My Year of Casual Acquaintances (South Bay #1)

24.

I ring the bell three times before she answers. When she finally opens the door, Mrs. Ostrowski squints up at me and blinks over and over, as if trying to decide whether I am a real woman or an apparition. “Margaret,” she says. “What a nice surprise.”

I’m surprised she’s surprised. “Hi, Mrs. Ostrowski. We had a date for three o’clock. It’s a few minutes past three right now.”

“Oh—oh—yes,” she stammers. “Sometimes I have trouble hearing that doorbell. I remember, of course. I was reading and I lost track of the time. Won’t you come in, dear?”

I walk in from the bright sunlight and follow her into the kitchen. It’s been years since I’ve seen the inside of this house, but nothing has changed. I remember the thick, grayish-green wall-to-wall carpeting in the living areas and matching linoleum in the kitchen, the furniture that looks like it came out of a Sears catalog, the old-fashioned seascape prints on the walls in ornate gilt-edged frames. I inhale the musty odor I’ve always associated with the house.

Mrs. O. ushers me into a chair at the round, Formica-top table in the kitchen alcove. There is no air conditioning, but an old ceiling fan above the table rotates lazily, stirring the warm air. With the blinds drawn and the fan operating, it’s tolerable in the room.

“Is it hot outside?” she asks.

“Around eighty today. Not as bad as it was in August.”

“Well, thank heavens for that. Sometimes we get our hottest weather in September.”

I nod. Mrs. O. bustles around the kitchen and returns to the table with a tray bearing a plastic pitcher, two matching glasses filled with ice cubes, and a small plate of cookies. “What are we drinking?” I ask.

“It’s—it’s—you know, the drink named after that golfer. I forget what you call it—him. Iced tea and homemade lemonade.”

“Arnold Palmer?”

“Yes, that sounds right,” she says. “Good for you.”

I take a tentative sip. It’s delicious – lemony, aromatic, and refreshing, with a hint of sweetness. To my disappointment, the cookies are ginger snaps, which I’ve always regarded as more of a punishment than a treat, surpassed only by graham crackers in their lack of appeal. Not wishing to be impolite, however, I take one and nibble it around the edges. Before sitting down, Mrs. O. pulls a bottle out of the cupboard. Mount Gay rum. She adds a healthy pour to her own Arnold Palmer and poises the bottle above my glass.

“Join me?”

It unnerves me to discover that sweet little Mrs. O. is a tippler. Has she already been hitting the bottle? Maybe that would account for her confusion upon my arrival. “No, thanks.” I reflexively hold a hand over the top of my glass. Three o’clock is a tad early, even for me.

She returns the rum to the cupboard, sits down at the table, and takes a large swig of her spiked tea. “Are you doing okay, dear?” she asks. “I mean, since the divorce and all.”

“Yes, I’m fine. But how about you, Mrs. Ostrowski? You’re the one who’s had the real shock this year.”

She sighs. “It was a shock, you’re right. John wasn’t sick for long. And I didn’t expect him to die. I thought he was too mean to die.”

What was it she said on the phone that day? “The man was a piece of shit.” I say, “What happened to him . . . if you don’t mind my asking?”

“He had bleeding on the brain. You know, from taking blood thinners. They drilled a hole to relieve the pressure.”

“That sounds awful.”

“Oh, it’s no big deal; they do it all the time,” she says. “Most people recover – that’s another reason I thought he’d be okay. But John went downhill after the procedure, and he never came home again. They moved him from the hospital room into a hospice facility at the end. Do you know, he was yelling at me about something, and right in the middle of a sentence, he up and died? Just like that.” She snaps her fingers.

“In the middle of a sentence? I didn’t realize that was possible.”

“With John, it was to be expected. He spent ninety percent of his time yelling about one thing or another. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again – the world is a better place since he’s gone.”

“Mrs. Ostrowski, did he—”

“Nancy, dear. Call me Nancy.”

“Did he—hit you or anything like that?”

“Not with fists. He never abused anyone in that way.”

“He was verbally abusive?”

She nods. “Who said ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones, but’—darn—how does it go?”

I complete the quote: “But words will never hurt me.”

“Right. Well, whoever said that . . . he or she is a moron. John hurt me every day with his words, and I’ve got a million scars to prove it. Not here,” she tells me, touching her cheek, “or here,” she says, lifting an arm. “But here.” She holds one hand to her heart. “It’s better since he’s been gone, but I can still feel the pain inside me. Sometimes I think it will never go away entirely.”

“Oh, Mrs.—I mean, Nancy—I’m sorry.”

“You must have known,” she says, giving me a challenging gaze.

“That he was mean?”

“Yes.”

“He always seemed . . . cranky. Never smiled, as far as I can remember,” I say. “I thought maybe he just didn’t like us. I hoped he was nicer to you.”

“Well, he wasn’t.”

“Clearly.”

“Your son sure was scared of him. And who could blame the boy after what happened with the bicycle.”

At first, this statement makes no sense to me. Then, a shudder of apprehension. “What bicycle?”

“The red one. You don’t know, do you?”

I shake my head, tense about where the conversation is going.

“You and Henry had given Michael that red bike for Christmas, I recall. Oh, how he loved that bike. But he was careless with it. That’s how boys are, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“One afternoon you were out somewhere – one of your business meetings, I think. And Michael was riding up and down your driveway, making figure eights with the bike. He was going too fast and he lost control and plowed right into the flowerbed in front of our house. John had planted some blooms there, and he’d been working hard on it all day. Well, it was about three-quarters ruined after Michael ran over it.”

“Oh God.” I raise my half-empty glass. “You know, Nancy, I think I’d like a little rum after all.”

“Sure, honey.” She stands and opens the refrigerator, peers in for a moment, and slams it shut. Then she opens cupboard doors, but not in the area where she stashed the rum. “This will sound silly,” she says in an apologetic tone, “but did you ask me for something? I forget what I was looking for.”

“Rum,” I say, getting up and retrieving the bottle myself.

“Oh, of course. Help yourself,” Mrs. O. says unnecessarily, since I’m already doing so. She sits back down at the table. “So, what are you up to these days?” she asks.

I steer her back to the story. “You were telling me about the bicycle. How Michael ran over your husband’s flowerbed.”

“Right, yes. John was outside when it happened, puttering with something or other, and he was furious with Michael. I don’t think I’ve seen him angrier. And that’s saying a lot.”

“Did he—do something to the bike? Break it, or flatten the tires, or anything?”

“No, like I said before, John was never violent in the physical sense . . . not with people, not with things either. He confiscated the bike. Michael begged him not to, said he was sorry, it would never happen again. But John said, ‘You’re right it won’t happen again because you’ve seen the last of that bicycle.’”

“Michael’s version was different. He said he rode his bike to the park that day, and someone stole it when he left it unattended for a few minutes. I don’t understand why he didn’t tell me the truth.”

“John made sure that wouldn’t happen. He told Michael, ‘If you dare tattle to your parents like a little crybaby, I’ll plow my car into your father’s precious BMW the same way you plowed your bike into my beautiful blooms. And I’ll tell them the whole thing is your fault. You’ll be in big trouble.’”

I top up my glass with a little more rum as I digest this news. In a quiet tone that I hope doesn’t sound accusing, I ask her, “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“Honey, when John was mad, you did not cross him. It’s that simple. He stashed the bike in his workshop – the little shed behind the house. I waited a few days for him to calm down, and I said to him, ‘Why don’t we return the bike now? Tell them how the boy ruined your garden, and we can say you took the bike away for a couple of days to teach him a lesson.’ But John claimed it was too late. Said he already gave the bike away. Donated it to some kids’ charity.” Her shoulders sag in a posture of great weariness as she tells me this. “Margaret, I should’ve said something. But the man was such a bully. I was as scared of him as Michael was. I’m sorry. I’m sorry every day.”

“You shouldn’t be. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I mean I’m sorry every day that I wasted my life with that son of a bitch. Do you ever feel that way about Henry?”

I think about this before answering. “I can’t say that I do. Our marriage wasn’t wonderful, but it wasn’t terrible either. In any case, it’s better not to dwell on the past.”

“That’s good advice,” she said, “except the past is all I have left to dwell on.” After making this glum pronouncement, she shivers a little. I’m astonished at the way older people can be cold, even in the steamiest weather.

“Can I get you a sweater?” I ask.

“Oh, yes, please. I think there’s one in the study.”

She leads me down the hall to the study, where I hope to find a sweater draped over the desk chair. “I don’t see it,” I say. “Maybe the hall closet?”

“No, dear, I’m sure it’s here.” She searches up and down the floor-to-ceiling built-in shelves as she walks in distracted circles around the small room, which is cluttered with many years’ accumulation of books, magazines, and paraphernalia. I wouldn’t think she’d leave her sweater on a bookshelf, but I’ve seen odder things.

Then I notice something else that’s accumulated on the walnut desk – bills. The desktop is a scene of chaos, scattered with a mound of papers that look as if they’ve been dumped out of a bag with no thought to organization. The invoices at the top of the mound bear prominent Past Due stamps. My heart sinks. What a mess. Though I’m not shocked to discover that Nancy must have deferred to her husband about the finances.

She sees me frowning at the desk and says, “It’s not a pretty sight, is it? I’ll catch up on it next week. I must say, the one thing I miss about John is that he took care of all the bills.”

I nod, grateful that I’m not part of that older generation of women who went through marriage depending on their husbands to handle all the business affairs and make the important decisions. Come to think of it, my resolutely independent Mum’s never been that way either, even though she’s not much younger than Nancy. “I could help you sort out the bills next week,” I say. “If you like.”

“Oh, that would be marvelous,” she exclaims, looking relieved.

I feel a rush of pity for this poor woman who has lived such an unhappy life under the thumb of a man who treated her with cruelty. To be truthful, I’m also feeling guilty right now – guilty to learn that John terrorized not only his wife, but Michael as well, and right under my nose. And all the while, I dismissed the man as a crotchety old coot, unwilling or unable to recognize him as a treacherous bully.

I leave the Ostrowski home shaken by Mrs. O.’s revelation. After acquiring some distance from the event, however, I now question her reliability as a narrator. The woman is so muddled. Perhaps she’s mixed up the details or fabricated the entire story. When I return the following week to help with the bills, I devise a sort of test. I ask Nancy to repeat the story and challenge her to add new information to check for consistency. “Do you remember what time of year your husband took the bike away from Michael?”

“It was in the winter, not long after Christmas,” she replies. Whether or not she’s correct about the circumstances of the bike’s disappearance, she’s nailed the timing.

“What color was it? I’ve forgotten,” I say.

“Bright red, like a candy apple. And it had one of those little license plates with Michael’s name on it.” Right once more.

She tells me again about Michael doing figure eights around the driveway before skidding out of control, and about John donating the bike to charity before she could convince him to return it. Her story holds up. But she has zero recollection of why I’ve come today.

I apply myself to the task at hand in the study, knowing it may take hours to complete. Nancy settles into a chair on the opposite side of the desk, but whenever I ask her a question about anything, she grows befuddled. Fortunately, I discover John was a well-organized bully. There’s a tall wood filing cabinet to the side of the desk where copies of older paid invoices have been filed in alphabetical sequence. The checkbook, check register, postage stamps, and envelopes are in the top drawer of the desk.

As I arrange the bills into neat piles, eliminating duplicate statements as I go, it occurs to me I may not be the appropriate person to delve into the Ostrowski finances. I know there are no offspring – Henry and I used to joke that any children in residence would’ve run away from home to escape Mr. O. as soon as they were capable of ambulation.

“Is there anyone who can help you pay bills, and run errands, and things?” I ask Nancy. “You know, like a close friend or relative I can contact?”

Who can I call for you?

Nancy sighs. “No one, dear. That’s why I so appreciate you helping out.”

Going through the files, I discover that most of the bills have been paid through May of this year, which was about three months after John died. It’s only in the past few months that the task has been neglected. Perhaps Nancy understands how to manage household finances after all, or perhaps she had a previous helper who is now absent or forgotten. Either way, the situation points to recent memory loss as the culprit.

She’s nodding off in her chair, and since she’s no help to me anyway, I persuade her to lie down for a nap. While I put things in order and write checks, I notice a letter from a lawyer about matters concerning the estate. I make note of his name and phone number. I also find a pocket-sized address book, the old handwritten kind, and I flip through and find a couple of people named “Ostrowski.” I note their names and numbers as well. I’m part busybody and part sleuth. Later, after Nancy signs the checks and I drop the payments in the mail, I’ll make a few calls. Perhaps I can locate her next of kin and let them know she’s struggling with memory issues. Damn. If only I hadn’t ignored her messages for so long, perhaps I could’ve stepped in and helped her weeks before now.