Lucy and Bert Nicholson had been parishioners at All Saints since 1952, the year they married  during the hottest August since the end of the war. Until his death this past spring, Bert had been head usher and Lucy ran the women’s auxiliary. Opening doors for her without fail for nearly fifty years, it was obvious to all that the man treasured his wife. The only time anyone ever saw Bert out of sorts was when it came to “the hated contraption” – the hearing aid he’d begrudgingly use on Sundays since going deaf a few years back. Most often he preferred to stand close to his interlocuters or smile benignly if he judged the conversation mundane or unimportant to his survival. Reverend Monica Chambers found him charming. On the delightful occasions she’d found herself alone with the Nicholsons, he was content to let his wife Lucy do all the talking while he served dessert, submitting to his hearing aid while Monica was there, something she later realized was a great honour. Bert would serve whipped cream from a can and if he remembered, he’d toss a few berries on top. “Now isn’t that cloud nine?” he’d say with a twinkle in his eye, bits of white on the tips of his moustache.

 

For forty years Bert had raised limousin cattle before retiring with Lucy to a bungalow in town. Lucy loved being close to her friends, walking the dog down to the pier, riding her bicycle along the rail path. But Bert was lost in the subdivision. He’d insisted on bringing the riding mower from the farm and seemed genuinely troubled when the entire lawn was finished in under ten minutes. What was he supposed to do with the rest of the day? Calving season and hay season blended together until he felt like a fallow field; resting, resting, resting.

 If something were to break down, Lucy would fret. Nothing was supposed to break down in a new house. As for Bert, he didn’t mind taking apart the sump pump or re-aligning the eavestroughs so they drained properly. He felt useful, whistling to himself while he worked, until one day, pulling a stubborn weed from the back garden, he had a massive heart attack and died. Monica missed him, but not nearly as much as Lucy. Lucy sat in her usual pew on Sundays looking small without Bert’s bulk beside her. Her voice cracked on the high notes, but it was grief more than age. Monica knew the difference. 

            “Would you like to talk sometime, Lucy?” Monica offered, one Sunday after the service ended.

            Lucy always stood straight, and if Monica noticed a slight sag in her shoulders just then it didn’t register.

            “Thanks, Reverend. But I’m not sure you can help. He’s gone. I’ve just got to get used to it.” 

            “Oh, dear Lucy. I want you to know you’re not alone.”

            At that, Lucy Nicholson’s usually pleasant countenance shifted, and something akin to a soupçon of contempt overtook her features. Familiar with the hostility of the bereft and wary that some unwelcome platitude might escape her lips, Monica nodded and left Lucy to greet another parishioner. 

            The following week at Evensong Yoga, Monica spotted Lucy stretching alongside a new woman in town. Gilda Heins and her husband had recently retired from glamourous careers in the city and now lived in one of the six new luxury townhouses by the marina. Monica knew this not from any personal interactions with Gilda, but from Lorne’s reports from the coffee shop. It’s not every day electricians and plumbers see new builds with elevators. Everyone in town wondered about the occupants of such accommodations.

            As Monica packed up her mat and Caitlin, the yogi, blew out the candles, she overheard Lucy say to Gilda, “I hope you enjoy retirement. It was good for a while but now my Bert’s gone. I suppose I’ll just have to get used to it.”

            Gilda reached into her pocket. “Perhaps I can help. Here’s my card. If you like, we could talk about this a little more.”

            It’s possible Monica’s face betrayed some of the horror she felt watching Lucy turn Gilda’s card over in her hands. It’s possible her hands trembled when Lucy bit her lip and then marched after Gilda out into the parking lot. Forty-five minutes of stretching and her neck was stiffer than ever when she locked up the church basement for the night. What did Gilda know about Lucy? She’d never met Bert, had never heard his booming laughter. How could a woman who wore her grey hair in an asymmetrical bob and dyed her bangs purple possibly comfort someone as down-to-earth as Lucy Nicholson? 

            Let Gilda Heins listen to the neurosis of the weekenders who skied at the private clubs, Monica thought as she walked across the bridge towards home. Could Lucy even afford Gilda’s rates, whatever they were? It might be extortion. Seniors had enough predatory scams to watch out for, and now this! Monica listened to and counselled All Saint’s parishioners for free, it was part of the job, a privilege she treasured.  She’d thought she was good at it, too, until Lucy brushed her off.

            “I’m home!’ she called out to Lorne. The dogs came running to greet her. The cure for peevishness and anxiety is surely a gentle, canine lick. Most of the time.

            Lorne studied her face. “Uh oh.”

            “Uh oh? What does that mean?”

            “Who is it?” 

After so many years together, Lorne has learned that in a church, and possibly everywhere, people are the root of all evil.

            “Do you remember that woman with the fuchsia pashmina at the strawberry social?”

            Lorne shook his head. Remembering other women wasn’t typically encouraged. 

            Monica plowed on. “Every time someone spoke, she kept flipping it from one shoulder to the next, as though she was carefully considering their every word.”

            She groaned and closed her eyes. So pretentious. 

 Where do you live? [Flip the left]     

Oh, how nice. [Flip to the right] 

And what do you do? [Flip back to the left – dramatically]

            There are moments when even the most considered reply will inevitably be the wrong one. In this case, Lorne remained silent.

            “She doesn’t need that city shrink!”

            Finally Lorne recalled some gossip from the coffee shop about the woman in question. A psychotherapist married to an architect living in townhouse number three – the one with the elevator. “Apparently she is an expert–“

            “Whose side are you on?” Monica snapped.       

            Lorne took a mug from the hook in the kitchen and silently poured his wife a steaming mug of chamomile tea, adding a spoonful of honey as an afterthought. Gently he placed it in front of his wife, reached out and took her hand.

            “Right. Now, remind me again why we hate her guts?”

~

Gilda and Frank Heins were wandering around Jones’ Garden Centre for the hundredth time, choosing planters for their balconies, when her mobile rang. Frank looked at his wife in surprise. Her phone had hardly rung at all since they’d moved north. She waved him towards the cashier with their selections and walked along the rows of nursery stock to take the call.

            “Gilda, it’s Lucy Nicholson.”

             “Good morning, Lucy,” Gilda said, forcing her voice into professional indifference. “So glad you called.”

            Not wanting to seem too eager, or too available, they agreed to meet in a week’s time, whereafter Gilda spent the next six days re-arranging the furniture in her den to prepare for Lucy’ consultation. All of a sudden she hated all the modern furniture they’d purchased for their new home. She missed the cracked leather chairs from her clinic, the darkened oil paintings with indistinguishable pastoral scenes, the heavy wool rugs. When Frank had suggested a glass coffee table it seemed like the ultimate admission that they’d never have grandchildren (their only child had chosen a bohemian lifestyle sans enfant). Why not have sculptural furniture if babyproofing was a fantasy? Still, now, in the clear light of day, Gilda wondered if Lucy would hesitate to place her handbag on such a table. How often was discomfort found in the smallest details? 

            By Thursday morning, Gilda woke with huge bags under her eyes. She gulped down a coffee, got in her car and sped 40 km to a consignment shop where she purchased two beat-up club chairs, a blue and white wool carpet and an old coffee table the salesgirl assured her had been painted for an “authentic distressed” look. Gilda felt authentically distressed at how much money she was spending on someone else’s old crap. Frank would have a coronary when it was delivered that afternoon. And yet, she finally felt ready to meet with her first client in over a year. She’d wear her fuschia pashmina…

 

            Lucy arrived at Gilda Heins’ townhouse at exactly 12:50 the following afternoon. Gilda led her down a spacious hallway towards a den tucked in the corner, overlooking the river. 

            “What a beautiful view,” Lucy remarked.

            It was, Gilda agreed. It was just the peaceful oasis Frank had wanted.

            “My living room used to have a beautiful view, too,” Lucy said, taking the nearest of the two club chairs and tossing her purse onto the table.

            “You don’t have a view anymore?” Gilda inquired.

            Lucy shook her head sadly. “On the farm, I meant. I had a beautiful view on the farm.”

            Gilda adjusted the blinds and sat in the chair opposite Lucy, her notebook poised on her lap. “Why don’t we start there? Tell me about your life with Bert.”

 

            And so the next hour passed and Gilda found herself lost in Lucy’ life story. The older woman spoke of joy and sorrow the way others might remark upon a rainy season or a hot summer’s night. She was completely without guile, a woman who saw her life for what it was, and who had been smart enough to tell her husband she adored him while he was still alive.

            “Lucy, everything you are feeling is completely normal…” Gilda slid her pashmina from one shoulder to the next, searching for advice and finding nothing.

            The older woman leaned forward. “Everyone says that. Everyone says it’s so normal, and when they say that I suppose I feel as though they’re saying  you’re not special. Bert wasn’t special…”  she wiped away a tear. “When people say  it gets easier  I just really want to whack them, can you understand?”

            A smile broke out on Gilda’s face, surprising Lucy, who couldn’t have known that Gilda, sophisticated Gilda, with her many counselling degrees and designations, was two seconds away from saying something remarkably similar. Instead, she said:

            “Lucy. It’s been wonderful to hear about Bert. I would have loved to have known him.” She stole a glance at her watch but Lucy noticed.

            “Do you have another appointment?”

            Gilda nodded. It was only the dog groomer but she didn’t admit that.

            “This has really been so helpful. Everyone in this town knows me. I just needed to talk to a stranger. I wonder if maybe we could do this again?”

            “Same time next week?” Gilda suggested.

            

That evening Gilda hummed while making dinner, something Frank hadn’t observed since they moved in. The dishes clattered as he set the table and Gilda stared at him until he turned around, sensing her gaze. 

            “What’s wrong?”

            She glanced at his trembling hand, holding a fork above the plates.

            “I love you.”

~            

 

Six months later, there was a snowstorm in the valley and only three brave souls showed up for Evensong Yoga: Gilda, Caitlin (the yogi) and Monica.

            Monica nodded hello to the psychotherapist and settled herself on her mat, determined to breathe deeply and ignore Gilda’s fancy workout clothes and expensive sensory mat. While Caitlin lit the candles and began playing the sacred music, Gilda leaned over and whispered:

            “Is it the storm or is everyone in Florida?”

            Monica tipped into downward dog. “I think Lucy is the only one on holiday, the others are probably using the weather as an excuse to stay in and watch “Dancing with the Stars.””

            This elicited a snort from Gilda. “Well, I wouldn’t miss this. I need to get out and see people.” She shifted into warrior one. “I miss Lucy. I wouldn’t have pegged her as the snowbird type.”

            Monica’s neck tensed up immediately, making her next vinyasa stiff and awkward. “I suppose Lucy misses her sessions with you, too.”

            Now in tree pose, Gilda shrugged. “Oh, I doubt that. I definitely needed her more than she needed me.”

            Monica lost her balance and stumbled into the wall. “What?”

            “I mean, you counsel people…”

            The Reverend regained her footing, nodding.

            “What strategies do you give to a woman who is quite simply just very sad to have lost a wonderful partner? I mean, that’s not illness, that’s health.”

            Monica decided to sit down.

            “All Lucy needed was comfort, and a friend can give that for free.” Gilda sat now, too.

            “And so you’re… friends?”

            Gilda smiled. Monica noticed she had nearly perfect teeth. The purple bangs had distracted her from a solidly genuine smile. 

            “You know how small towns are so idyllic, so friendly…? That’s the postcard. That’s the real estate advert. But it’s been hard to penetrate retiree social circles. Lucy was my first friend, and after she “approved” me, people seemed much friendlier.”

            Monica laid back in corpse pose, guilty prana coursing through her. “People were unfriendly?”

            Gilda sighed and laid down on her mat, lifting her legs off the ground with hardly a quiver of effort.

            “When we told people where we lived they dismissed us, because they’d heard about the elevator.” She paused. “No one thought to ask why we needed one.” Her legs dropped and she exhaled.

            “So why do you?”

            The choral music emitting from Caitlin’s portable stereo suddenly quieted, and the church basement was silent, the candlelight casting shadows into the lines on Gilda’s face.

            “Frank’s Parkinson’s is getting worse. He figured if he was going to need a wheelchair, he’d design a house around it.” She shrugged. “The funny thing is, that’s why we’re here at All Saints.”

            Monica wasn’t following anymore. Gilda continued.

            “Frank saw that there were ramps everywhere, even though the building is old. It was a sign, you know?  The community had invested in access long before it became law.”                                  

            Monica reached her arm over towards the sensory mat beside her and patted Gilda’s hand. “Do you want to talk sometime?”

            Gilda burst out laughing. “I was just about to ask you the same thing. I could see that your neck muscles were tense from across the room.”

            “Oh that. Misplaced jealousy.”

            “Ah.”

            “It goes away… usually.”

            “Funny,” Gilda said, touching her stomach. “When I feel insecure or threatened it manifests in my gut unless I happen to be wearing my lucky pashmina.”

            Monica smiled. From across the room Caitlin rolled her eyes and began packing up.

            “I’d love to sit down with you,” Monica said.

            “Your couch or mine?” Gilda replied.

 

The End