A Case for Love

(This story is reposted from the October, 05 and February, 2007 and now here in 2021.) The name of the street was Lovejoy, That was really the name, and the house stood proudly at the top of the street’s long hill. No two houses on the street were alike, and shade trees lined  both sides —the way streets used to look. It was a classic two-story built in 1922 with great lines and two strong columns on the porch.  We loved it the moment we saw the realtor sign in the yard, and we made arrangements to see the next day. The inside seemed to whisper at each nook and archway that this was a home where memories had been made and where they lingered still. There was a corner nook beside the fireplace that seemed built especially for a Christmas tree, and though it was only June, that feature alone put a sparkle in our eyes that rang true to the street’s name. Our two Christmases there confirmed that this was,  indeed the most enchanting home we would ever own. The front room fireplace crackled and cast a glow on the tree in the corner. Sitting there in my winged-back chair, I lacked only a pipe to hold smokeless in my mouth. I do not smoke a pipe, and never have, but it was the kind of house that prompted fathers to smoke pipes back in the day.  I had envisioned seeing my girls grow up in those charming rooms—birthday parties in the family room, prom pictures on the entry stair—and all the points of passing time such pictures hold in memory. But a different kind of change came, and two years after moving in, we were moving away.  With the interior touches we’d done, we listed at 30% above what we had paid and marketed it ourselves by making a brochure and hosting our own "Open House.” The traffic of lookers was non-stop and very encouraging. Some we knew were there just to check out a house they had no intention of buying. We knew such people existed because Julie and I often did it ourselves. Still it was fun to know that our efforts might pay off. After two hours, as a hint for people to leave, we began putting away our signs and brochures, offering cookies from half-empty plates, and thanking people for stopping by.  Eventually all the guests filed out the front and side door of the house—that is, all but one gray haired lady who remained on our porch smiling at the others as they left. She was a sweet lady, and behaved as if she were part of our family invited over to add to the ambiance of baked cookies and lit candles, but the fact is... we  did not know her.  I had first noticed her about an hour before, taking a self-guided tour through every inch of all four levels from basement to walk-up attic. Two buyers were coming back that evening, presumably to make an offer. Was she going to beat them to the punch? She was dressed like she could afford our asking price, but what would she do with such a big house? She must have read my puzzled eyes.  "I wanted to wait until the others were gone," she whispered politely. "My name is Charlotte Bascomb, and I lived in this house for twenty-five years. Our two boys grew up here and went off to college from this doorway." "Oh, come in," we begged, "and do tell us more about it."  My wife and I love learning the stories behind things we own, whether it's a hundred-year-old chair or a house, and up until that moment we had only imagined how the years must have passed in this storied home through the Roaring Twenties, the Great Depression, WWII, the fifties, and so on. As it turned out she had lived there from the late Fifties through the early Seventies, but to our surprise, she said their story had ended badly. We were surprised at how stoically she told of her last years in the house, and how her husband, who was a lawyer, had become an abusive alcoholic which led to a divorce and, in the end, to his untimely death. She told the account as if it had happened to a neighbor and not herself. We soon learned why the details seemed so distant.   "After that, I stayed in the house for a few years. The boys had taken jobs out of state. and I didn't like being here alone, so I bought a smaller place. I was alone when the moving van pulled away with everything I owned. I walked through the house one last time from basement to attic—to see if I'd forgotten anything but mostly to remember... things... you know..." (We nodded without a word).  "I ended up in the attic and was just about to leave when I thought I saw something way back in the corner. I walked across those rickety floorboards toward a shadow that looked like a little suitcase. You know how bad the lighting is up there." [She was right, but I had added two fixtures.] "By the way, you have the attic so cute. I saw the pictures of your three girls in the hallway, and when I went up in the attic, I thought 'Well, this looks just like Little Women up here.' The way you have that dress-up room and all those antiques and things. I bet the girls love it."   "Oh, they do," we smiled, "and you're right, we often call them our 'little women' when they spend the day up there, but you were saying something about a little suitcase...."   "Oh, yes. That. Except it wasn't a suitcase at all. It almost frightened me the more I stared at it. I was afraid to reach for it in the dark, but soon as I touched the worn leather handle, I remembered what it was, and I brought it out to the window to see it in the light. The case was a dusty mess, but the clasps flipped up, and inside it was just as bright as I remembered it... beautiful red velvet. It was my son's saxophone. He played in the marching band at the high school. I hadn't seen it for years—who would've put it so far back? And then I remembered something that bothered me. This wasn't really my son's saxophone—it was the one he used alright—but I remembered that it actually belonged to an old family friend. You see, my husband played in a jazz band in college, and he and his buddies kept rehearsing for years afterwards even though they rarely actually performed anywhere. Things were good then…. Well, anyway, years later, my oldest wanted to play in the band and Howard—he was the friend—said we could borrow his sax. So all through school, John—that's my son—used it, but I had no idea we'd left it there in the attic all those years. It's a miracle I even saw it that day...in that dark corner. It was the only thing I carried out of this house the last time I was here."   "Wow. That's quite a story," I said. Her eyes glistened as she looked around the interier of the house once again.  "And you almost left it here." Julie said half wondering what else to say.  Mrs. Bascomb was clearly not ready to leave. We stood awkwardly in the entry way. I gestured toward the living room and asked if she would like to stay longer. "No. I really need to be going. I just wanted to meet you and tell you how wonderful it was to see that this was a happy, beautiful home again. I really can’t stay…” There was a long pause, and then she smiled like she had a secret to tell. "This will only take a minute," she said. "There's more to the story." "Are you sure you don't want to come in and sit?" Julie asked. "No. I shouldn't, but I do think you should know... After things settled a bit—a year or so—I called Howard. He'd moved out east a long time ago, but I finally tracked him down. He laughed when I told him I found his saxophone, but he told me to just give it to Goodwill. I told him I couldn't do that—it wouldn't be right—and it wouldn’t, you know, not after all that."  (We nodded in wholehearted agreement.)  "Howard and I talked for the longest time. His wife had passed away a few years prior. That was too bad. It's hard to live alone." She meant the words and knew them to be true, but there was also a twinkle in her eye as if she had very few people to tell this story to, and she was savoring every tid-bit. "Poor Howard... All alone. He was semi-retired but was getting ready to fly to Europe on business the next day. So we had to get off the phone, but he did ask for my number. Which... I thought was nice, you know... old friends and all—but since he didn't want the sax, I wasn't sure I'd ever hear from him. Well, about two weeks later who do you think called?"   Our eyebrows rose with unconvincing suspense, "Howard?"   "Yes. It was Howard. We visited a bit and then he said, 'You know, Char—he never called me Charlotte—I've been thinking about that saxophone, and you're right. I think I need to come and get it. Will you be home this weekend if I fly in?' Well, I was speechless. Of course, I'd be home. Where else would I be? But I didn't know what to say. I offered to send it UPS, but he said, 'No, I think I need to come and get it myself.' And that's just what he did. We had a wonderful time that whole weekend—he was always such a gentleman—but then he went and forgot the sax so he had to come back the next week. Well you probably guessed it... He kept coming whenever he could, and never took home that saxaphone. We got married later that year, and I spent the happiest 12 years of my life with Howard. It was wonderful right up until the end... cancer."  The word abruptly punctuated her thoughts but had no effect on her smile, and her eyes still held the joy they found in those unexpected happy years. "It's been four years—just me again, but at my age I can't complain. I had a second chance at love and it was wonderful—just like our street sign says 'Lovejoy.'"  There was another pause, but this one needed no words. It was my eyes that were glistening by then as they are now even as I type these years after hearing her tell this red-velvet story that makes such a compelling case for love.  "Thank you for listening to an old woman's story and for making me feel welcome in my home—your home, I mean. I really do need to be going. I want to call my boys and tell them where I've been."   "The pleasure was all ours," we said, stepping to the porch and helping her down to the front path. Half way to her car she turned and took one last look at the house then cast a glance up at the attic window.   "I still have that saxophone in my closet at the apartment— be sure to check the attic corners when you leave." Her hand held back a laugh, but her shoulders shook a little as she smiled and turned toward her car. © Copyright 2005, TK, Patterns of Ink  (I was moved by this lady's story when "Mrs. Bascolm" [not her real name] told it to us in June of 2000. Hearing it made it even harder to accept the fact that we were moving. But we were also very happy the next day when the house sold to a Doctor with a young family. He and his wife couldn't wait to move in. Whenever we or our children travel back to that town in Iowa, we drive by "the little blue house" on Berkshire [which has since been painted yellow]. We lived there for 13 years. We also drive by this wonderful home on Lovejoy, where we lived for only two years before moving to Michigan. We love it here, but the house is newer and the seven years have passed too fast it seems for stories. [It has been my experience that the stories closest to home take the longest to crystallize into something you can hold up to the light and say, "Wasn't that beautiful."]) My daughter took this picture of us with her when she went to visit our former home town. She then carefully lined up the snapshot with the actual porch. I will never forget the night we moved away. It had taken all day to load the moving van and our two cars, and it was dark by the time we were ready to roll. Ready that is but for one missing item. It was not a saxaphone. It was Emily (the daughter who took this picture). I found her up in the room just beyond the windows at the top of the porch roof. She was sitting on the floor with her back against the wall. She didn't have to say a word. It was one of the hardest moments of our shared life. She was completely supportive of the move, and like all us, she has no regrets (nor do her husband and three children who would not exist were it not for the move), but it was a hard home to leave behind. If you're in the mood for another story about a second chance at love,go to my April 06 Archive. Scroll down to April 1 "Visiting Home." It's the first of four sequential, "verse" posts about my Mom's wedding cake (and what happened fifty years later).