Coming Home to Greenleigh

1 From the cozy refuge of her bed, Elisabeth could hear the sounds of the pipes clattering as the ancient boiler struggled to push heat around its network. This was the sound of the real world reminding her that it was time to deal with it. She rolled over onto her back, squinting up into the sunlight as it filtered down through the leaves of the old oak tree next to her window. It all felt too familiar, this dread of facing whatever had to be faced on a fall day in Greenleigh. Fall was Elisabeth’s favorite time of year. Yes, it was sad. The angle of the New England sun was sad. The bare trees were sad. Even the slow-moving bugs were sad. But it had always seemed to Elisabeth that the brightness and energy of the summer weren’t real anyway, and that fall was simply a return to the truth, the way things really were. Kind of like the realization after a night of drunken revelry that the world is a sober, sensible place, and that one had better take it seriously. Elisabeth had never experienced a night of drunken revelry, but sometimes the joy of summer felt a little too breathless, a little too dizzy. Fall always felt more like the world that she knew. She would be able to see her breath when she went outside this morning, wet leaves would be littering the lawn. It would feel normal. Her aching muscles were telling her that she must have spent the night scrunched into a stiff, tense ball. It was cold, and the heat wasn’t managing to reach the second floor. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up in one fluid motion; the ancient bed frame was so high off the floor, her feet dangled a foot above her slippers. She found herself staring blankly into the mirror over the antique oak dresser in the opposite corner of the room. Her curly brown hair was a tangled mess about her shoulders, and her face was blotched with fatigue. She smoothed her hair with her hands, gazing at the serious woman in the faded pink flowered nightgown. Oh, my God, she thought. I look so old. I don’t look like I’m thirty. She pulled on a robe and made her way downstairs, padding through the kitchen, wincing at the cold. The radiators were hissing, but it was freezing downstairs, too. She swayed a bit as she measured out the coffee, listening to the rhythmic creaking of the wide pine floors, the sound familiar and comforting to her ears. As the coffee dripped, she wandered out of the kitchen and over to her office, a bright, south-facing room with big bay windows and a fireplace. She peered outside through the wavy old glass. Mrs. McPherson was watering her roses next door, a bent figure in a bright yellow sun hat, wielding an ancient watering can that looked far too heavy for her. In the other direction, Elisabeth could see part of the town common and the red brick town hall, as well as the steeple of the Congregational church. The office held dusty bookcases that had been in the same spot for at least a hundred years, jammed with an odd mix of fiction and law books, and the maple secretary in the corner was heaped high with papers. Elisabeth tried not to look, but her gaze fell to the stack anyway. I should save some trees and just do all of that online, she thought. She was still back in the twentieth century, with all of the household bills arriving in the mail just as they had when she was a child, most of them still in her father’s name, even though he’d been dead for many years. She went over to peer at the stack, her hands shoved into the pockets of her robe as if afraid to touch the papers. With a quick, involuntary shudder, she backed away. I’m going to fix everything, she promised herself. It’ll all be better. After today. She poured her coffee, and then by habit, checked the cookie jar, where she stashed the grocery money. Twenty dollars, plus a little change. Her stomach tightened, and she pushed the jar away and headed upstairs. Her room was the same one she’d had her entire life. She kept all the other rooms shut and rarely went into them. Once in a while, if the wind was coming from the wrong direction, the hallway felt like a giant wind tunnel, and then she would check the windows everywhere just to make sure they were tight and caulked shut. She lived in fear of leaky ceilings and broken windows, and there was one corner pane of glass in her bedroom that she had duct-taped to within an inch of its existence rather than try to get it fixed. It was ugly, and it upset her to see it. But that was what one did in old houses like hers, because replacing windows would cost an obscene amount of money. She could just about feel a draft under her robe, and it occurred to her that she should check the windows, but she knew what she really needed was to stop all of these depressing thoughts. She hurried into her bedroom, reminding herself that she was going to take action. She was going to stop the downward spiral, if she could just get out the door in order to do the deed. Elisabeth scanned her closet and pulled out a blue flowered dress with a wide, generous skirt. She held it up to herself. I won’t try to look different from the way I always look, she thought. Everyone at Mr. Murray’s law firm knew her anyway. Everyone in town, for that matter, knew her. If she turned up on the doorstep of Lawson & Lawson wearing anything other than the usual, there would be no end to the gossip. Better to look as if she were merely paying a friendly call. And anyway, the only business suit she owned was the cheap blue thing she had worn to her graduation from law school, and it had never fit well. She didn’t bother with suits for court—what would be the point, since the judge had known her since she was a baby? But after her shower, as she was acknowledging to herself that she hadn’t had a haircut in about two years and needed one desperately, the energetic ringing of the doorbell sent all thoughts of grooming out of her head. Panicked, she peered out the window. She didn’t have time to chat with Mrs. McPherson, even if she wanted to pass along some late-season tomatoes or basil plants—and Elisabeth was such a terrible cook, she didn’t know what she would do with them anyway—but she saw that there were two women standing stiffly at the front door. The older of the two she recognized as Mrs. Miller, an elderly Greenleigh resident and widow. She was a well-known town busybody, as well as Elisabeth’s client. Elisabeth occasionally pestered the social security office for her when her checks were late. The other, a good twenty years younger than Mrs. Miller, was a stranger. “Darn!” Elisabeth muttered. Mrs. Miller was so difficult to deal with, and this had all the markings of the kind of interaction that she disliked the most: gossip, judgment, and minding someone else’s business. She wanted to stay on Mrs. Miller’s good side because she did refer clients to her, but she was so pretentious, it was sometimes hard to refrain from making a sarcastic comment in return. And what was worse, this would make her late for her Lawson & Lawson appointment. For a moment, she wavered, tempted to not answer, but in the end she knew she couldn’t afford to turn away business. She didn’t know the other woman, so maybe this was a potential client. She didn’t have any other clients at the moment, and she needed the work. “Beth! I thought you weren’t home, you took so long to answer.” Mrs. Miller’s white hair was carefully coiffed under a black felt hat, and she wore a heavy black wool coat. Mrs. Miller was one of those old timers who always made the big seasonal clothing switch after Labor Day, no matter what the weather did. She marched confidently into the front hall. “I was saying to Angela, Beth is always happy to help.” Mrs. Miller’s companion followed a little awkwardly, murmuring hello as she passed Elisabeth, who stood helplessly holding the door open. “Good morning, Mrs. Miller,” Elisabeth said, trying not to sound desperate. “So nice to see you, but I—” Mrs. Miller had already led her friend into the office, calling behind her, “Have you been outside yet? Frost! It feels like winter! You need to bring those geraniums in, dear. And don’t forget to have that chimney swept, Beth, before you start any fires. Beth still uses her wood stoves, Angela. It’s wonderful. She keeps up all these old traditions.” She had begun to unbutton her coat, but changed her mind as she realized that the office was cold and that the wood stove wasn’t lit. Elisabeth bit back a retort. She used wood stoves because the central heating worked so poorly, and she couldn’t afford to heat up the entire house with oil anyway. She also had a client who dropped off wood in lieu of payment. It had nothing whatsoever to do with tradition. “Mrs. Miller,” she began again, but Mrs. Miller was inviting Angela to have a seat in a wingbacked chair in front of the office fireplace. She hadn’t stopped talking. “Seventeen eighty, I believe. The Burnhams didn’t move in until the 1800s, but the house was built in 1780. Of course, these bay windows aren’t original—they’re Victorian. There were additions with every new owner. Did you see the carriage house out back?” Elisabeth sat down. She saw Mrs. Miller’s friend smiling politely, and felt the flush creeping over her cheeks as she prayed for Mrs. Miller to stop talking. “It’s just a big old house,” she tried to say, as Mrs. Miller talked over her. “I wish everyone in Greenleigh took care of these old houses the way Beth does. People either knock them down or gut them and fill them with giant screen TVs and pool tables.” She grimaced in distaste. Sometimes, Elisabeth thought, sometimes I wish this house would just burn down. “It’s been in my family for so long,” she said, aiming the comment at Mrs. Miller’s friend. “I’m very fond of it.” Her stomach twisted. She hated playing a role in Mrs. Miller’s fantasy, but at this point in her life it was just too hard to fight. “Exactly,” Mrs. Miller beamed. And if I don’t get to that meeting, I’ll be the last Burnham in this house. With this reminder, she interrupted Mrs. Miller, who was pointing out the butler’s pantry and maid’s quarters off the kitchen. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Miller, but I’ve got an appointment this morning—” “Oh! Well. This will just take a minute. This is Angela Stuart.” Angela had taken some lip balm out of her purse and was applying it to her chapped lips. She bobbed her head politely, but Elisabeth saw that her hands were shaking as she replaced the cap and returned it to her handbag. “I told her, Beth, that you are the best lawyer in town. I would never go to anyone else, right, Angela?” Mrs. Miller put a firm hand on her friend’s shoulder and went on without pausing for a reply. “I told her how much you’ve helped me with those dreadful social security problems and all the things you did after Bertie passed away, God rest his soul—” she raised her eyes heavenwards “—and thanks to you, I’ve been able to stay in my home.” “It’s my pleasure, Mrs. Miller, I—” Elisabeth tried again, speaking a little louder, but Mrs. Miller continued. “I knew her mother, you know, did I tell you that, Angela? She passed—oh, almost ten years ago, was it, Beth? It’s so nice when young people stay in Greenleigh. So many of our best leave us and go to Boston or New York or California—” Mrs. Miller paused, and Elisabeth saw an almost-imperceptible hesitation in her bony shoulders, a shadow that crossed her face briefly. This, of course, was why she kept reaching out to help Mrs. Miller. Abandoned by her children, all of whom were sick of Greenleigh and sick of their mum talking about Greenleigh, Mrs. Miller lived alone in a small, neat cottage in what used to be a modest, slightly run-down section of town. She was now surrounded by garish, newly-built faux-colonials populated by young families with lots of money and no taste, a daily reminder that the old were dying and the new didn’t care about the old. Developers eyed those old parcels of land hungrily, hoping to subdivide and create tracts of identical homes on half-acre lots. There was much money to be made in getting rid of the stale and the old, and bringing in the new. Elisabeth understood all too well the stubborn stuff that Mrs. Miller was made of, even though she didn’t want to, and often feared that she herself was made of the same. Mrs. Miller would never sell. She would never leave. She exasperated her grown children and annoyed her neighbors, but she would only be pried away from Greenleigh by death itself. “What can I do for you, Ms. Stuart?” Elisabeth took the opportunity to jump into the conversation. “Mrs. Miller and I are old friends. She’s known me almost since I was born.” “Angela has a problem,” Mrs. Miller announced, lowering her voice dramatically. “Go ahead, Angela. Tell her.” She nodded toward Elisabeth. Suddenly, it was as if the dam had burst. Angela Stuart’s face crumpled as she dissolved loudly into heaving sobs. Elisabeth rose hastily and fetched a box of tissues. She sometimes had distraught clients cry during their meetings, so she always kept the tissues handy, but another glance at the clock confirmed her fears. She was going to be late for her meeting. “I’m sorry, Ms. Burnham. I thought I would be able to go through with this, but—” Angela choked and pressed a wad of tissues to her mouth. “She wants a divorce,” Mrs. Miller said. She eyed Angela with displeasure. “Come on, Angela. We talked about this. You need to tell Beth your story.” Elisabeth tried to still her racing heart. Divorce? She’d never handled a divorce before. Angela was now snuffling miserably, head bowed. In spite of her reddened eyes and puffy nose, she was quite pretty in a comfortable, round sort of way. She had dark hair pulled back in a bun, and her skin was very fair. Her cranberry-colored sweater was elegantly styled and clearly hand-knit. Mrs. Miller was leaning over to squeeze her friend’s hand. “Beth is the best person in the world to help you.” “I don’t know,” Elisabeth stammered. “I—I don’t usually handle divorces.” She wasn’t in any kind of position to turn away business. And she never said no to anyone who begged her for help. She often went out on a limb for people, researching issues and arguing obscure points on things she’d never studied in school. But divorce? She had no idea what one was supposed to do in a divorce case. Wouldn’t that involve going deep into people’s private lives and personal problems? Elisabeth thought of the many times she had tried to ignore the angry shouts of her mother floating up through the registers in her bedroom floor. Her father had never raised his voice, but he’d often stayed away for weeks at a time, supposedly “on the road” selling cleaning products. He couldn’t be counted on to bring in any kind of steady income, and he mostly just wanted to play cards with his buddies in the back room of the Athena Diner. It drove her mother crazy, especially when he managed to also spend through their tiny income on extravagant presents and fancy treats. Why don’t they just get a divorce, she often thought. But now that she was an adult, she understood perfectly well why adults stayed in bad relationships. It was called “being stuck” and she knew all about “being stuck.” But what right did she, of all people, have to advise someone on how to get unstuck? She, Elisabeth Burnham, the queen of stuck-ness. Stuck-dom? Whatever. Stuck in Greenleigh. Stuck in this old house. Stuck in failure. Angela was saying timidly, “Sarah is right. I’m here to ask about getting a divorce.” “She’s staying with me,” Mrs. Miller added. “Because she’s left him.” “I’ve left him,” Angela whispered. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time—this wasn’t something I did rashly, I mean. And Sarah said she could help—” “Beth can help you,” Mrs. Miller said. She turned to Elisabeth. “Nearly thirty years of marriage. You can’t fix something that broken.” Angela choked, and a fresh sob escaped. This was one occasion where Mrs. Miller’s plain-spoken Yankee honesty was definitely not helpful, Elisabeth thought ruefully. But what if she was right? Was it impossible to fix thirty years of broken? That’s about as long as my life, Elisabeth thought. I wonder if I’m thirty years of broken. What if my flavor of broken is not fixable? Then she looked up at the clock and nearly jumped out of her skin. “Oh, ladies. I’m sorry. I’m very late for an appointment. Perhaps we could meet tomorrow?” Angela was on her feet. “I’m so s-s-sorry,” she stuttered. “Of course, don’t let us keep you—” “Don’t run away,” Mrs. Miller said loudly, rising before Angela could scurry off. She caught her friend’s elbow and turned to Elisabeth. “Angela will never have the courage to come here on her own. Why don’t you come over to my house tomorrow? You can discuss everything over a nice cup of tea.” Elisabeth reflected that Angela would never have the courage to say anything in front of Mrs. Miller, either. She would have to get her alone. But she nodded, following both ladies to the door. “Yes, of course. I’ll stop by after lunch. Maybe at around three?” Angela shook hands with her, the grasp tentative, her smile watery and weak. “Thank you.” Elisabeth could hear Mrs. Miller’s voice, expounding on the layout of the lawn and the placement of the shrubbery, as she shut the door behind them. She raced to grab her briefcase from the front room before dashing out the door and down the sidewalk in the opposite direction from the two ladies. First things first, she thought, panting. Save myself, then save Angela Stuart. If I can.