She Found Heaven
Sally sighed and said, “Ruth, I’m not sure this is yours. There aren’t any big green winds, and I smell no lilacs. On the contrary, when I smell it, I smell Ireland. Have you ever been to Ireland, Ruth?”
“No.”
“Oh, it’s a lovely place. I was only there once, a long time ago. But this just brings it all back. I remember a house on the beach, and there were big gray rocks all around, and it was always raining. And there was fog everywhere. It was really quite beautiful.”
“It sounds desolate to me.”
“Well, it’s all a matter of perspective, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I suppose so.”
“But the winds of Ireland are gray and chalk-colored. Not green.”
“You don’t smell the lilacs?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Well.”
“I’m sorry, Ruth.”
“That’s . . . that’s all right. It was silly of me. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”
“Oh, you di . . .”
Click.
And later:
“Hello?”
“Hello, my name is Sally Baxter, I’m calling for Lance Washington.”
“Who’s this?”
“This is Sally Baxter. Is Mr. Washington there, please?”
“This is his wife.”
“Oh, you must be Alice!”
“Uh-uh, you got no call to be usin my first name. And you may as well hang up now, ‘cause there’s no money to pay you with. Go ahead and sue us if that’s what you want. There won’t be any money then, either.”
“What? No, I’m not a bill collector. Didn’t he tell you? I’m the one who placed the ad in the paper.”
“I don’t read no paper. What ad are you talkin about?”
“The ad about the Heaven? He didn’t mention it?”
“No. He ain’t said nothin about no Heaven.”
“May I speak to him, please? He called me and left a message on my answering machine.”
There was a pause.
“Mrs. Washington?”
“He ain’t here.”
“Well, is there a good time to call him back? He was pretty intent on talking about it.”
“He ain’t gonna be back.”
“Oh . . .”
“He got busted last night.”
“Oh, I’m . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“Lance done what he had to do. Now I guess I will too.”
“Well, I’m sorry I bothered you. Good-bye, ma’am.”
“What was that ad about, anyhow?”
“Oh, I uh, I found a piece of Heaven lying by the side of the road about a week ago, and I’m just trying to find out who it belonged to. Your husband seemed to think it might be yours.”
“Mine?”
“Well, yours and his. You know . . . the family’s.”
“He did, huh?”
“Yes. Did you lose Heaven, Mrs. Washington?”
“Yeah, I reckon we did.”
“Well maybe it is yours. Can you tell me what it looks like?”
“Oh, now, I don’t know . . .”
“You have to try, Mrs. Washington. Otherwise how will I know?”
The woman was quiet for a moment. “It’s solid,” she said. “Good and solid. It feels like the earth, like roots and leaves and hard-packed dirt. If you set it in your lap, it makes music, like drums, like oh, hundreds of drums hidden behind the trees, and if you close your eyes it takes you away, it lifts you right out of your body and brings you to where the drums are, and there’s dancing, and laughing, and the sound of bodies touching in the nighttime.”
