, but to no avail. He passed away next to the lane of Leyland cypress trees he had planted along the driveway just one week before. Doré was kneeling by his side, holding his hand. His last words were, “Dodo [an endearment], I’ll see you in heaven!”

  “The rest isn’t important,” Doré says. “To tell the truth, I barely remember the nineties. Without Stewart, my soul mate, who loved me more than any man ever had or ever could, my life withered on the vine. Material possessions meant nothing to me, nor do they mean anything to me now.”

  Doré has been at Wake House since 2001, when heart trouble made living on her own too dangerous. Would she do anything differently? “What a question!” she says. “Who wouldn’t? And yet, I do feel as if my life had a purpose, an arrow pointing me in one direction and one only: toward Stewart Harris. If I had a second chance I would try to find him sooner, for it’s when I met Stewart that my real life began. And his, too, I believe. True love is a fragile, rare thing, but we had it. Romeo and Juliet, Othello and Desdemona, Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, Gatsby and Daisy, Ross and Rachel—I would add to that list Doré and Stewart Harris. Yes, I would! We had a love for the ages.”

  11

  Thea arrived for her first piano lesson late on a Wednesday afternoon, and as she was coming in the wide-open front door, Angie Noonenberg was going out. Caddie introduced them. Afterward, Thea tossed her pocketbook on the living room sofa and exclaimed, “Oh, my, what a beautiful girl. Those eyes.”

  “I know. Too bad she’s mad at me.”

  “Why?”

  “Artistic differences.” She explained about the Miss Michaelstown contest next December. “Angie’s my best violin student, and now she’s decided she doesn’t like the piece by Massenet we’ve been practicing for the last six weeks, it’s not fun. She wants to play…” She laughed; she could still hardly believe it. “She wants to play a bluegrass fiddle song. And sing!”

  Thea laughed with her. “Well, what’s wrong with that?”

  “Oh, no, not you, too! But it’s her decision, all I can do is advise her. Today I won, but who knows what she’ll decide when the time comes.”

  Angie had been secretly practicing “Man of Constant Sorrow,” the twangiest of twangy country tunes, and today she’d played the solo break and sung the song a cappella for Caddie for the first time. “Just listen, okay, just try to hear it with an open mind,” she’d begged, then launched into a performance Caddie could truthfully tell her afterward was soulful. Angie had a pretty voice, but for “Man of Constant Sorrow” she flattened it down to the thinness of ribbon, changing the lyric to “maid” and singing through her nose. With a lot of feeling, though—Caddie couldn’t deny that Angie sang and played her bluegrass tune with more enthusiasm and emotion than she played “Meditation.”

  “I’m just disappointed,” she confessed to Thea. “We’ve been together a long time. I’ve been watching her grow. She’s got real talent, and I hate to see it go this way.”

  “But if she really wants to play the fiddle.”

  “I told her the judges won’t take her seriously. She’s going up against girls singing opera and dancing ballet. I told her the baton twirlers never win.”

  “Is that true?”

  “I don’t know. But it ought to be. Well, anyway—here you are.”

  “Here I am. Caddie, those lawn sculptures—I couldn’t believe my eyes.”

  “I know. There’s nothing I can—”

  “They’re fantastic, I love them.”

  “You don’t.”

  “They’re wonderful, so inventive and free. I recognized the one called Birth Canal from Frances’s description. Aren’t you proud of her? I think she’s a phenomenon.”

  Caddie searched Thea’s face to see if she was pulling her leg. “She’s one of a kind,” she agreed, inwardly wondering how Thea would like Nana’s sculptures in her front yard. “Well, shall we start?”

  Thea pulled up her shoulders on a deep inhale and patted her heart. “I’m nervous.”

  “No, this is going to be fun. Come and sit. Really, nothing but fun, that’s why we’re here.”

  “Yes, but have you ever taught a complete know-nothing before? Not a child, I mean a grown-up, a fossil.”

  “Beginning adults are easier to teach than kids. It’s their idea, they’ve come willingly, they really want to learn. You don’t read music at all? We’re going to start very simply. Don’t panic. This is the book I like to use for adult beginners, but if you don’t—”

  “Caddie…” Thea touched middle C with one of her pink-painted fingernails. She looked smart today in white slacks and a canary-colored blouse, her hair pulled back from her face with pretty combs. “At the risk of being as big a pain in the behind for you as Angie…”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “I’ve been thinking about this since you said you’d teach me. I’m an old lady, I don’t want to play the scales or learn music theory, I don’t want to work my way up from ‘Little Bo Peep.’ ”

  “Oh, Thea.” She could see trouble coming.

  “Honey, I’m sixty-nine years old, I’m never going to be a real piano player. All my life I’ve wanted to play one song, sit down and entertain people with one song.”

  Oh, boy. “What?”

  “ ‘Maple Leaf Rag.’ ”

  Caddie put her head in her hands and wailed.

  “I know! I know it’s hard, but believe it or not, I’m musical. I can pick
out melodies by ear, and I can already play the top part with one finger. If you’d just show me the chords on the bottom—”

  “Oh, Thea! Do you know how hard it is to play ragtime?”

  “I do.”

  “It sounds easy, but it’s not, it’s as hard as classical music for a beginner. You might as well say, ‘Caddie, I just want to learn Beethoven’s Ninth, that’s all I want to play.’ ”

  “Now, that is an exaggeration.”

  “Okay, but almost. It’s the rhythm that’s so tricky, you have to play a march tempo with your left hand and a very complicated syncopated beat with your right. Honestly, you could hardly pick a more difficult piece.”

  “But you could simplify it for me.”

  “There are simplified transcriptions, yes. All over the place.”

  “I really want to play it, and I’ve got nothing but time. I’ll be the most conscientious student you ever had. Teach me.”

  “You don’t look anywhere near sixty-nine years old.”

  Thea put an arm around her waist and hugged her. “Don’t sidetrack me—will you teach it to me? Please?”

  Caddie kept shaking her head, but then she laughed, helpless. “Okay, I’ll try.”

  Thea clapped her hands.

  “But why, of all the songs—”

  “Because I love it! It peps people up. As soon as you hear it, you start tapping your foot and smiling. I want to learn it before I get so old I can’t see the keys.”

  Caddie was getting excited in spite of herself. “I can make a recording, a simplified version you could listen to over and over, get used to before I show you how to play it. I’ve never taught without music before, I’m not even sure how we’ll do it. How does it go? I don’t even know what key it’s in. A-flat? It’s got four sections, they all do, rags, almost all, and they repeat.” She hummed a few notes—“No, that’s ‘The Entertainer.’ How does it go?”

  Even Thea couldn’t remember how it started. She put her hands over her ears. “Wait, hush, let me think.”