Starfish by Patty Dann

Author:Patty Dann
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2022-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

“It’s a fine sermon about fasting when the preacher just had lunch.”

—Ecuadorian Proverb

The next day was Saturday. I still had six weeks to prepare for Mrs. Flax’s party, but I wanted to make sure I had all the utensils I needed to bake the birthday cake and cookies. After checking what I had and making a list of the things I needed, I stood at the kitchen sink, looking out at what used to be a stand of fragile oaks and weeping willows behind the convent and was now a dense green awning of summer leaves.

I checked my list again, then I took a deep breath, picked up the phone and dialed the number for Colonial Gracious Homes. I held the receiver in one hand and gripped the edge of the sink with the other.

A young woman answered the phone. “Colonial Gracious Homes,” she said brightly. “Modern living in the colonial spirit. How may I direct your call?” She definitely did not have a Texas accent.

“Hello,” I said, clearing my throat. “Hello,” I repeated. “My name is Charlotte Flax. I’m calling about my rent. I live at 4 Harvest Road, the house next to the condominiums.”

I’m not sure why I said I was calling about my rent, because, of course, that was not why I was calling at all. There was a brief silence at the other end, and as I stared out the kitchen window I imagined I saw a line of nuns walking through the woods in their long black habits, their rosaries and small prayer books in their hands.

The young woman on the other end of the phone said, “The guard house? May I put you on hold for a moment?”

“Yes,” I said, sighing, as I blasted the water on hard and washed an already washed glass.

I stood there like that, with the phone tucked under my ear, washing clean dishes and listening to a Muzak recording of “Greensleeves” until the woman came back on the phone.

“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting,” she said. “Are you calling to arrange a tour?”

“No!” I said. “I got a letter that I’m supposed to move, that you need my house, and I love my house. I wrote a letter that was in the Grove Sentinel. Did you see it?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Just a moment, please.” She put me on hold for a few seconds, then came back again. “Mr. Winterson is out of the office right now. May I have your number and he’ll call you back?”

“Yes, of course,” I said. I gave her my number. Then I hung up and watched the mirage of nuns disappear into the woods.

I felt relieved and frightened. At least I wasn’t just waiting to be evicted. I gazed at the trees outside the window and thought about my grandparents’ pear trees and remembered how my grandmother would set her pies out to cool on the kitchen counter. I preferred that memory to my memory of buying underwear for the undertaker to dress her in for her funeral.

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