Roommates Wanted

Some people swore that the house was haunted. Certainly, the outside had gone to ruins years ago. The yard was machete-worthy. Shutters clapped against peeling shingles like giant, erratic metronomes. Alice knew things were in sorry condition, but it was all she could do to keep the interior tidy. With Henry’s life savings gone, she could barely afford weekly grocery deliveries; hiring a caretaker was unthinkable.

And so, one day—finally resigned to the inevitable—Alice tacked a “ROOMMATES WANTED” sign to a toothy, rotted fence post. As usual, neighbors chatted about the development as if old age and hearing loss were inseparable. Little did they know—if she pulled a chair close to the window, slowly inched back the blood-red, velvet curtains, cranked up the volume on her hearing aid—she could hear their every word.

“No way,” they snickered.

“Never happen.”

“Maybe the old bat will finally go to a home.”

Alice shuddered, disgusted. Sure, she was an eccentric, old lady; maybe, admittedly, even somewhat of a recluse. Well, big, whoopin’ deal , she told herself. This old bat isn’t going anywhere, let alone a warehouse for the dying. She thought about the many, other things she’d done and been in her 96 years—things her neighbors would never have dreamed. A loving wife, a daughter, a sister, a college student. An educator and an activist. Why, she’d worked to rid the town of segregated drinking fountains, and pass new environmental legislation. And, what about having been president of the County Quilting Club nine years in a row? Didn’t that count for a damn thing? And then, there was the cancer. She was, according to self-help books, a true “survivor” in every sense of the word. But, a nursing home resident? Go flippity dip yourself, she thought, angrily, eying the patch of worn sidewalk on which her nosy neighbors liked to gather.

The next morning, more determined than ever, Alice called the local newspaper, and placed a classified ad, which read:

“FEMALE ROOMMATES WANTED: TWO LOVELY BEDROOMS IN A CHARMING MANOR. FULLY FURNISHED. COMES WITH OWN BATH. RENT $500/ROOM; NON-DISCRIMANT; HOWEVER, SERIOUS APPLICANTS SHOULD BE WELL-GROOMED AND WELL-READ, AND, OCCASIONALLY WILLING TO PARTAKE IN AFTERNOON TEA. (BEVERAGES & MUFFINS INCLUDED W/RENT.) WIDOWS STRONGLY ENCOURAGED TO APPLY.”

Alice had expected the onslaught of phone inquiries that immediately followed the ad’s placement; however, the personal interview process was wholly disappointing. It seemed contagious, the way every applicant scarcely slowed her car before rocketing away without so much as a single, backward glance.

After long, frustrating weeks of this, Alice was nearing wits-end—almost beginning to contemplate that horrid, convalescent home idea—when a sky-blue Prius pulled up, and two stoutly, graying, tidily-dressed women climbed the rickety porch steps and rang the ancient bell.

For a moment, Alice stood in the front hallway, heavily considering the option of ignoring the pitchy melody still resonating through the thickly-papered walls. She had to remind herself that this step was necessary. However difficult, she had to allow a little bit of change into her life—or life would soon thrust an unthinkable amount upon her .

Straightening her bent, aching back as much as possible, she slowly cracked the heavy door, and poked her sparsely haired head out through the opening. “Yes?” she said, suddenly conscious that she’d forgotten to put in her bottom denture.

“Mrs. Honeycutt?” the taller, heavier-set one ventured, reaching out to shake Alice’s emaciated hand. “I’m Greta. This is Irina. We spoke on the phone about the rooms?”

Alice’s arthritic bones stiffened. Greta’s hand was rough, but warm to the touch; her handshake felt as firm and confident as her beloved Henry’s had once been. “Yes,” she responded, somewhat reluctantly. “Do come in.”

The women patiently followed Alice’s shuffling steps as she took them on a tour through the house. Afterwards, Irina, a petite woman wearing a handmade-looking cardigan sweater, helped her make tea. “You used to be English teacher, no?” she inquired, timidly looking around the room. Her English was softly-broken.

“Why, yes….A long time ago now. I taught for 34 years at the city high school.”

“How wonderful, Mrs. Honeycutt. I was professor in Sarajevo. Before war. I don’t—how you say—the best Inga-leesh.”

This time, Alice’s missing dental plate didn’t prevent her from smiling. “Your accent is lovely, Irina.”

“She’s a fabulous cook too. Wait ‘til you try her bosanki lonac,” Greta interjected, causing Irina to blush with pleasure. The tea quickly grew cold as the three women chatted away the remainder of the afternoon. Finally, Greta excused herself to further explore the house’s labyrinth of rooms, checking everything from supporting beams to plumbing. Floorboards creaked. Pipes groaned. A doorknob fell off in her hand. Sitting back down, she began, rather haltingly, “You’ve decorated beautifully, Mrs. Honeycutt.”

“Please. Call me Alice.”

Greta smiled, then glanced thoughtfully at Irina, who nodded encouragingly. “I think we could be quite comfortable living here,” Greta continued. “Your décor—all those Birdseye antiques—are really first-rate. Irina’s big into that sort of thing, aren’t you, my dear? And, afternoon tea is right up our alley, being we’re both retired and all. But, frankly, Alice, you’ve got a mess of a yard out there, and, well, inside here too. I’m a handy sort of gal, and I'm up for a challenge like this. Like I said, Irina here is a whip of a cook to boot. So, I’m wondering—how about you knock a little off of our rent, and, together, we’ll get this place up to speed?”

Alice twisted the wedding band on her bony hand. She’d lived alone—what—40 years? As if in conspiratorial protest, her rocker loudly moaned.

Cautiously, Greta continued. “Now, I do need to tell you something before you make a decision, Alice: We’re not widows. We’ve been married, for all intended purposes—happily—some 16 years now. We’d like to use one room as a bedroom. Put a T.V. in the other. Maybe a couch too, if you don’t mind. We’d also like to take down some of these drapes. They’re pretty, but maybe, if it’s okay, we could let in a little more sunlight?”

Alice grew quiet. Her heart thumped heavily within her ribcage. After a moment, Greta broke the silent. “Rest assured, we do have a number of referrals from past landlords and friends for you. No criminal records, or the like.” She sighed resignedly. “Well, you take your time and think about it.”

Wordlessly, Alice scanned the dimly-lit room. She had to admit: It was exceedingly dark. Even so, through slivers of curtained light, she let herself notice strips of paint, yellowed and peeling. A series of cracks running like rivers and tributaries down the nearest wall. The moist, unmistakable odor of mold and mildew. As the realization of the full extent of her home’s dilapidated state fully sunk in, she also felt a sense of urgency spread through her entire being, like a deep, long-forgotten hunger. She suddenly longed to open windows. Breathe fresh air. Feel the affection of sunlight on her skin. Oh, Henry, she thought, achingly. It’s been so very long. She glanced at the living room window, knowing that her neighbors would be gossiping in full force over any news of such kind, hovering a safe distance from the funky, little Prius that had been sitting in front of her house, at this point, for long hours. Ah, but they were harmless enough—like a swarm of sugar ants carrying away any, overlooked crumb that looked even mildly interesting.

“Alice?” Irina broke into her thoughts. “Everyt’ing okay? We understand if you vant to us leave.”

Alice looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. Irina’s muted, blue eyes--the same pastel as the elderly woman's mother--emanated an intangible duality of kindness and sadness.

Finally, Alice shook her head, knowing that, by doing so, nothing would ever be the same again. “I don’t want you to leave, Irina,” she heard herself saying. “I would be honored if you ladies moved in. After all, we are both teachers, are we not?" She then looked at Greta intently. " I think, perhaps, we could all stand to learn a lot from each other.”

Irina laughed and covered her mouth with both hands. “Puno hvala, Mrs. Honeycutt. I mean, Alice. I mean, thank you!”

Outside, Alice could hear the local hockey mom loading up her SUV with her multitude of screaming kids and awkwardly-sized sports equipment. A playful, mischievous smile crept across Alice’s face: How fun it would be to see what the neighborhood would do with this sweet, new crumb of gossip.

Alice stood up, made her way to the kitchen, and poured fresh cups of piping hot tea for each of them, this time, accompanied by white chocolate and raspberry-filled muffins. Then, she shuffled back to the living room window and, with great effort, pulled back the velvet curtains. When she struggled to get the creaking window fully open, Greta quickly strode over, winked at her, and pushed it up as if she were lifting a book off a shelf. Immediately, a light breeze and sunlight poured into the room, the shards of which turned floating dust into dancing, golden flecks. “We’re going to have to start with these windows, don’t you think, Alice? Cross-ventilation—it’s so important in an old gem of a house like this.”

Alice cocked her head, squinting hard at the muscular, cropped-haired woman in front of her through thick, scratched bifocals. Henry, the love of her life, had left this earth suddenly and without warning, just as they were trying to start a family. She’d been so angry at him, at the world, at the universe, at God, that, for all essential purposes, she’d squarely turned her back on living too. Oddly, there was something about Greta that made her think about that earlier, sweeter time in life, when she and Henry lived on the starting line of hope and possibility. Before frustration, anger, loneliness, regret built its lasting walls around her. Perhaps, if Alice had had a daughter, well, maybe…just maybe...oh, hell, who knows? And, really, why care whom she'd have loved, as long as she did love someone ? You would like these women, Henry , she told him, her thoughts less troubled than they had been in years. In the very least, her late husband would have been impressed with Greta’s can-do attitude. And, that formidable handshake. Come to think of it, they were partial to the same haircuts too.

Slowly, Alice nodded. “The air smells particularly clean today, doesn’t it? Like new grass? An early spring must be on its way.”

Irina beamed and reached to pat Alice’s translucent hand. When Alice grasped it—much to her own surprise—a warmth she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in years rippled through her aged body. It was as if she’d needed this reorientation, having so long ago allowed her life to stray so far off track, she could not find her way back alone, even while standing still. Maybe there was still time. Maybe there was a place--this place--where love could still exist. Even if only in corners waiting to be swept. In bittersweet memories, stubbornly ignored, but deeply longed to be revisited. In a future--however long or brief--purposefully restructured. In people making use—in whatever ways they best could—of the blessed, streaming sun.