A Boundless Place

VIOLET

May 1969

Violet set the milk crate full of shampoos and soaps on the counter of her new master bathroom. She turned to fetch another box but stopped as her reflection caught her eye. As always, the face looking back at her surprised her. The woman in the mirror still looked twenty-four, still looked reasonably attractive with shining dark hair and large brown eyes, still looked like the whole world lay at her feet. But the woman on this side of the glass felt one hundred and twenty-four and like five miles of bad road that led to a dead-end.

She turned her back on her mirrored self and returned to the living room as Jerry placed a cardboard box on the carpeted floor. He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. “That’s the last box,” he said, studying her. Did he think she would change her mind? Dissolve into tears? Neither seemed that far-fetched.

“Thanks, Jerry. You were always my favorite brother,” she said, hoping her attempt at humor would reassure him.

“I was always your only brother. But I am still the best brother you could hope for.” He grinned at her.

“I know. You want me to make some tea? I could dig out the pitcher and glasses . . .”

“I better get back to Shirley. She’ll be pulling her hair out with the kids.” But he didn’t turn.

Violet hesitated as well, wanting him to stay, wanting him to go.

“Are you sure you are doing the right thing?” he asked.

“Yes, I am sure.” Violet stiffened her spine.

“I worry about you, Vi. We all do.”

“I know,” she said. And that’s the problem. Too many people hovering over me, wrapping me in soft cotton, making sure I don’t break. Except I am already broken. “I’ll be fine,” she added. “And I am just a couple of hours away.”

She hugged him, resting her head on his shoulder and breathing in his cigarette-smoke-and-aftershave scent.

“All right,” he said, giving her a little squeeze. “You know where to find me if you need me.”

He stepped off the porch into the South Carolina sunshine, already hot for May. As he drove away, he waved out of his open window. She stayed where she was and watched Jerry’s truck trundle away from her, rocking back and forth on the dirt road, his dusty wake drawing a curtain between her old life and her new one.

Was she doing the right thing?

She had thought so when she decided to finally move out of her parents’ house. It had been eighteen months since. . . everything had gone so horribly wrong. Wasn’t it time she started over? Began to live her life again? She had thought so then, but doubt was bumping at her, lapping at her ankles, tiny waves of a rising tide.

She entered her new house and scanned the boxes. Her panic inched up, the tide surging, breaking now at her knees. She closed her eyes and breathed deep. I’ll start with music. That will cheer me up.

She pulled an album out of a milk crate—skipping over Simon and Garfunkel and Joni Mitchell and choosing the more upbeat Fifth Dimension. She placed it on the turntable and set the needle in the groove. The strains of “Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In” filled the little trailer. She headed to the kitchen, but the haphazard stacks of boxes stopped her, an insurmountable wall of work she was too tired to climb. She massaged her forehead with the tips of her fingers. What had her father said? “Just put one foot in front of the other, Vi, and the next thing you know, you won’t be standing in the same place anymore.”

Fine. She could do that. She spotted a carton marked “books,” thinking that would be an easy start. She picked it up to relocate it to the living room, and, as she straightened, the bottom fell out and books tumbled on to the floor and her feet. She swore softly and hurled the useless box against a wall, feeling childish and not remotely satisfied with the action.

I will not cry over spilled books, she thought, but the little joke fell flat. She blew a strand of hair out of her eyes and bent to pick the books up. As she did, she spotted a bit of blue plaid on the other side of the table. Jerry’s shirt. He had taken it off and draped it over the back of a chair, finishing the move in his short-sleeved undershirt. The garment now lay on the rounded chair back as if on a thin, slope-shouldered man. She lifted the shirt and fought off a ripple of longing to go back home. Determined, she folded the garment over her arm and Jerry’s silver lighter and pack of cigarettes clattered to the floor. She pursed her lips. He must have been really worried about her to have forgotten his smokes.

Sighing, she picked up the Marlboros and lighter, and, as she raised up, she whacked her head—hard—on the metal edge of the table. She yelped, rubbed her head, and sank down on the cool linoleum floor in defeat. The tears she had been fighting spilled out.

This was not the future she planned. Life had taken her far from the road she had started down five years earlier. It had dumped her here, with no signposts and no map to make her journey clear. She knew where she was. She knew where she had been. But she had no idea where she was going. She thought that by moving into this rented mobile home, she might get a reprieve from the guilt and grief that had become her constant companions. She had tried to pack them away like her dishes or books, but the mental box she had packed them in was the first thing to spring open. She had thought she would feel a little lighter, a little more buoyant with hope. But the same loneliness, the same sadness, the same anguish she had felt in her hometown still weighed her down here. The only difference was now she would cry in different rooms and stare through her tears at different views. She was like a sapling, bowed down by a violent storm. She needed time and tending to stand up straight again.

Violet wiped her eyes and wondered how long she had been crying. Her album still played, so it hadn’t been too long. She sighed and got up, rubbing the top of her head where a small, tender lump had formed. She turned on the tap and splashed water on her face, and groped in a box for a roll of paper towels, leaving dark, damp splotches on the cardboard. As she blotted her burning eyes, a knock at her door made her jump. That must be Jerry, returning for his things. She sent up a prayer of thanks that he had not caught her in an emotional heap on the floor. Straightening her shoulders, she smoothed her hair and headscarf, throwing the paper towel on the counter.

But it was not her brother who stood on her porch but a little girl with two blonde, uneven ponytails framing her face. A constellation of freckles marched across her nose. Her legs already bore the badges of summer play even though it was still spring. Her bright, expectant smile reminded Violet of a flower seeking the sun.

“Oh! I thought you were my brother,” Violet said.

“No, ma’am,” the little girl said earnestly. “My name is Arabella Constance Fitzgerald.”

“Well, that is quite a big name. What can I do for you?” Violet suppressed the urge to wipe at her gritty eyes, and instead blinked them several times, hoping they weren’t too red from her little crying episode.

“I wanted to say hi. I’m your neighbor. I live over there.” She pointed to the double-wide mobile home across the street.

“Alrighty then. Hi.”

Arabella peered around Violet and said, “You have a lot of boxes. I could help you unpack.”

Violet turned and scanned her living room. “You know, I didn’t think I had much stuff until I had to fit it all in boxes. But unpacking all this is a lot to ask someone.” She said it as nicely as she could manage. She was in no mood for company.

“It’s OK. I don’t mind.”

Violet groped for another excuse. “Well, your parents probably wouldn’t appreciate me putting you to work.”

“My mama would be happy because my baby brother is asleep and this way, I won’t wake him up. And my dad says we should always try to make the world a better place, and one way to do that is to help each other.” She held up one finger and puffed out her chest.

“Your dad sounds like a wise man.”

“He is. So if you want to make the world a better place, you have to let me help you. Plus, I’m a really good helper.”

Violet blinked. She tried again. “I am sure you have other things you’d rather do? Ride your bike? Play with friends?”

Arabella shook her head so vigorously her ponytails whipped around her face. “I ride my bike aaallll the time.” She drew the word out as she spread her hands to encompass an ocean of time. “And nobody lives on this street but grown-ups and some teenagers. So you’d also be helping me out, too. I help you, you help me.” She nodded emphatically.

Violet could not think of how else to say no in a way that wouldn’t erase the happy, eager smile that brightened the girl’s face. And that would not, to use the girl’s words, make the world a better place. Violet might be miserable, but she didn’t have to spread that around. “I guess you might as well come in.”

She lifted the hook on the screen door and let Arabella in. She turned down the sound on her stereo so that “Those Were the Days” strummed in the background instead of blaring through the house.

“So you’re the welcome wagon for this little neighborhood, hmm?”

Arabella’s eyebrows drew together, like delicate blonde wings of a tiny bird. “What’s a welcome wagon?”

Violet couldn’t help but smile. “Just what they call people who welcome new neighbors,” she said.

“Oh. Should I have a wagon?”

“I think that’s just an expression. Or maybe it comes from back before there were cars. So, Arabella Constance Fitzgerald. I am Violet Wentworth. Would you like a soda? I’d offer tea or lemonade, but I don’t have any made because I don’t know where anything is.”

“I am not allowed to have soda. Except sometimes my mom or dad asks me to get theirs, and I take a little sip.” She stopped, worry erasing her smile. “But don’t tell them that, OK?”

Violet winked at her. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“Just so you know, we’ve moved a lot, so I am good at unpacking.”

Violet considered this. She might as well give her something useful to do. “Well, let’s put your expertise to work. You can help me in the kitchen.”

Violet led the way and hesitated in the doorway, staring at the mounds of boxes and exhaled heavily. “I don’t even know where to start. I thought I was so organized.”

“My grandmother says when you don’t know where to start, you just jump in with both feet and quit thinking so dang much about it. Except she didn’t say dang, but I can’t say the other word.”

Violet laughed. “What excellent advice! Sounds like something my father would say.” She pried open the nearest box and plucked out an object wrapped in newspaper.

“There ya go. Glasses. Maybe I will be able to make you something besides soda after all. Tell you what. You unwrap these, and I will wipe out the cabinets. Think you can be careful with these?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Arabella crossed her chest with an index finger. “Cross my heart and hope to die.” She set to work, slowly freeing the glasses from their newspaper cocoons, tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth in concentration. Violet hid a smile as she dug out a sponge and wiped the shelves. As she arranged the glasses in neat rows on one of the shelves, it occurred to her that having someone with her kept her moving. She didn’t stop and wallow.

They worked steadily. Violet occasionally asking Arabella where things should go, and the little girl grinned, seemingly pleased to be consulted.

As they worked, Arabella talked. “Do you have any kids?”

Violet’s heart clenched, and her hands froze. “No, no kids. Not married, either.” She hoped her tone sounded as light as she was trying to make it. She reached into a box and held up a plastic pitcher with far more enthusiasm than the find merited. “Ta-da! Found it!” She placed the pitcher beside the sink and crumpled the newsprint wrapping, tossing it in the recently emptied glasses box.

“So you live all by yourself?” Arabella asked. “Is it scary or fun? Do you like it? Do you worry about being alone?”

Violet raised an eyebrow, trying to decide which question to answer. “It has its ups and downs. Have you thought about growing up to be a reporter?”

“I am going to be a paleontologist.”

“That would certainly go well with your name.”

“How does it go with my name?”

“It’s long like--Oh, never mind. My poor attempt at humor. Why don’t you tell me about your family?”

Arabella balled up her newspaper, mimicking Violet, and tossed it into the empty box. “Score!” She raised her arms in victory as it went in. “So it was just me for the longest time, but now I have a little brother. He is really new. He’s kind of cute, but he’s also a lot of trouble. I haven’t made up my mind if I like him or not.”

Violet’s mouth twitched up for a minute, but, keeping her face serious, she said, “Little brothers can be like that.”

“Do you have one?”

“I do not. I have an older one. And an older sister. But I’ve heard stories from friends about their little brothers. And it seems like they stay that way for a long time. Kind of cute and kind of a lot of trouble. But you can have fun with them, too. I take it he’s still pretty little.”

“Yeah. He was just born in April.”

“He is very little.” Violet opened another box, this one filled with pots and pans of varying age and wear.

“Yeah. I thought he would do more. All he does is kick his feet and looks around like he is not sure where he is. And he poops. A lot. And spits up. I mean how can you have fun with that?”

Violet laughed. “I guess when I was born, my brother and sister felt the same about me. But he’ll be walking before you know it, and then he’ll be more fun. I bet he will adore you.”

“That’s what my mama says. But I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Arabella cocked her head, holding up her hand. “Speaking of my mama, I hear her calling. Guess it’s lunchtime.”

“Goodness. What big ears you have.”

“That’s from Red Riding Hood!”

“It is, indeed.”

“Can I come back later?”

“I guess,” Violet said. “I’ll be here. Thanks for the help.”

“You’re welcome.” Arabella started out the door but stopped and turned. “You look like Jackie Onassis, by the way.”

Violet gave a tiny laugh. “If you are going to say things like that, you can come over any time!”

“Bye, Missus Wentworth.”

“You can call me Violet.”

“Oh, no I can’t. My mama would send me to my room for a month.”

“How about a compromise? You can call me Miss Violet.”

“OK. That might work. I think. I have to go home now and eat and look up the word compromise.” Arabella slipped out the door.

Violet had just washed her plate from her own lunch—a casserole her mother had sent along—when a rhythmic knock sounded at the door. She dried her hands as she headed towards it. “I see my favorite assistant is here.”

“You like the knock? My dad taught me. He said it means shave and a haircut, two bits. But I have no idea what that means. But I like the knock. Don’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Violet said when Arabella took a breath. “It’s a very nice knock.”

“I’m going to use it from now on and then you’ll always know it’s me. Do you need more help?”

Violet gave her a tight smile and wondered how she could politely urge the little girl to find friends her own age. It had helped to have her here, but once she was settled in, she wouldn’t want her dropping in on her at every opportunity. The whole point of moving here was to have time alone. She’d have to think on that but for now, she might as well accept her help. “Sure,” she said “I’m working in the bedroom right now.”

“You bet!” Arabella hopped over the threshold, legs together, swinging her arms to give herself momentum.

“Ah, the energy of the young,” Violet said.

“I’m not that young,” Arabella protested. “I turned seven two weeks ago.”

“Seven? That is quite an accomplishment. And quite old. Happy belated birthday. Did you have a party?”

“Not really. We don’t know too many people here as we just moved here right before Christmas. We lived in the Philippines.”

“Wow. That must have been interesting.”

“We had house boys who cleaned our house. My dad says labor there is very cheap. Here, we have to clean our own house. Mama says it’s good for me.”