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Heart Strings

By Lynne Waite Chapman

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How about this for a depressing thought? I’m forty-three, and all my worldly possessions fit inside a rented Cargo Van. I promise I’m not a deadbeat. I’m not a drug addict or alcoholic, but I’d come close to being homeless.
I’ve been on the road for eleven hundred miles—the last two hundred on this crummy secondary road, under cloudy skies and drizzle. Gotta love the Midwest. Destination: Evelynton, Indiana, my hometown, where I’d be willing to bet the neighborhoods hadn’t changed in twenty-five years. Same houses, same intolerable, narrow streets. The same five thousand residents who mowed lawns on Saturday morning, went to church every Sunday, and never locked their doors. The continuous circuit of uneventful small town life. Little did I know I wouldn’t get through the summer before I’d be longing for such monotony.
I hadn’t driven more than a few blocks into town, when a runner barreled off the curb and splashed into the street. My foot jerked to the brake. I leaned my full weight on the pedal and punched the horn.
His eyes remained focused straight ahead, never even glancing in my direction. The tires squealed as the van lurched to a halt, and I braced for the avalanche of boxes and suitcases that would come tumbling toward the front seat. The runner never broke stride, seemingly ignorant of his brush with death. I slammed the gear shift into park and pounded on the horn again. It released some anger, but still didn’t get his attention.
“Are you deaf as well as blind?” My words echoed inside the van.
He continued running. Obviously an experienced runner, the man’s lean muscles held not an ounce of fat.
Idiot.
I silently cursed him and pushed boxes to the back. I picked up a paper cup now lying on the floor, and threw a couple napkins at the puddle of cold coffee. After a few deep breaths, I put the van into drive.
Thank goodness for good brakes. How had that man escaped being hit? I wondered if I’d almost made some woman a widow. The mere word brought back ugly memories.
My life ended the day that phone call came for me. It knocked the life out of me. The message was clear. I was alone—first time ever. My husband Marc, encourager, protector, was gone. It took a while to face the reality of life alone and the shock. I’d always imagined I’d played a part in supporting us—that I had a real writing career. It didn’t take long to understand the few magazine articles I sold did little to pay for the condo, the car, the life.
Now, five years later, I had nothing. How had I spent all this time in limbo? How many meaningless, low paying jobs, living from paycheck to paycheck? It was like standing on the beach I loved so much, blissfully staring at the ocean while waves slowly stripped sand from under my feet. I sank deeper and deeper, to my knees, my chest. About the time the waves threatened to wash over me—no more savings and not much left to sell—I gave up and cried out to the God I never spoke to. I guess I should have done that sooner, because the strangest thing happened. I was rescued, if you can call it that.
My rescuer wasn’t the hero I’d have written into my great novel, just a little old lady—rather, the administrator of her will. A letter, addressed to me, Lauren Grace James Halloren, pulled me back to the hometown I’d never intended to visit again. I was back, for the sake of a paid-for house, and a thirty-five year old car with only ninety-four thousand miles on it. Bless Aunt Ruth, my father’s older sister. She remembered me, her last relative.
Sun broke through the clouds and I guided the van onto tree-lined Stoneybridge Drive. As I recalled, Aunt Ruth’s house, number 410, would be about half way down the block. My stomach fluttered. Was I nervous? Maybe just hunger. It had been a long time since lunch.
I scanned house numbers, searching for familiar landmarks, when a bright spot grabbed my attention. Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome stepped out of number 404 and trotted toward a black SUV. This couldn’t be an Evelynton resident. His brown slacks and crisp white shirt set off a healthy tan. Big city, all the way. He reached up to brush the raindrops from his hair, and his gaze met mine. I sort of fell into his dark eyes.
Lauren! Let’s not get sidetracked now.
I had to shake my head to clear my mind and return my attention to the street in front of me. Too many hours on the road.
The next house was mine—or soon would be—and I pulled into the driveway, parking close to the house. In my side mirror, I watched the SUV pull away from the curb and drive off.
The tidy Cape Cod sat in front of me. A pot of petunias bloomed on the porch, and a massive maple tree hovered protectively over a trimmed lawn. I released the scowl I’d held for the last hundred miles and let my shoulders relax. I really needed neat and tidy.
And there was my new car, as Aunt Ruth’s lawyer had promised. A 1975 Chrysler New Yorker station wagon. I eased out of the van, reached my hands toward the sky and stretched to ease tight muscles. Then, I could only study the station wagon. Unbelievable. Could I actually drive this thing? Avocado green, with wood toned paneling down the side, not something I’d have chosen. It wasn’t like any car I’d ever even seen. On the bright side, no rust spots, and I’d been assured it ran. Who was I to be particular?
I circled the car and felt the pull to glance to the left of the drive. A dark, weathered blue, two-story sat a mere ten feet away, and a small face peered at me from an upstairs window. The woman seemed pale, with thin colorless hair, but that could’ve been the effect of the last rays of the late afternoon sun reflecting on the glass. Visible for only a few seconds before she pulled away, she didn’t smile or acknowledge me. I wondered if she still watched from the depths of the room.
My gaze slid to the windows below, my heart giving a hard thump at the sight of the man I guessed to be the woman’s husband. Big, with shaggy, gray hair, and a five o’clock shadow. He stood his ground when our eyes met. A smile and wave produced no response from him. I blinked first and returned my attention to matters at hand. I was suddenly anxious to be inside.
Three concrete steps led to the small open porch of my new house and the mailbox holding the key. Also, a square, beige envelope that I opened immediately, thinking this was information I’d need before entering.
There wasn’t a name on the envelope. Inside was an invitation to the Evelynton high school class reunion. Twenty-five years?
No way. Must be for someone else.
Okay, I knew it was for me but I had no intention of attending. Nobody there I wanted to see. I hadn’t even talked to them in a quarter century.
The heavy wood front door swung open revealing a short entry and the living room. The scent of waxed hardwood floors summoned memories, the sounds of giggles and tapping of feet as my toddler legs ran through the room, circling that armchair where a little white haired lady sat.
White haired Aunt Ruth. Had she always been old?
Through an arched doorway to the right, an oval, walnut table remained in the formal dining room. This wasn’t my favorite room. There had been meals served on beautiful dishes, I was warned not to break. A corner cabinet housed a few of the precious plates Aunt Ruth treasured. I guessed the full collection hadn’t survived, although a few intriguing antique bowls and vases were nestled beside the plates. I didn’t remember those
Polka dot sheer curtains hung in the next room—the kitchen. The bright yellow walls I remembered had been painted a softer off-white. I pulled open cupboard doors revealing plain dishes, glasses, and canned goods.
A door off the kitchen led to a roomy screened-in porch, where Aunt Ruth used to sit and read—a cup of tea next to her, on a fragile table. The room sat empty except for a few wicker chairs and a wooden plaque. Hand printed lettering read, “You will live in joy and peace. The mountains and hills will burst into song, and the trees of the field will clap their hands!”
My aunt was a strange lady.
I retraced my steps and inspected a single bedroom and bath before taking the stairs to two very small rooms and another bath. By the time I reached the top of the staircase, I was gasping and pulled open windows to release the stale air.
I’d spent the night in one of these rooms, once or twice, when I was very young. The last time I ventured down the stairs, I’d stretched to set my foot on each wooden step, then tiptoed to peek into the kitchen. Aunt Ruth stirred eggs in a big frying pan. I hated scrambled eggs. Still do.
Personal items—clothes, toothbrush, combs, and soaps—had been removed from the house, but plenty of furniture remained. Carved walnut chairs surrounded the dining table. Above it hung a framed print of people dancing. That was a laugh. When did Aunt Ruth ever dance? This was all evidence of a sweet little old lady, not the stern woman I knew her to be.
So, this is home now.
Wait, not my home, a house.
I planned to stay only to finish paying off debt, and to move on as soon as possible. If a reputable antique dealer could be found, my time here might be shorter than anticipated.
Back outside, I slid open the side door of the van, and leaned in to tug at a couple of suitcases wedged against the seat. After considerable groaning and straining, I freed one and coaxed it to the door. Goosebumps tickled the back of my neck. I peeked at the blue house, and seeing no one, released the breath I held. Gripping the suitcase, I turned from the van and came face to face with a tall, white-haired man. An involuntary shriek erupted from somewhere deep in my throat, and I latched onto the side of the van to keep from falling in, dropping my bag.
The man stooped to pick up the suitcase, and when he raised up, a smile stretched across his face, and tiny lines crinkled around his eyes. “Sorry. I forget myself sometimes. Should’ve made some noise.” He tipped his head toward the house where the black SUV had been parked earlier, “I’m your neighbor, Wallace Binion.” He spoke softly, as if afraid I might scream again. His voice sounded like tires on gravel. “I thought I’d help you unload before the rain starts again.”
“Lauren Halloren.” I gave him my best smile and shook his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Binion, but I don’t want to bother you.”
“Call me Wallace. It’s no trouble at all. That’s what neighbors are for. Miss Ruth James was a nice lady. Always kind to me.” He reached past me, picked up one of the larger boxes, and headed to the house with it and my suitcase.
That’s what neighbors are for? I’d barely known my neighbors in Tampa.
“Thank you. I appreciate your help. I’ve been driving for the last two days and….” I was babbling, and Wallace Binion already stood on the front porch, so I pulled out a box and followed.
A man of few words, he made quick work of emptying the van, stacking everything in the living room. At the door, he said, “I’ll leave you to get settled. If you need anything, let me know.”
“Thank you, Mr. Binion,”
“Call me Wallace.”
He made his way across the yard climbed the steps to his house. At least he wasn’t one of those people who overstay their welcome.
I locked the van and trudged up the steps one last time. The sun peeked from under gathering clouds, its final beams streaming across the street. The door shut with a satisfying thud. I gathered enough strength to deposit my clothes in the closet and make up the bed in the downstairs bedroom.
Windows closed, curtains drawn, and doors bolted, I let myself feel comfortable. After a shower, I crawled into bed with a book determined to put the last two days and five years behind me.
As I drifted off, a police siren in the distance, sounding out of place in this small town, reminded me how far I’d come.
And how far I had to go.
 

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