"Just kidding." She skipped away. He was decent, really. She pedaled to
the studio, ate a carrot that was getting old, cut up an apple and ate
that with a piece of cheddar, and made a mug of tea which she balanced
on her stomach as she lay on her bed. She didn't have a violin, and she
wasn't sure what she'd be getting into if she started going over to Tom
Merrill's. She played piano well enough to fool around, to maybe get at
what she was feeling. Her eyes closed, and, without opening them, she
lowered the half empty mug to the stone floor.
An hour later, she brushed her hair and put on a slinky black T-shirt.
She folded a sweater, weighed it down with a book in the bike basket,
and coasted down the mountain. Her favorite table was empty, a good
sign. She ordered a beer and put the book on the table, but she did not
read it, preferring to watch cars and people pass by, enjoying a
feeling of community. I mean, I live here, she thought. I'm not going
back. The words still thrilled her.
Patrick arrived 45 minutes later looking pretty much as he had in the
morning. "How are ya?" she asked, not wanting to throw herself at him.
"Thirsty . . . Gert died."
"Damn."
"Yeah. This morning. I just called." She pushed her bottle in his
direction and watched him take two long swallows. "Thanks," he said.
"Ginger--that's her niece--is supposed to arrive tonight. She's staying
at the house, so I said I'd be there."
"I'm sorry, Patrick."
"I am, too. I keep seeing Gert lying in that hospital bed all alone."
He paused. "Strange thing happened: she asked me not to let her niece
have a chest that was in the attic. It was like her last wish. She said
the chest was hers. 'Mine, my love,' she said. She was whispering. I
could barely hear her. When she said it, her face changed and she
looked like a girl."
"Oh, Patrick."
"She seemed almost happy. I think she was happy."
"Maybe she wasn't so alone," Willow said.
Patrick spread his hands, palms up. "Anyway--I promised, about the
chest."
"What are you going to do now?" she asked.
"Thanks, Eve." Patrick took his beer and considered. "Go home, I guess.
Wait."
"What about the chest? Is it big?"
"Not very," Patrick said.
"Could you hide it somewhere?"
"I guess I could put it under my bed and pretend that it was mine."
"But, the niece may have seen it before."
"You're right," Patrick said.
"You could put it under the bed with a garbage bag around it--just to
hide it. Then we could figure out how to move it later, bring it up to
my house or take it to the dump."
"I don't know about the dump," Patrick said. "It would be like throwing
her away."
"No dump," Willow said.
"The garbage bag is a good idea. That's what I'll do. So . . . " He
stood. "I'll miss you. Love that T-shirt." He meant what was
underneath. She wiggled in her chair, pleased.
"I've got the day off tomorrow," she told him. "I'd love to see you."
"Good deal. Here, after work?" They agreed and she watched him leave,
walking slowly. She wanted to tell him about her decision, but he had a
lot on his mind. It could wait until tomorrow. Also, that would give
her another day to make sure it was for real. She knew it was, but it
wouldn't hurt to sleep on it one more night.
In the morning, she wrote to the Dean at Stanford, requesting a leave
of absence. Willow (Clara) Brown, she signed it. It's my name, damnit,
she said to herself. Every one has always called me 'Willow.' I can't
help it if Dad is a Brahms freak. I mean, there's nothing wrong with
Clara, but Willow is my name. She was working herself up to call home.
Writing the letter first made the decision more of a fait accompli,
even though she hadn't mailed it.
She rode her bike into town and dropped the letter through the slot
inside the post office. "That's that," she said and felt better. She
called collect from a pay phone and got her mother.
"Hi, Mom."
"Willow, dear!"
"How are you?"
"Just fine. We're all fine. We're worried about you. Are you all
right?"
"Never better. Did you get my last letter?"
"The one describing your house and your new friend?"
"Yup. Well--things have moved on. Patrick is more than a friend."