| Old Habits- The Pecan Grove Review 2001 Rain pelted the concrete, rippling into deep puddles. The fat drops did nothing to cool the sultry fog, and I squinted. Beads of perspiration mingled with rain on my face. Not the best night to be looking for shelter. A nearby sign read "Lakewood Hills"- the name of some upper-crust neighborhood. I wondered whether they'd even let me past their electronic front gates. After dozens of doors slammed in my face, my fears were confirmed. But something masochistic in me kept going, and I finally reached a one-story house lined with ivy and wild roses. Perfect. The stoop was cozy and dry. I took a minute to just rest on the porch swing before reaching up to push the doorbell. Chimes inside played the hook line of an old Broadway hit. Suddenly, I wondered whether I deserved a house with roses and door chimes. But a smiling middle-aged woman opened the door, and ushered me inside before I could utter a word. My wet coat was exchanged for a towel, and I watched as water ran off my jeans onto her rose-colored tiles. "You are completely soaked," she murmured. "What were you doing out on a night like this?" Her words deepened my shame, as she guided me to a wooden dining chair in a yellow kitchen and prepared a mug of instant cocoa on the counter. "Thank you," I whispered, clutching the towel close. "Why are you doing this?" "You rang the bell, didn't you? Something told me you weren't selling Girl Scout cookies," she chuckled. "But you don�t� I'm just some punk who showed up on your doorstep!" Her neighbors had said as much with their eyes. "How do you know I'm not a hooker, a burglar, a murderer?" She tilted her head, like a robin. "Are you? Wouldn't that be interesting.� I gaped at her. That sent her into gales of laughter as she popped the stirred cup of cocoa in the microwave. Crazy. The woman was beyond bonkers. Maybe I didn't want to stay here, after all. She opened a door behind her, saying, "You can take some of the clothes from the laundry room, and change in there.� Beyond speech, I obeyed. All her clothes were soft and warm from the dryer. Upon returning to the kitchen, there was a steaming black mug before my empty chair at the kitchen table, and the woman had taken a seat across from it. I slid into my seat, asking bemusedly, "Who are you?" The cocoa burned my fingers. I set it down quickly. She smiled, her eyes dancing. "My name's Amilee Parks. What's yours?" "Lauren." I waited, but she didn�t ask for my last name. "Why are you being so nice to me?" "Perhaps you didn't hear from the neighbors, but I'm the eccentric old novelist who never leaves her house," she giggled. I never imagined someone of her age as capable of a giggle. Despite confusion and fatigue, I found a responsive smile warming my lips. "Novelist- that's like writing books, right?" I asked, leaning my face close to the cocoa to inhale the steam. She nodded. "Yep. Can't remember a time when I wasn't one- or didn't want to be one." "Are you any good?" I asked, curious. She shrugged. "I get by." I looked around the dark interior of her home. "What about your husband? Where does he work?" "Oh, I don't have one," she said simply. "My lifestyle never left room. Can you imagine the poor man? Coming home expecting Donna Reed at the stove, cooking in pearls? Instead he'd find a frumpy little packrat holed up in front of her computer." "Still- didn't you ever want to get married, have kids and stuff?" I asked, confused. "I thought that's what everybody wanted. It seems you'd be kinda... lonely here." "I wanted kids, sure- dozens. I even considered adopting them, but no agency would give a child to a woman like me." She stared into her cup, thoughtful. "Yes, it does get lonely. But I took what I was given, and lived with it." Her eyes met mine, and I felt the strange sensation of my soul being read. "The way you do." I straightened, frowning. "Me?" Continue |