Three Stories

By Marcia Davey

Three Stories is about women and the places they call home. In "To Naples", Iris has found the place where she is at peace. Unfortunately, her husband has found another place with a very different lifestyle. "To Boston" is about Lydia, a young girl from Newfoundland who comes to Boston to work as a domestic, but it is her intellectual energy that finds her a future. Her friend Stella, however, is encouraged (manipulated?) to circumvent the law. "Widows Row" is about women in transition. From family life in a Rhode Island village, they try to move on alone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 1, 2002
• ISBN: 9781462841950

Marcia Davey

Marcia Davey graduated from Acadia University and Providence College. Her first book, Three Stories, was published in 2004. Camille’s Fond Embrace was published in 2004, Gallivanting in 2008, Priest in 2010, Chevy Blues in 2013, and now in 2016, Isabella.

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Copyright © 2002 by Marcia Davey.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any

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from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to

any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

TO NAPLES

TO BOSTON

WIDOWS’ ROW

Sometimes a man hits upon a place to which he mysteriously feels that he belongs. Here is the home he sought, and he will settle amid scenes that he has never seen before, among men he has never known, as though they were familiar to him from his birth. Here at last he finds rest.

W Somerset Maugham, The Moon and Sixpence, 1919

TO NAPLES

She moves slowly from one corner of the kitchen floor to the other. The well-worn linoleum has given up its luster and the faded geometric pattern has ceased to scream pink or yellow. The corners have raised and curled back upon themselves and water now finds a path to the wooden floor beneath, providing a comfortable home for the bugs of Florida. She places the mop in a bucket with the disinfected water and sits on a canvas chair to review her work. She tells herself that it’s the best she can do and with the sleeve of her denim shirt, wipes the sweat from her eyebrows. The overhead fan wobbles and squeaks and blows hot air from the ceiling down upon her neck, evaporating the moisture from behind her ears. She has forgotten to get a diet coke from the refrigerator before she mopped the floor and now stares longingly at the rust-pocked door and its magnets: a pair of flamingos, their necks entwined; a bouquet of Florentine fruit with a hook and a solo pot holder; a multi-dimensional Paris café; a green ad for Kelly’s Plumbing who will send someone today, God willing, to stop the incessant dripping in the wall behind the shower. She is happy once again.

This beach house, in Naples, on the Gulf of Mexico, serves as a respite from the Nova Scotia winters. She has been here-an inheritance from her Aunt Lydia who wintered in Naples—(she lived in Boston) for twenty seasons. Like coastal real estate everywhere, this small plot of land beneath the cottage is now more valuable than the structure it supports. The cottage that her Aunt Lydia named Land’s End is being squeezed from both sides by high-rise condominium complexes and by homes copied from those in Key West and Portofino. She and Mac are realistic about its future and have given it little care.

She is reading Alistair MacLeod’s book, Island. She is reading this book because it contains stories about Nova Scotia and because it withstands interruptions and because it is good writing. She has little time for reading these days, but today she has cleaned the cottage and is now on her way to the porch with the book. Yesterday she charged into the gulf water for a swim and after she sat on the sand and read the book as the sand fleas nibbled at her ankles. Today she sits on the porch with the stray cat who is also escaping the fleas.

Mac is with the builder of luxury homes woven around an eighteen-hole golf course. He is playing golf in his new back yard. They will have a long lunch at the Taj Mahal clubhouse and arrange to transfer the title of the house. It is the dream of this golf haven that has sustained Mac through long, dark and cold stints in canada’s most northern mining towns. He has achieved this goal and he is happy.

Iris is aware of the breeze coming from the Gulf. The bamboo wind chimes clink with a new intensity; she hears the serendipitous melody. The sheer curtains billow inward as if they are about to set sail. They are sucked back and try again to gain momentum. She notes the wetness on her upper lip and the squawking of the gulls along the shore. There will be a change in the weather. The neighbor who shares her pebbled lane is crunching her way to the mailbox. She inspects the envelope-the stamp and the seal. She drops it into the box and then she recognizes Iris on the porch.

Welcome back, she says. Thanks, it’s good to be here.

I see your plumber has arrived, she says pointing to the green, panel truck with Kelly’s Plumbing" emblazoned on a shamrock.

Thanks, she says as she marks her page and places Island on a small plastic table.

The bathroom is small and the two workmen find it difficult going. They are trying to work around a small, wicker medicine cabinet whose doors hold the only mirrors in the house. One hits his head on a corner; the other hits his elbow on the towel rack. She apologizes as if she has personally inflicted this pain. But they find the source of the dripping water and remove six tiles from the wall to expose the pinhole in the pipe. They fix it in no time as they said they would. Not many of these places left, are there?

No, she says, just a few of us old-timers here now.

She pays them in cash and they gather their tools and leave. Thank you, she calls, thank you so much.

She returns to the porch but passes the book and the cat and walks the wooden planking that leads through the sea grass to the beach. The wind has picked up and is now blowing her eyes shut. Sand is beginning to form tiny swirls over her sandals. There is one sailboat in sight that will soon be challenged; this weather imparts life to her also. She approaches the breaking waves and feels the sea slapping her bare legs and drifting into her shoes. She is so alive. The cat keeps a safe distance from the waves. I’m not feeding you so you might as well take up residence somewhere else, she says and returns to the cottage. The cat rubs against her wet skin, and get out of here with your fleas!

The full-page ad in the glossy magazine states:

Keltic Highlands is a gated golf community for the discerning homeowner. Here we have 965 acres carved from a forest of hardwoods and infused with wildflowers, mature pines, 62 acres of lakes (22 sculptured lakes), over 1200 sable palms, mature Florida oaks, fragrant myrtle, cypress trees and a greenbelt of 230 acres along the perimeter. The homes are magnificent and architecturally significant in their old-world style classic elegance. Expansive outdoor and indoor patios surround the carefully designed pools. Summer kitchens and 3-car garages with all homes. Sensuous stone and marbles throughout. Cabanas and guest quarters. Golf memberships available.

Mac and Iris stop at the gatehouse and the gatekeeper searches their profiles on his computer—matching their car and personal descriptions. He opens the electronic gate that is three times the height of their car and is composed of slabs of silver and gold-colored triangles, circles and squares. They drive through and the gate returns to its protective duty.

Iris asks Mac, Why do we need this security . . . is this a high-risk neighborhood?

Mac says, No, it’s just for privacy and protection. You never know who’s roaming around. Who would ever roam around here? she asks. Probably nobody, but you never know. People who live here like their privacy. Money buys privacy and exclusiveness. There are some people even you don’t like to be around. Life is just more pleasant and comfortable if you live with your own kind . . . you don’t have to hide your wealth or pretend to be one of the common folk. And some of these people are corporate executives and diplomats who are very aware of kidnapping risks. But we are common folk.

Yes, we are common folk with a lot of money and that sets us apart whether we like it or not and we can’t continue to live in a shack cottage on the beach. The agent told me that land is worth a million.

Everything here is over a million. Did you tell him we’re not selling?

I told him we’re not selling now.

We’re not selling.

Ok.

Just beyond the gate is a putting green on a grassy triangle. Three petrified, bronze golfers stand or crouch around a hole. They are dressed like highlanders with slouchy tams on their heads and knickers tucked into argyle socks. Their eyes are intensely focused on the hole, which will forever wait for the ball. Farther along this palm-lined road is a bank of gushing water fountains. It is early morning and the crews are working. Most of them are speaking in their native language. The underground sprinkler system is nurturing the already lush fairways, small tractors and trucks scurry between the showers-seeding and manicuring the greens.

Mac brings the car into the circular drive and shuts down the motor. Look at this, he says. This is what kept me going . . . all those cold, dark months on the canadian Shield . . . never seeing the sun for months at a time. This is what kept me alive. The dream has come true. This sunny home on the sunny golf course in sunny Naples, Florida. I can practically tee off from my yard.

Iris gently places her hand on his neck and pulls him toward her. It’s unreal, she says, I can’t believe you did it. We did it, he says. Let’s go see the house. He opens the door of his new Mercedes coupe and offers his hand. He raises the garage door with the remote and shows her the golf cart tucked into its own space. He raises the other doors, one at a time, exposing the entire car-storage area. She thinks it is larger than the whole house where she grew up and where her parents still live. They move into the foyer, which is two storyes high. The Baccarat chandelier reflects sunshine coming through the glass wall beyond. Mac opens a control box and the wall retreats and they step into a screened and domed lanai. Iris feels as if she is visiting the Japanese garden at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. She suddenly feels overwhelmed and she can sense moisture on her brow; she suggests air conditioning. They silently make their way to the chaises. The crystal water flows through a Jacuzzi and tumbles into the pool. They sit and stare at the fairways beyond.

I haven’t done this since I was a kid swimming in the harbor, Iris says. She kicks off her shoes and slips her dress over her head and removes her underwear and jumps into the pool. What the hell are you doing? says Mac. Come on in the water’s fine.

Not just yet, he says as he kicks off his loafers and removes his socks. You’re crazy!

Hi in there, a voice beckons from the foyer, I have a little welcome basket of phone numbers, maps and directions for you. I saw your car.

They are visible from the foyer and there is no place to hide. Mac gets up and moves toward the visitor.

Don’t leave me here alone, Iris begs.

Hello, Mac calls, be right there.

Get me a towel or a sheet or something, says Iris.

There are towels in the bar, hold on, and he throws her a too-small towel from under the bar.

Keep her occupied in the kitchen, Iris tells him. I’ll be right there. She tries to dry off with the small linen square and rushes into her clothes. Mac has eased the visitor into the kitchen. I’m Iris MacDonald, she extends her hand after she wipes it on her dress. I’m sorry, I was taking a swim. Hi Iris, I’m Suzie with a z. Suzie Whitehouse. I live across the ninth right over there. She points toward the fairway. Well, I’m pleased to meet you Suzie.

I can’t stay. I just wanted to show my face and give you some information to get started. My cell number is on my card . . . call if you need anything . . . anything at all. Toodle now. She leaves as quickly as she came.

I met Suzie yesterday. She was having lunch at the club with a group . . . looked like they had just come off the links, Mac says.

What’s the matter with her face? asks Iris.

I think she’s had a recent lift, says Mac.

The poor woman. I think she should sue the surgeon.

The other women all looked the same . . . I mean teenage faces and teenage breasts. I think they all had something done. She said she wanted to show her face. I didn’t think she was being literal.

See, Mac said, money can buy youth.

Or the perception of youth-it’s the perception that counts.

This country club life is a shallow dive, Babe, but the golf is great. Don’t get philosophical . . . and by the way, you could have that ski jump taken off the end of your nose.

I thought you liked my turned-up nose.

I do, I do, but if you want to join the cosmetic rehab group, you . . .

Very funny . . . and you could have your droopy eyelid lifted. I might.

You’re kidding of course.

Maybe.

Oh come on.

Well, it feels good to look your best. How do you know what best is? Best is smooth and even and . . . young. Best is young. But that means I was best at nineteen. God help us all, I was dumb at nineteen. What did I know of the world? I thought I was in love with the guy who sat behind me in Philosophy because he whispered in my ear and kicked the back of my chair. But you married me, didn’t you? That was a smart move. The jury is still out on that one.

Look around you, Babe, and tell me that was not a smart move. Suzie seems like a live wire. She’s not bashful is she.

I wonder if she fell in love with someone in Philosophy class. Do I hear a little snobbism here?

Sorry . . . you’re right. Oh look here. She gave us two tickets to the ballet at the Philharmonic . . . next Wednesday. Maybe she fell in love with someone in Music Appreciation. Or dance class . . . probably in training for the Miss. Texas pageant. I’ll bet she was a cheerleader. Iris, you’re off to a bad start.

Sorry.

They go to the ballet at the Philharmonic Center for the Arts on Pelican Bay Boulevard to see Don Quixote by the Festival Ballet of Moscow. The audience applauds for the choreography and the acrobatics.