Along the hallway, boxes stand shoulder to shoulder, cradling my agitated life. Some of the boxes are neatly taped up, their contents revealed only by the scribble of black Sharpie along the top flap. Other boxes hold things that won’t be contained: long limbs and defiant shapes showing signs of wear, of age. The cracked sconce of a torchiere purchased during a snowstorm in Philly; a heavy, chipped bowl brought back from an antique store in Maine; crackled yellow dishes from John and Mary’s tag sale in rural Vermont; a mother-of-pearl turtle pin missing one delicate foot. My ragamuffin life collected in these dusty boxes.
Tonight the walls are empty. I have spackled and packed. And now I sit in a muted, near-empty room, my feet up, a battered Gibson guitar leaning against the couch. And I will take that guitar with me when I go, and will lean it against a new wall and wait for someone to play it, for someone to come and make music again in my life. On the coffee table next to my toes is a brochure with William Kentridge’s black figures in motion across the page, each figure carrying all manner of things...
It was Christmas Eve, a lifetime ago, that he unveiled that polished Takamine. Opening the case, he lifted it gently into my understated lap. A gift for me. And I tried not to show my disappointment. It was such an easy present for that dark-haired musician, who worked in a music store. He ran his fingers over the glossy wood and tenderly anointed the strings… I do not recall what became of that guitar when I left, when I moved on to a man who picked out fine vintage jewelry, delicate scarves, lacy lingerie.
But all of that is lost…
I am on my own, the trunk of my car filled with painters tape, plastic sheeting, safety goggles, carpet knives. Heavy duty trash bags and gallon jugs of CLR. A shiny new mailbox; and next to that, a shovel so I can dig. Today the phone rings and the man tells me that there are mice—lots and lots of mice—in this “start over” house, this cottage by the lake. And when Karen asks what I will do, I tell her that I will learn different ways to use my shovel. And of course we both laugh, but I can taste the fear that will course through my veins when I land that steel over something that moves...
One night as we sip Chardonnay, my cousin Beth shares that she was once at war with a mouse. A mouse which, on that fateful day, had chewed through her oven mitts. She went to lift the pan from the flame, and there were her two raw thumbs exposed. Later when the mouse found the cheese and the cardboard box claimed him, she didn’t know what to do. The mouse quiet under there, she sat at her kitchen table to think. And when she telephoned her father, he never uttered a word: just strode through the front door a few minutes later, lifted the box and knocked the mouse dead with one swift, hard blow from a trowel. Then he scooped the lifeless body into the box, which he flung into the weeds as he left, and went back to his TV show.
But I have no father to call, no man to slay whatever might threaten me there...
It is warm today when I drive to the house in the hills. Everywhere the birds sing, the trees reach long tender arms to a cloudless sky. The lake is quiet. My soon-to-be house is still. And I stand alone on the road and try to imagine how it will be. With my shovel, my knives, my tools, my lonely limbs. And here come Roberto and Martha, the people next door, who tell me that my boy and I will find friends here, that we are new family. They write their number on paper I dig out of an overburdened purse; Roberto says he will take down trees, that he will plow when the snow falls again. Like finding a lucky penny, I have found these dark haired neighbors, these two new friends. You are not alone, Rachel, they say, and they both roll the “r.” And later I stand there and study my house, and decide that I will put one lovely lamp in the large front window, its soft light spilling at night onto the lawn. And then I press the numbers into my phone to call a man who will come to hang a new front light, which will welcome me home each night, which will announce to the world that this is a joyful little home on a tranquil lake next door to Roberto and Martha. And I know that I will be happy here. That there will be music here. That there will be love...
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