She said, “My grandmother planted this years ago, and I’m trying to keep it going. It’s got those damned aphids.”
I said, “Yes, aphids can be a real problem.”
She returned to her job, giving the spray bottle a little squirt.
So I said, “Your grandmother planted it? That’s nice. I mean to have had it so long.”
And now the woman stood up straight again and looked at me. “Yuh,” she said.
I put my sunglasses on top of my head. “My name’s Lucy,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you.”
She stood there and I understood that she was not going to shake my hand, but not out of unfriendliness, it seemed, it was just something she was not going to do. She looked up then, at the sky, and then around the yard and then back at me. “What did you say your name was?” She was neither pleasant nor unpleasant.
“Lucy,” I said. Then I said, “What’s your name?”
She took her glasses off; they must have been reading glasses, I realized, in order for her to see the aphids, and she looked oddly both younger and older without them on. Her eyes had a bald look; I mean there were not many lashes. “Lois,” she said. Then she said, “Where do you come from, Lucy?”
I almost said New York, but I stopped in time. I said, “I come from a small town in Illinois.”
“What brings you here to Houlton, Maine?” Lois asked. She had a very small line of sweat near her hairline, right below where the hat met her skin.
“We’re—well, my husband and I—well, my husband’s father was a German POW here and so we came up to find out whatever we could about that.” I switched my small pocketbook to the other shoulder.
“Your father-in-law was a POW here?” Lois looked straight at me, and I nodded. “Did he marry a woman from here?” Lois asked, and I said, “Yes, he did. And they lived in Massachusetts—then he died when my husband was fourteen.”
Lois Bubar stood there with the sun beating down on her, and then she said, “Would you like to come in?” She turned and walked toward her side door and I followed her. Then she stopped and turned to me and said, “Where is your husband right now?”
I said, “My former husband, I’m sorry, I should have said that. We’re friendly. He’s sitting in the car on the next block.”
She stood there watching me; she was not a tall woman, about my height.
I said, “He thought—”
And she turned again and said, “Come in.”
* * *
—
We stepped through a dark mudroom where there were many jackets and coats hung up on pegs, and then we moved through to the kitchen, where she took her hat off and put it on the counter, and she said, “Would you like a glass of water?” I said that would be lovely, thank you.
So she filled two glasses of water from the sink, and I looked around without moving my head and I thought how much I have never liked the houses of other people. This house was fine—I mean there was nothing wrong with it, the kitchen seemed cluttered, but only in the way of a person living there a long time, and it seemed dark, after having been in the sun—I am only saying I have never liked being in others’ houses. There is always a faint odor that is unfamiliar, and that was true in this house.
Lois handed me a glass of water—she wore one ring, a plain gold wedding band, I noticed—and we moved into the living room, which made me feel a little better: It was also sort of cluttered, but there was sunlight pouring through the windows and many bookshelves filled with books. On every tabletop in the living room were photographs, many photographs in a variety of frames. Glancing at them, I noted mostly photos of babies and little children with their parents, that kind of thing. There was a dark blue couch that looked saggy in the middle and an armchair that Lois sat down in, and then she put her feet up on the ottoman that was in front of it and I sat down on the saggy couch. On her feet were sandals made from rubber.
“Your former husband,” she said to me, and took a sip from her water.
“Yes,” I said. “My second husband died last year.”
She raised her eyebrows and said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Lois placed her water glass on the little table that stood next to her chair and she said, “Don’t expect it to get any better. My husband died five years ago.” And I told her I was sorry about that.
Then there was silence. She looked at me and I felt embarrassed, I felt my cheeks getting warm. She finally said, “What is it I can do for you?”