During the hazy days surrounding the funeral, new renters had arrived. She didn’t want to know their names. They arrived after Ben’s death and had immediately and enthusiastically jumped into their vacation with no regard for the tragedy shaking the world.
Shaking her world. The only world she had.
The new tenants were on the porch a lot. Their children constantly pounded up and down the crossover, running and chasing. They shouted and had water battles using the hose intended for washing sandy feet. Disrespectful.
She stood at the front door, observing them through the glass panel, her hand on the knob, resisting the need to tell them—to instruct them—that this was a house of mourning. Her hand trembled. She stepped back and dropped the blinds, closing the slats. She went all around the main floor, closing blinds. When she was done, she sat in the dim living room with her hands folded in her lap.
The funeral was a blur. There’d been a few friendly faces at the service. She’d met a handful of people, fellow mourners. Most had kept their distance. Even given the natural stress, Luke’s parents—Ben’s aunt and uncle—were very cool towards her. Or maybe they were grief-stricken. When Luke introduced them, they didn’t touch her in any way—not a hug or a handshake—and vanished when her back was turned.
Light twinkled between the blinds where the cords cut through the slats. Ben would be disappointed. He liked light. Opening the blinds was the first thing he did every day. If he had his way they would never be closed.
She went back around, pulling the cords to open the slats.
It must be suppertime. Not that she was hungry.
She’d only ever cooked for one, until Ben. It should’ve been easy to go back to her old habits, yet how many times would she pull the egg carton out to fix Ben’s breakfast before remembering?
Her appetite had been suspended, but she knew it was temporary. The clock said one thirty-two p.m.
Only one thirty-two.
She sat again on the sofa to wait until she came up with something else to do.
Surely, this was an ironic form of hell—trying to live Ben’s life without Ben.
****
Juli called Mr. Lawson’s office on Monday morning and spoke with his administrative assistant. They scheduled an appointment for Tuesday afternoon.
Juli had a problem. Ben had paid all the bills. He hadn’t involved her in his finances. She’d expected to complete the contract, take the final payment and then go her way, so she never asked questions. Ben kept his bills current, but it wouldn’t be long before they were due again.
She could hardly believe Ben had changed his will to make her his sole heir. Someone was going to snatch it back. Maybe they should. This hadn’t been part of the bargain, but then, neither had the feelings Ben and she had come to share.
Juli had found an address book in the desk drawer and reviewed the names. Luke and Adela had contacted everyone who should be notified of Ben’s death. There were so many at the funeral service they could hardly have missed anyone.
She didn’t know most of these names, but recognized the pastor’s name. She wanted to thank him again for conducting the service. Ben would like that. Juli added his name to the list she was making.
She was in over her head.
Who might help her? If she dared ask him, Luke would be best. He was the executor and Ben had told her to go to Luke if she needed help.
Juli roamed the house most evenings, unable to settle to anything. Every creak and groan in the walls or the stairs seemed to demand attention, to warn of danger. She turned the TV volume up loud so she wouldn’t hear them.
Early one afternoon Anna knocked on the front door. Juli saw her through the glass panel. She’d skipped classes since Ben died and she felt like a truant.
Juli opened the door with a smile on her face, but it crumpled abruptly when she tried to say hello.
“Oh, my dear girl. Cry. It will help.” Anna hugged Juli and guided her over to the kitchen chair. “I’ll make us some tea, shall I?”
“I’m sorry.” She sniffled and drew a tissue from her pocket.
“Cry some more if you need to, it’s fine. Get it out of your system and then get to work.”
“Work?” Sniff. “Find a job?”
“No, no. Get to your easel. There’s nothing like putting paint to canvas to cure whatever ails you. Be it heartbreak, grief, anger—paint it out.”
She shook her head. Paint? Impossible.
Or maybe not.
She had the easel Ben had given her. She could set it up here and continue to stay inside the house.
Anna found lemon in the fridge and the sugar bowl on the counter. She carried them over to the table and went back for the kettle. “And get out of this house. Come back to class.”