“ Doris. I just couldn't stand seeing them go to waste.”
“Sure,” Gus said. “It was nice of you to drop by, Doris. We'll take good care of your lemons.”
“ Doris,” she repeated. “Thirty-two years I was married. My husband's name was Gene. A mean man, through and through. And one day for no reason he says, ‘That's it, I'm sick of that old thing, all that mess in the yard,' and he goes out there to the lemon tree and starts chopping away at the trunk.”
Now she had their attention.
“I damn near took his head off,” Doris said. “Luckily, they thought he fell on his axe.”
Then she was free, running back to her house through a heavy shower down the slick street, past the garbage bags set out at the curb in front of each house that crouched in pools, water streaming off their deep black plastic, as thick and viscous-looking as blood. Well, her lemons wouldn't be out there. She lingered on the front porch a long time, even though she was shivering, thinking Gus sure could use a new hat. The lights at their house had gone out; the street was peaceful. She had gotten away with it, said what had to be said, and they hadn't believed her, or the police would be here by now.
At ten, Doris peeked out to the backyard through the curtains. She couldn't really see the lemon tree. But she could cry, so she did, standing at the kitchen sink, gripping the side, bawling about something or other for a long time, until she was all tired out and went to bed.
And out in the backyard, all that spring night long, the fragrance of lemons suffused the mist, and the leaves of the lemon tree trembled joyfully under the cool droplets of water.
A Grandmother's Tale
The world has gotten as hard-boiled as an egg forgotten on the stove, I'll grant you that, but magic still lurks in the corners, and sometimes even fairy tales come true. It happened to my grandmother, Jane Noonan, who told me this story of her life in Ireland long ago, and I tell it to you just as she told it to me.
He came to her on a night drifting with a fog that softened the brick of the old Irish seaside town where she grew up. Jane Kelly was her name then, plain Jane because she was tall and rawboned, not the kind of girl the boys want to be seen with, a strong, angular woman as she grew older, with straight bangs and lank hair. Her parents were long dead; and who else would have guessed that behind that flat chest and those thin cheeks hid a mild and loving soul?
Her shoulders and back washing and ironing at the laundry paid her bills, and the years passed in good health, even if she lived a meager life centered in her rooms, filled with the green plants she tended. When she was forty, she gave up on the dream that had sustained her for so long, of a husband and children coming along for her to take care of. Gray appeared in her hair as she decided to leave her youth, and she spoke less and less. She didn't have to say it to herself, that she had nothing to live for anymore.
And it was soon after that he came to her, on a Friday night in April when she had gone to visit her sick employer, the old lady who owned the laundry, bringing flowers from the pots at home and a book or two. Her employer lived not three blocks away, so she walked down the cobbled streets of the town under the yellow lamps, carrying her packages. It was late, and she kept glancing around anxiously, because two fearsome murders of women had occurred in the town within the past year.
As she labored up the short hill with her packages, a man came toward her. He was hard to see in the fog; she had the impression of a long coat and a real man's hat, a fedora or something like that. He lifted it as he passed, and she thought, Why, I've never seen him here. Just then he said from behind her, Pardon me, and she hastened forward, as it was never a good idea to talk to strange men, but he said pardon me again in such a gentle voice that she couldn't help turning around and asking, What is it?
I'm lost, he said in a smiling self-effacing voice. I'm new in this place, and I'm looking for the Grant Hotel.
You walked right past it, Jane said. It's at the top of the hill. I'm going that way myself-and then she stopped. Thank you, ma'am, he said, very politely, and he went on, and she thought Oh well, it's only two hundred feet, am I going to trail along behind him like a ninny? You can walk with me, she said.
Under the lights of the hotel she had a good look at him. He was a short man with a bit of a potbelly, a large head furred with curly reddish hair, and a full beard of a somewhat darker shade. He would be fifty years along or even older, and an unkind person might call him bowlegged. Not a handsome man at all, but his brown eyes were kind, she could see that. Well then, many thanks for being my guide, he said, and she was about to go on her way, when he said in a hesitating voice, I know you'll probably say no, but I can't help asking if you might come in and have a cup of tea with me.
Through the carved wooden door he held open, a warm breeze drifted, bringing savory dinner smells and the clinking of dishes and the laughter of strangers. Human life seemed to have retreated into the hotel, leaving only poor forsaken souls to wander outside. He was looking down bashfully, about to say good night, when she answered with the same shyness, I suppose I could spare five minutes.
In they went, up the carpeted stairs to the dining room, where they sat down near the fireplace. A young waiter with big ears under his clipped red hair, wearing an overstarched shirt, brought them a heavy tray of tea and bread and jam, which was all they asked for, the hour being late.
They began to talk, and it was as if they'd never stop. His name was Francis Noonan and he had just moved from County Armagh to work in the slaughterhouse down the road. His wife had died the year before and the young ones were grown, so he had closed his shoemaker's shop and left the sad memories.
Yet sadness was never a minute stamped on him. He had a basic cheer which she liked very much, and a way of listening like he was a priest with only one parishioner. No one had ever listened so closely to her.
The warmth of the fire, the soothing tea, and his own kind way worked on her like a spell; she felt a drowsy contentment she hadn't felt since childhood and wondered where her nervousness had flown.
After an hour she said good-bye, and he asked if he could walk with her the next afternoon, to see more of the town. She said yes and ran off to see the old lady, whom she had forgotten about until then, dropping off her packages and leaving after five minutes, then wandering home under the saffron lamps trying to remember every single thing that had been said.
The next day they did walk. Sea-fog still ran along the streets, but it didn't steal her pleasure. Francis was fifty-five, he said, clearly a lonely man as she was a lonely woman. He did have a merry set of eyes, and though the rest of him reminded her a bit of a troll, she knew that she herself was no trophy, and all her old dreams came creeping up on her again.
And so they got into the habit of walking together after work. Jane bought herself a new plaid skirt and red sweater, and once he brought her flowers. It was all so old-fashioned, she knew, laughable to the young people who hung about the pier, a joke to the girls at the laundry. Jane and her troll! Jane in love!
Real life and real love didn't mix well, even then. The world was threatened then, as it is now, with war and poverty and hate and crime. Jane had believed that the stupid innocence she felt then could never survive. Yet it did survive; it flourished like a palm in the tropics.
Love it was, and she was sure Francis felt the same. She felt it in the touch of his hands on her and the cast of his face, and she herself was helpless to hide it. He was in love with her, and she with him, and damn the rest of them. In another month, he asked her to marry him.