I didn't know it then, but it wouldn't be all that
long before it became mine as well.
10 Desperate for Love
. Inside, the house looked as if it had been frozen in time, the owner stubbornly refusing to throw anything away. Whether it was a worn rug, a frayed sofa, a broken vase, or a cracked figurine on a ricketylooking pedestal, everything was obviously still cherished. The wide entryway had a mahogany coat stand and hat rack with garments on them looking as though they had been placed there fifty years ago and never touched since.
Up close, Mrs. Westington resembled her possessions. Her pale alabaster complexion had patches of tiny, spidery veins close to the surface, making her resemble a life-size cracked porcelain doll. There were some futile attempts at cosmetics, patches of face makeup applied too thickly in spots and completely absent from other areas. Her lipstick was thicker on her bottom lip for some reason than it was on her top lip.
However, in spite of her fragile appearance, her bony shoulders, long thin-fingered hands, and reliance on the walking stick, she had an air of firmness and grit about her, especially discernible in her dark gray but vet bright eyes.
"Close the door!" she shouted at Trevor, who was just behind me.
"It's closed. Mrs. Westington," he said.
She turned and looked as if she didn't trust a word he uttered, and then nodded. "House is coming apart at the seams. Wind blows right through these days."
"Yes, ma'am," Trevor said. "I patched up that window frame on the pantry."
"Um," she said. She pointed at the sofa with her cane. "You sit there, girl," she told me. "Trevor, you go to the phone and call the highway patrol. The number's on the board by the phone.'
She was obviously used to giving orders. I sat, and she stared at me a moment and then went to the window to open the drapes. The grandfather clock in the corner groaned instead of bonging the hour. She looked at her watch and shook her head.
"Don't know where the time goes," she muttered, more to herself than to me. "Okay," she said. "Now, tell me what you're doing on this road, driving that big thing with your uncle dead inside."
There was something about the way she looked at me and spoke that compelled me to tell her my story. Perhaps it had all been bottled up inside me too long. I was surprised myself at how much came out, how much I revealed, and how fast I spoke. At first, she just stood there listening. Then she slowly lowered herself into her dark brown cushioned chair. upon which she had placed an additional cushion to keep herself higher and make it easier for her to get up when she wanted.
She leaned on her walking stick and looked at me as I continued, her face showing little emotion, surprise, or displeasure.
"Sometimes. I wonder if it was God or the devil who made us," she said after a long pause when I stopped talking.
The entire time I spoke, tears rained down from my eyes, and my throat opened and closed, choking back words and then freeing whole paragraphs in one breath. I didn't realize Trevor had been standing in the living room doorway awhile, waiting for permission to speak himself. Mrs. Westington finally nodded at him.
"They're on their way here," he said. "and so is an ambulance."
"What good's an ambulance?" she muttered back at him as if he had ordered it.
"Got to take the body to the coroner. Mrs. Westington. Ain't gonna take him in my truck."
I waited to see if she was going to chastise him for what he had said in reply, but she just nodded and looked as if she appreciated his cold, factual answer. She looked at me again.
"How old are you. girl?"
"I'm seventeen, nearly eighteen," I said.
She shook her head and then turned to Trevor.
"Seems like the world's going to end up filled with orphans. Women drop out children these days like field mice and as soon as they can walk on their own, leave them to manage for themselves."
"Yes, ma'am," Trevor said.
"Well, let's get the girl something to eat and drink while we wait," she said, rising out of the chair. "I'll make some blackberry tea and tuna fish
sandwiches. You can go down the hallway to the powder room on the right and clean yourself up some," she told me.
"Thank you," I said, and followed her out. "I'll wait for them outside," Trevor told us.
I could see the bathroom fixtures were quite old, the porcelain sink spotted with rust. Everything worked fine but revealed the age of the house, which I later found out was built nearly eighty-five years ago when the property was a successful vineyard and the family had its own winery. It was not hard to imagine that at one time, the house must have been beautiful. There was so much detail in the wall trim and the freplace. The chandeliers, although looking as if they could use a good dusting and cleaning, were quite elaborate. Quality materials had been used in the construction. The hardwood floors probably needed only a good polishing, even after all this time.