Stranger at the Door. Laura Abbot

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      SAM DEPARTS THE NEXT morning for Montana where his air force buddy Mike has offered his vacation cabin on the Yellowstone River. The fiction is that Sam is on a fishing trip. The truth? He’s escaping.

      The day after he leaves, our older daughter Jenny comes up from Colorado Springs where she lives with her contractor husband Don. Usually I look forward to her visits. Today, though, the effort to mask my feelings is almost more than I can handle.

      “Since Daddy’s in Montana, I thought you might like company,” Jenny says from the kitchen where she’s making our lunch—tuna salad. “Besides, I’m kind of lonely myself, now that both girls are off at Colorado State.”

      “Empty nest?” I query from the breakfast room where I’m setting the table.

      She grins wistfully. “I always thought I’d be immune.”

      “Impossible,” I assure her. “Not if you love your children.”

      After making small talk during our meal, we retire to the family room, where she settles on the sofa with a book, our tiger cat Orville curled in her lap. I sit in my chair, knitting. Fifteen minutes pass before she lays down her novel. “Have you thought any more about Lisa’s and my suggestion that you write your memoirs?”

      “I don’t know how I could find the hours.”

      “Mother, you’re running out of excuses. Now that Daddy’s off fishing, you’ll have plenty of time to give it a try.”

      My forty-five-year-old firstborn is every bit as stubborn now as she was as a toddler when, arms folded defiantly, she would stomp her foot and tell me “no.” She wore me down then, and nothing seems to have changed because I’m actually considering doing what she asks.

      “My life isn’t that exciting.”

      “Nonsense. Your history is interesting to us. We really don’t know that much about what you were like as a girl or about your early married years. It’ll be a legacy for your grandchildren.”

      “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

      Jenny fixes me with her brown eyes, so like mine. “At the beginning, of course.”

      How can I tell her it isn’t the beginning I’m worried about. That part I can handle. But the rest? How honest can I be? Particularly in light of recent events. Our daughters will expect portraits of the parents they think they know.

      Jenny reaches into her tote bag. “Here.” She thrusts a thick journal into my hands, then pulls out a package of my favorite ballpoint pens and plops it on the table. “Now you have no excuse. What have you got to hide? Just pick up a pen and jump in.”

      What have you got to hide? My thoughts leap to Mark Taylor. Oh, my darling girl, life isn’t always as it appears. Dreams become distorted, we do things we never thought we would, and in the twinkling of an eye everything changes.

      Jenny arches an eyebrow and waits for my answer.

      I sigh. “You’re not letting me wiggle out of this, are you?”

      Her mouth twitches in a mischievous smile. “I of the iron will? Of course, not.” She sobers. “Please, Mom.”

      Picking up the journal, I thumb through the blank pages, wondering how I can possibly fill them. Wondering how to keep the truth from shattering my daughters’ illusions.

      “What if you learn some things you’d rather not know?”

      “Ooh…” My daughter shivers with delight. “Family skeletons? I can’t wait.”

      “Don’t be too sure.”

      “Do it for us, please, Mom?”

      In my head I fast-forward a film of memories, the laughter and tears of a lifetime welling within me. I nod. “I’ll try.”

      After Jenny leaves, I move to the window with its view of the mountains, now in early autumn adorned with skirts of golden aspen. So many years. So many subjects I’d sooner avoid. But I cannot write a fairy tale, especially not now, when the happily-ever-after is in doubt. Sitting in the armchair that has been my refuge for years, I pick up a pen and open the journal. Where to start?

      Glancing around the room, my focus settles first on the man-size sofa and recliner, then on the stone fireplace and finally on the floor-to-ceiling bookcase. As if drawn by a magnet, my eyes light on the small figurine peering at me from the fourth shelf. The Buddha-shaped body is both grotesque and comical, but it is the impish, all-knowing smile that pierces my heart. The billiken.

      Now I know how to begin.

      Springbranch, Louisiana

      1945

      THE PEALING CHURCH BELLS and deafening staccato of firecrackers mark the event forever in my memory. My scholarly father scooped me into his arms and danced me up and down the sidewalk among throngs of neighbors spilling from their houses. “The Japanese have surrendered,” he shouted. “Praise the Lord, the war is over!” Then cradling me close, he whispered for my ear alone. “Remember this day always, Isabel. Freedom has prevailed.”

      I didn’t know what prevailed meant, but I understood something momentous had happened.

      I can still picture the tear-stained face of Mrs. Ledoux, whose son was on a ship somewhere in the Pacific, and hear the pop of the champagne cork from Old Man Culpepper’s front porch. Small boys beat tattoos on improvised drums and grown men waved flags semaphore-style over their heads.

      I was six and had no memory of a time before rationing, savings stamps and victory gardens. When the family gathered around the radio listening to news from the front, even though I couldn’t grasp much, I knew “our boys” were heroes. But the freedom my daddy talked about was a puzzling concept. Looking back, I realize how far from harm’s way we were in the small, backwater town in north central Louisiana.

      That night Grandmama Phillips, my mother’s mother, led me into her upstairs bedroom. After Grandpapa died, she came to live with us and brought an astonishing array of antique furniture, including a china closet, СКАЧАТЬ