(Jeremy)
Women just consume me. I think that’s why I’ve never married. I just feel faint in their presence. They are such an affirmation of life for me that I can’t imagine tying myself to just one. Their variety, and my reaction to that variety, continues to astound me. That’s why I enjoy teaching at a large university. There is always a changing, fresh supply of the creatures. I really stand in awe of them. I’ve yet to meet one who fails to bewitch me. When I see one who’s just been crying, I want to put my arm around her, draw her near, tell her to shush, and collapse her into me. The woman before me was handsome rather than pretty. Solidly built. Strong-looking arms. Her brown hair should have been cut into a shorter style years ago, but obviously she was stubborn and wore it braided and then piled around her head, wisps sticking out here and there.
“I know it’s a bother. I really apologize. But, well, you see, my friend killed himself a couple of years ago and I have no idea what’s in the notebook, but I thought I’d look. Something of his that I could have.”
Smile now, Jeremy, I told myself. Smile that deep, gentle, kind smile you use when the young undergraduate lasses come to your office with questions, tears in their eyes over the C-minuses on their papers.
(Sarah)
I liked his smile. It seemed to speak from his heart.
“You’ll have to go up there alone. I don’t like to go up there. It’s where my husband hanged himself. Five years ago.”
Just saying it made me bitter again. I always said “hanged himself” instead of “killed himself”. Killing himself would have been one thing. A dozen decent ways to do that. He could have run his damn truck at 80 miles an hour into a bridge piling and they would have called it an accident. Or he could have gone out into the woods and blown his brains out with one of his damn guns. But instead I found Roger in the attic, where he had turned himself into a human plumb bob whose point pierced through to the bottom of my gut.
“Come on in.”
(Jeremy)
The carpets had been removed, the wood floors stripped and polished, and woven rugs were everywhere I looked: on the floors, hanging on the walls, lying over the backs of sofas and armchairs. The house should have been a riot of colored yarn, but everything looked slightly dusty. Drapes were drawn, and little sunlight made its way into the rooms where the life of color awaited the beams of light. Looms were set up in the living room, in the dining room, and even – as I looked down the hallway through to the kitchen – in the eating area, but they looked long unused. Projects started, never completed.
“A brilliant deduction on my part tells me you weave,” I said and added, “My mother used to weave.” Finally a smile came to her lips. It was like a smile that had been long unused, a stranger to the lips that formed it.
“I owned a yarn store downtown. But I’m no businesswoman. I need to sell these looms off, but I hate to part with them.”
“It’s such a contrast to when my friend lived here,” I said, and reached down to finger a shawl thrown over the back of a nearby rocker. “This is lovely work,” I said as I caressed the ugly mixture of dull colors. I hated weaving and knitting. It was why I moved south: so I’d never have to wear another damn sweater.
“Thank you. Did the Franklins own the house then?”
“Yes. A nice elderly couple. I wonder what happened to them. They rented out the summer porch upstairs.”
“It’s my favorite place to weave. I have the 72-inch loom up there. Mr. Franklin died and his wife sold the home and moved to a nursing home. I used to visit her. What was your friend’s name?”
“Don.”
“His last name? Maybe I knew him. I was in school here then, too.”
“Bowerman. Don Bowerman. We were both English majors. I’m sorry. I never introduced myself. I’m Jeremy Broad,” I said, remembered my smile, and slowly extended a hand. She took it. Her grip was firm, her fingers dry – somewhat rough – and I imagined the thousands of yards of yarn that had passed through them. My mother’s hands had had that same dry rough feel to them, as if the fibers of the yarn had sucked all the moisture out of her hands.
“Sarah Winston.” She told me her name and the smile came again. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
Oh Jeremy, Jeremy. Go very slowly now.
“I’d like that very much.”
