The Number 7 (6 page)

Dad smiled thoughtfully at the mention of Mom. It was a knee-jerk reaction for all of us.

“Do you think you could identify old photographs of Grandma and Grandpa?” I coyly took another dollop of crème fraîche and plopped it on my potatoes. I didn't want to give anything away by showing too much interest in the old photographs. I didn't want anyone to suspect anything abnormal, like my sudden dying interest to know more information about Grandpa.

“Mmm,” Dad stalled, obviously distressed by my request. “I could try,” he sighed with resignation.

At ten-thirty, I retired to my room. I hadn't yet unpacked all my stuff, so I put off the night's homework and decided it was time to truly move in. I spilled the first box's contents onto the bed: hairbrushes, barrettes, a stack of old magazines I planned to one day read, past honor roll certificates, and a few cards my grandmother had sent me when I was younger. I had kept them hidden in a shoebox in my bedroom with other mementos from childhood: ribbons from swim team, notes from teachers, and pictures of Mom. When Dad got the call Grandma had died, I pulled the cards out to reread them. There were only five. All birthday cards, but I never received them on my birthday. Always at Christmas. They were plain—nothing overly sentimental or too personal. She'd never written anything inside, just a scribbled “Grandma and Grandpa M.” A $10 bill accompanied the cards twice, and once I discovered a pressed clover. I don't know why I kept the cards. It would probably bother Dad to know I had. I was unloading the second box when I heard a trembling sound above me. The sharp shrill noise sent a shock through my nervous system.

This time there was no denying the legitimacy of the ringing. Since the last call, my rational brain fought to believe that it had all been a dream; I earnestly wanted to think that I had imagined the entire endeavor. But deep down I knew that the ringing, the voice, and the message had happened.

I rose from my place at my bed and quickly stepped out into the hallway. I looked to the right where shadows pranced along the walls like waves of tall grasses. They moved erratically, a tempest of light. Greta's bedroom door was closed.
Where was everyone? Could they hear the phone too?
I walked against the shadows toward the attic stairs, but the darkness seemed to pull me back. The shadows weren't grasses at all; they'd transformed into wild brambles, and I had to fight my way through them. Inside the attic stairwell, the strain ebbed and I suddenly felt propelled forward. A gust of damp air pushed me up the stairs to where the telephone rested on the desk. I carefully placed the receiver next to my ear and waited for my grandmother's voice.

When I turned seventeen in 1950, Mother decided to ship me off to live with her sister, Aunt Joan. No young daughter of hers was going to marry an old angler like she had, oh no. So, seemingly overnight, she uprooted me from Marblehead, Massachusetts, to Philadelphia.

I remember waiting in the central station for Aunt Joanie to come fetch me. I had never seen so many people! Flocks of single girls boarding trains together; young city slickers in pressed pinstriped suits and polished two-toned Oxfords; old, tired-looking men with cigarettes dangling from bottom lips and creased newspapers folded gently under their arms. Everyone was in a hurry to get somewhere.

A young black porter whistled to me. “Hey, girl, you comin' or you goin'?”

“I'm looking for my aunt, thank you very much.” I was searching for her, glancing over the heads of people walking around me.

“'Cause it looks like you lost.” His smile was wide and white.

At that moment, the steam engine's whistle screamed, and I turned to watch the train slowly leave the station. When I went to answer the porter again, he was gone. His smile was my first welcome to the big city, and he was right. I was lost.

Aunt Joanie hadn't been entirely honest with Mother when she told her there were loads of young GIs looking to get married in Philadelphia and why didn't she send me down for the summer? Aunt Joan didn't mention Uncle Buck had drunk himself straight out of a job again and they needed someone to help pay the rent. So the first thing Aunt Joan did after she met me at the station was take me to Sears Roebuck and buy me a clean dress and high heel shoes on store credit. The day after, she marched me back into Sears in their dress, on their credit, and she demanded they give me a job. They did. I was soon the new face of their Estée Lauder counter right in the middle of the store. I had never worn makeup a day in my life.

Aunt Joan couldn't find work as easily as I could, but eventually she got a job working the late shift at Old Blockley, Philadelphia's General Hospital. Mainly, her job involved fetching coffee and cigarettes for the doctors, and magazines and cigarettes for the patients. Every once in a while she would complain of an acute nervous condition, and would send me in her stead. The hospital didn't seem to mind very much as long as someone showed up. I'd sometimes take samples of nail lacquer from the makeup counter to the geriatric ward and paint the old ladies' fingernails. They seemed to like me all right.

One late night, when the hospital wing was dark and silent, I found Mrs. Maudelle, an eccentric old woman with a mane of wild, white hair, pacing the halls looking for her prized mare. The doctors used to say Mrs. Maudelle was 50 percent insane, 50 percent ornery, and 100 percent Southern, but I liked her. She was from Lexington, Kentucky, and she'd walk around telling everyone about the days when she was best in show. She said when she'd crossed the Mason-Dixon Line to marry her husband her life went to hell. She was probably right.

This night, her eyes spanned the walls and floor anxiously. She asked me who I was even though we had met countless times before. I tried quietly coaxing her back into her room, promising to bring her samples of her favorite rouge the next time I saw her, but the harder I pleaded, the wilder she got. She started scratching me and pulling at her hair and her robe. Then she screamed after the doctor in the white suit at the end of the hall. I saw him turn slowly toward us, but as he approached I saw he wasn't the doctor at all. He was the custodian.

“Good evening, ladies. How can I assist you?” He approached us warmly, but his smile was sad.

“Please, doctor,” said Maudelle. “I can't find my beautiful mare; the one with the gold-stitched bridle.”

“Madam, you can't expect a horse to be out on a night like this. It's storming outside. Please, allow me to escort you back to your room and we will look for her in the morning when there's better light.” He smiled tenderly at me, hoping I would keep up the ruse.

“Room 480,” I whispered, locking eyes with him.

He held out his arm, and the old woman took it fearlessly. He gently led her back down the hall to her room. By the time she was back in bed and settled the morning shift had arrived. The young man and I found ourselves punching out together, and then standing in the cold morning rain. We trotted across the street to Gary's Diner and poured into a booth.

I fumbled with the buttons on my jacket and tried rubbing out a couple brown stains on my cuff.

“I've got blood on me,” I pointed to where Mrs. Maudelle had scratched me. That old Southern gal had some fight left in her after all.

“Haven't we all?” the young man said. His tired eyes penetrated mine deeper than any others had ever before.

“Gerhard Magnusson,” he introduced himself, his soft, Swedish tongue incapable of producing the hard “G.” Holding out his hand, he smiled tenderly, and in that moment I fell in love for the first time in my life.

Dad and I pulled into Weaver's parking lot Wednesday night, and I was eager to see Gabe and share the good news. Two and half weeks later, my mums were looking better than ever. Even with all that snow.

The shop was understandably busy. Customers bustled about trying free samples of fresh goat cheese and chestnuts while getting lectured on the benefits of buying farm-fresh, never frozen, hormone-free turkeys. Dad and I navigated the crowds in search of our basic Thanksgiving fare. We liked to keep things simple on Thanksgiving; at least that's what happened after Mom passed away. As we turned down the dairy aisle, my eyes caught sight of a familiar head of copper hair.

“Hey there, neighbor,” Dad beamed as he walked up next to Rosemary. She lifted her eyes and gave her big, dental-hygienist smile. I envied her ability to pull off red lipstick.

“Hi Christian, Louisa,” she nodded to me. I waved while peering behind her, trying to get a glimpse of the produce corner. “Doing your Thanksgiving shopping?”

“A bit late, I'm afraid. This week's gotten away from me,” Dad explained.

“You and me both,” she laughed.

Truth be told, I hadn't really seen my dad interact all that much with women other than my mom. Dad hated chitchat. Sure, he'd been forced to make small talk with women at school functions before, but when given the chance, he almost always sat by himself. And people pick up on that kind of thing. But with Rosemary, Dad seemed genuinely interested in talking with her. I processed all of this as I stood there smiling dumbly, my attention focused at the back of the store. I was looking for someone.

Before I knew it, Dad asked something awful. Truly awful.

“Are you spending Thanksgiving alone?”

After that, I walked around glumly gathering nearly everything on our list. I still hadn't seen Gabe.
Not that he would remember you anyway,
I told myself. And now Rosemary was coming over for Thanksgiving. Didn't she have her own family?

I grabbed a cooking magazine near the checkout while waiting for Dad and began reading an article on “Turkey Gastronomics.”

As I neared the end of the article, a familiar voice casually asked, “So was I right?”

I tried to conceal my excitement behind the waxy pages.

“I mean, I wouldn't promise something and then not deliver, would I?” Gabe grinned, and I was sure he could tell I was a nervous wreck.

Would you?

“They're perfect,” I smiled and could feel my cheeks grow hot. “Alive and well.”

He was better looking than I remembered. He was taller, and his eyelashes seemed to curl forever. Girls would kill for lashes like his. He rolled up the sleeves on his mustard button-down shirt. “I'm just glad you liked them. Happy Thanksgiving!”

He took a roll of stickers from his green apron and peeled a big, colorful turkey from the parchment paper, sticking it on my fleece just beneath my collar. It seemed like his thumb lingered a second longer than necessary. My guts seized up inside me and I couldn't breathe. And then, putting an end to our moment, an older woman wearing a homespun sweater with cartoon Pilgrims came up and asked Gabe where the turkey basters were.
Really? A turkey baster was ruining my moment?
I wanted to say something to the woman to let her know where I thought she could put the turkey baster once she'd found it. Instead, I just smiled and walked away. Gabe might have just saved this from being a disappointing Thanksgiving after all.

It was 6:45 when I heard Dad rap at my bedroom door on Thanksgiving morning. The sun was just peeking its nose over the horizon, but the house was, for the most part, still dark.

“Dress warmly” was all the instruction I received. I could hear Greta's loud protest from across the hall.

He had coffee and tea in thermal mugs waiting for us in the kitchen. We each grabbed a piece of raisin toast and followed him out the back door.

We trailed him to the heavy cellar doors leading to the underbelly of the house. Dad and I descended the stairs while Greta waited above. The room smelled damp. A naked light bulb dangled above a workbench covered in sawdust and small scraps of metal. A few stray model train cars lay in a lifeless pileup.

Dad gestured to the table. “I guess Mom never came down here after he died.”

He walked to a wall where a variety of tools hung from hooks and nails and grabbed a long bow saw, ancient by the looks of it.

“Just you wait,” Dad said in response to my doubtful expression. “They don't make tools like this anymore. And Swedes,” he added, lifting the saw for me to see, “use the best tools. My father brought this with him when he came over in '46 right after the war. Don't ask me how it got past customs.” Dad examined it with awe, as if it were a glistening saber instead of a rusty farm tool. He then handed it to me. “Now, let's go find our Christmas tree,” he said with enthusiasm.

The three of us headed deep into the woods. The snow had melted, and the leaves on the forest floor were a foot deep. I turned the saw over in my hands inspecting its wooden nails and sharp teeth and wondered about its owner. I couldn't tell Dad what I was thinking. What would I say? How would the conversation begin?

Dad, what happened between you and Grandma and Grandpa?

Hey, Dad, our new house is kind of haunted.

So, Dad, Grandma says “hi.”

Yeah right. The entire situation was ludicrous. No. I couldn't tell him.

We came to a small clearing in the trees about fifty yards long and thirty yards wide. A foundation of an old stone chimney sat in one of the corners, and on the opposite side was a cluster of small, crooked headstones—mangled teeth jutting out of the earth. Many were split in half, lying in two pieces on the hard ground. Some were simple with a single initial, and others looked relatively new, having survived the elements well. The most recent date I could make out was 1802.

“Your grandpa used to bring me to this spot when I was little,” Dad rested his right foot on a fallen log, “before everything got so complicated. He used to tell me I needed to learn how to listen to my own heartbeat. He said that people didn't know how to sit quietly, to breathe, and to listen. I didn't get it back then, but I think I finally understand what he was trying to say . . .”