After June

By Thomasin Heyworth

Sixty-seven-year-old Ben Willows prefers the company of a dog to that of most people. So, now that his wife June, an exception in the people category with whom he's shared most of his life, has died, he assumes he'll live out his days keeping to himself and making the best of what a solitary life has to offer. But one day he encounters Rose, a young pregnant woman who works in a local grocery store. Something about her seems familiar, and as the days go by and events unfold, he discovers that he's been making some inaccurate assumptions about life as well as misjudgments about people, even June, about whom he thought he knew everything, for a very long time. And he begins to understand why making connections with others can often change our lives for the better; we only need to allow ourselves to be open to the possibilities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312131132

Book preview

After June

After June

Thomasin Heyworth

2014

Copyright © 2014 by Thomasin Heyworth

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

ISBN:  978-1-312-13113-2

Cover photograph: Thomasin Heyworth

Cover design: Dina Jordan

Author photograph: Vaughn Fuller

www.thomasinheyworth.com

For Mom and Dad, who surround themselves, and us, with books.

For Peter, who believes we can do anything.

And for Sara and Gordon, whom I love completely and equally.

Acknowledgements

Thank you to my readers: my mother and father, Marie and Vaughn Fuller, my daughter, Sara Heyworth, my sister, Sarah Malbon, and my friends, Heather Gosch, Debra Russell and Kristina Sigurdson. Your kind and supportive words kept me going and your helpful comments made this a better story. A special thanks to Mom for reading it all through more than once.

My appreciation to Kristen Strange for taking time out of her very busy schedule to lend her keen eye to my manuscript. If errors remain, they are mine.

I thank Dina Jordan for creating the cover I imagined.

And I thank Laurie Tannenbaum for her technical layout expertise, with which she saved my sanity.

Last, thank you Peter, for believing I could do this, for helping me get started, for giving me space to write and, finally, for reading a book you would never pick up on your own.

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Come on, dear, it’s time to go.

The girl stirs and looks up. Stark white walls, an antiseptic odor and the squeak of rubber-soled shoes remind her where she is and she closes her eyes again. A tear escapes, meanders across the plane of her face toward her ear and drops to dampen the stiff, starched pillowcase beneath her head.

Oh, honey, her mother says, sitting on the edge of the bed. It’ll be okay. I promise. She rubs the girl’s shoulder, the gesture feeling inadequate, the moment awkward—feelings she has never before experienced in her relationship with her daughter. Come on, now. What’s done is done, she says, feeling a desperate need to move both of them forward, past this tear in the previously seamless and predictable fabric of her family’s routine. It’s an unfortunate rend, she knows; it won’t be easily mended. But all wounds heal eventually, don’t they? A person needs to get used to a few disappointments in life. These things make you stronger.

Let’s put this behind us, she urges, standing up and smoothing her skirt, willing the girl to action. Then adds ominously, Your father is waiting downstairs. We don’t want to keep him too long.

The girl opens her eyes again and studies her mother’s face. The eyes give away nothing. She is like a stranger. The girl looks away and takes stock of her situation, feels the emptiness of her body, the thick pad the nurse helped her attach to the flimsy belt around her hips; the pad that will absorb anything else she might lose. She feels hollow and tired. Most of all, she feels betrayed. Her mother sighs, impatient, and the girl sits up, moves her legs over the side of the mattress. The older woman kneels and slips the girl’s shoes on her feet. She pulls the girl to her feet, straightens her clothes and helps her with her coat.

There you go, her mother says, relieved, smoothing the girl’s hair and pulling a wool cap over it. You’ll be right as rain in no time.

She puts her arm around the girl’s shoulders and leads her out of the room. The girl resists at first. She can’t just leave, can she? Just walk away? Is this all there is? Her mother urges her forward and the girl gives in, letting herself be led down the hallway to the elevators, out the double doors and into the chill March weather. She barely feels the cold.

It will not be okay, she thinks. Never again will everything be okay.

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Pale sunlight reached its fingers under the window shade and into the room, touching the floor, moving across the rug. It lingered on a pile of clothes held by an old blanket chest and reached around stacks of magazines and mail on its way to the bed. When it reached his eyes, Ben rolled over and buried his head in the pillow. But it was too late. His mind was alert and already cataloguing his concerns, reminding him of things he didn’t want to think about. Like a repetitive form of torture, it brought up the same painful litany of thoughts that came to him every morning since his wife, June, had died. She was gone. That was number one. As if he needed that reminder. He unconsciously reached his arm across the bed. Cold sheets. He rolled onto his back with a sigh. You’d think after nearly seventy years, you might have the upper hand over something as familiar as your brain. But apparently, that was not the case. He knew the only way to trick his mind into not dwelling on the things he didn’t want to dwell on, or to make it think about nothing in particular, was to get busy.

Ben had always been a morning person, never one to sit idle, so getting busy wasn’t normally a problem. Lately, however, it was just a little harder to get out of bed and get at the business of living. His brain, which had definitely turned on him, was again the culprit, reminding him of the many reasons why it made no difference if he got up or not. He threw back the covers, irritated, and sat up. Sliding into work clothes that sat shucked and nearly standing by the bed from the night before, he shuffled into the bathroom and then downstairs to the kitchen for coffee. Stay busy, he thought. Don’t let the bastard win! The bastard—he guessed that was just himself after all.

He stood at the window by the sink. The wind had picked up and clouds trailed across the morning sky. Days like this, June might convince him to stay in bed a little longer. She could convince him to do just about anything. But now it was all up to him. There was plenty to do, though. The old house with its property turned out to be a blessing these days with all the upkeep. He could start repairing shutters after breakfast and find chores to do right up until evening. One thing led to another. If it wasn’t the house, it was some piece of furniture. If he went into the basement, he’d find himself puttering for hours.

He turned from the window and took in the familiar sight of his kitchen, no longer the hub of warmth and comfort it had once been. He missed being drawn to this room by the aromas of food, the promise of gustatory delights made more enjoyable because they were shared with June. His own half-hearted attempts at cooking had resulted in odors to be aired out rather than savored.

He thought, again, that he should probably consider having someone come in to clean. Housework was not his strong suit. And if he noticed a need for it, then it must be getting pretty bad. He opened the refrigerator’s double doors, revealing nearly empty shelves. Except for a couple of mystery dishes in the freezer, most of what neighbors had dropped off after June passed was finally gone—eaten, picked at or thrown out. Was he supposed to give the dishes back? He appreciated the ones that came in throwaway containers: they required nothing of him, which was what he had to give. He’d never been a fan of people in general, and having meaningless chitchat with those he didn’t know well was not something he wanted to think about, especially now. People—they were June’s department. She would give the dishes back and they’d probably have something in them, too. She couldn’t help it. She was a giving, thoughtful soul. With no children of their own, it seemed she was filling that void by caring for practically everyone else she met. That was not Ben’s way. He was glad the dishes were gone, along with the social responsibilities. He could take care of himself. He grabbed a package of frozen hamburger and closed the doors.

Later that day, Ben found himself prying rotten boards from an old picket fence that ran behind the house. The fence was no doubt erected to define a yard at some point, though it had served little purpose since he and June had bought the place. They’d had no need to keep anything in, or out, for that matter, so there was no reason not to let the property run in an unbroken line from the house clear back to the woods. He paused and surveyed the length of the fence, which ran about a hundred feet to his right, took a 90 degree turn toward the front of the property, ran another 50 feet or so and then joined up to the corner of the house at a hinged gate. He didn’t know if he liked the fence or not but thought he might prefer a more open look. June had planted wild roses at intervals, but he could move those, too. His thoughts were broken by a flock of Canada geese and he turned to watch them fly in formation overhead, honking all the while. He smiled, remembering how Barney had always gone wild at the sight of them. You’d have thought he was an old bird dog the way he carried on, barking and running along as if he could catch them. The geese were a sure sign of the cold months ahead, and Ben decided to stick with repairing the fence for now; he had more important things to do before the snow fell than taking down a fence for purely aesthetic reasons.

Thinking of Barney brought to surface another idea that Ben had been contemplating lately, which was that he should have a dog. He was used to a dog’s quiet company while he worked—the kind of companionship a dog offered took the edge off of being alone. As he worked, the idea took on the weight of a plan. Dan Berry from Freeland Farm down the road had mentioned just recently that he had a litter due any day. But Ben wasn’t looking for a puppy, necessarily. He knew there were plenty of older dogs needing homes, already housebroken and just waiting for someone to attach themselves to. He felt for those poor, disillusioned creatures, given up for reasons both frivolous and necessary, none of which helped them understand their current predicament. He planned to go to the shelter in Brunswick and find one. He and those dogs had something in common in a way; maybe the partnership could be mutually beneficial—they could help each other find joy again in the simple things life had to offer. Of course, a dog didn’t expect much, but Ben had learned to expect less these days, too.

Barney had been with them for thirteen years when they’d had to put him down shortly before June got sick. Then, with everything else going on, adding a new family member just hadn’t been a priority. But if there was ever a time to have a dog, Ben thought, this was it. It would be a welcome distraction and a relief to have someone—something—to talk to. The fence could wait, he decided, stowing the crowbar and stacking the pickets he’d removed into a pile. He would visit the shelter immediately.

As he navigated his pickup along the leaf-strewn road to the shelter, Ben couldn’t help smiling, remembering how June used to tease him, saying if he wouldn’t try to be nicer to people, he’d be a lonely old man with no one to keep him company but a dog. Well, she might be right. But why not? There were worse ways to spend your days. And there was a lot to be said for a dog—they’d forgive you anything. More than he could say for most of the women he knew. Ben felt immediately contrite just for the thought. They didn’t always agree, but there was never a day with June he would have traded.

His thoughts wandered to the day they met; June was fifteen and he was seventeen, visiting a friend at a beach house in Maine, and there was June—in a bikini, no less—he could picture her still. The two were smitten with each other, and Ben soon learned that she was as beautiful to him inside as out. Like most of his friends, he’d enlisted the next year, but he followed through on his plan to marry June as soon as he had served his time and he’d never looked back. June wasn’t perfect; hell, their marriage wasn’t perfect, but Ben supposed it had been about as good as marriage gets. He’d heard enough to know that their relationship had been held together by stronger stuff than many. They’d loved and supported each other; what more could a person ask from a partner? But now he was on his own again, after so many years. How did others cope? He wasn’t sure, but he felt his decision to get a dog was a step in the right direction. A dog could keep him from getting too wrapped up in his own world, from becoming overly isolated, which he could imagine happening quite easily. A dog would give him someone else to worry about. His spirits lifted just thinking about it.

Ben pulled into the shelter’s drive at three o’clock and found its doors closed. Still, he walked up to the door to satisfy himself. The sign said Wednesdays, 7:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. Well, everyone needs a break, I guess, he thought. But why did it have to be today? Disheartened, he walked back to the truck and headed home. He was irritated with himself for not calling first, but who would think they’d have closed early on a Wednesday? Imagining the dog he might find when he returned the next day, he drove without much purpose until he saw the QuickMart. Thinking he’d better get something to go with the burger he’d defrosted, he went in and picked up some buns, chips and a six-pack of beer.

The petite girl at the checkout was very pregnant. Ben immediately decided she was too young to have planned her pregnancy and a glance at her finger told him she was most likely not married. What were girls thinking to have their young lives derailed by pregnancy these days when it should be so easy to avoid? Also he hated to see pregnant women, especially near-term pregnant women, working. It didn’t seem right somehow. Suddenly she looked up and smiled so sweetly at him he felt disconcerted.

Did you find everything you needed today? she asked.

Did he know this girl? Ben laughed a little. Didn’t need much, he answered, but yes.   

She rewarded him with another dazzling smile and handed him his receipt and bag. Have a great day!

You too, Ben replied. She certainly didn’t seem to be upset with her condition. He wasn’t sure what it was he expected, exactly. Was she supposed to look pitiful or constantly on the verge of tears? He supposed not, but it still surprised him to see her so happy, toiling away behind the register at Jardine’s QuickMart.

Back on the road, he felt unsettled by the encounter. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the girl had wanted to say something more. She’d held his gaze a beat too long as she handed him his receipt; long enough so that he’d raised his eyebrows as if to ask, Yes? But she suddenly dropped her eyes and moved on to the next in line. Had they met? Was he supposed to remember her? She seemed familiar somehow, as if they had met outside of Jardine’s, but he couldn’t imagine where that might have been. He just couldn’t put it together. That’s the way it was sometimes when you saw someone in a different context. This was an example of when he would have turned to June, who would know exactly who the girl was and where they’d met, and who would fill him in with just a slightly admonishing tone. He shook his head as if to clear it and pulled into his long dirt drive. As he parked behind June’s vehicle, he was reminded again of how many things he had yet to take care of and a wave of fatigue washed over him. He pulled off his cap and raked his finger through his close-cropped hair, took a deep breath, then resettled the hat on his head, staring through the windshield at June’s Subaru, proof that ignoring things certainly didn’t make them go away. Between the closed shelter, the pregnant girl and his deceased wife’s car, his buoyant mood of the afternoon had completely disappeared. Grabbing the grocery bag, he climbed from the truck and headed for his door, feeling defeated.

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Rose watched Ben leave the store while she slid cans of tomato sauce and pasta boxes across the scanner. She didn’t know what had kept her from saying something—anything—to him as she’d planned. Maybe it was the way he’d looked at her, as if she were guilty of something. She felt judged somehow even though he’d said nothing. It was obvious he didn’t recognize her. Granted he didn’t come in as often as June did, but Rose knew who he was all the same.

Rose!

She looked over toward Steve, who was bagging the groceries. What? she asked.

I asked you a question. Geez, where’s your head? Who was that guy? he pelted her with questions.

What guy?

The guy who was just in here! You looked like you saw a ghost or something.

"I don’t know what you’re