Breathing Lessons (1989 Pulitzer Prize) - Anne Tyler [42]
After a few minutes, she got up and went to her parents' room. She took the yellow pages from under the telephone. Frames, no. Picture frames, yes. Sam's Frame Shop. She had thought she just wanted to see it in print, but eventually she scribbled the address on a memo pad and took it back to her room.
She owned no black-bordered stationery, so she chose the plainest of what she'd been given for graduation- white with a single green fern in one corner. Dear Mr. Moran, she wrote.
/ used to sing in the choir with your son and I had to let you know how sad I am to hear of his death. I'm not writing just out of politeness. I thought Ira was the most wonderful person I've ever met. There was something special about him and I wanted to tell you that as long as I live, I'm going to remember him fondly.
With deepest sympathy, Margaret M. Daley She sealed and addressed the envelope and then, before she could change her mind, she walked to the corner and dropped it in the mailbox.
At first she didn't think about Mr. Moran's answering, but later on, at work, it occurred to her that he might. Of course: People were supposed to answer sympathy notes. Maybe he would say something personal about Ira that she could store up and treasure. Maybe he would say that Ira had mentioned her name. That wasn't completely impossible. Or, seeing how she had been one of the few who had properly valued his son, he might even send her some little memento-maybe an old photo. She would love a photo. She wished now she had thought to ask for one.
Since she'd mailed the letter Monday, it would probably reach Ira's father Tuesday. So his answer could come on Thursday. She hurried through her work Thursday morning in a fever of impatience. At lunch hour she phoned home, but her mother said the mail hadn't arrived yet. (She also said, "Why? What are you expecting?" which was the kind of thing that made Maggie long to get married and move out.) At two she phoned again, but her mother said there'd been nothing for her.
That evening, walking to choir practice, she counted up the days once more and realized that Mr. Moran might not have received her letter on Tuesday after all. She hadn't mailed it till nearly noon, she remembered. This, made her feel better. She started walking faster, waving at Serena when she spotted her on the steps of the church.
Mr. Nichols was late, and the choir members joked and gossiped while they waited for him. They were all a little heady now that spring was here-even old Mrs. Britt. The church windows were open and they could hear the neighborhood children playing out on the sidewalk. The night air smelled of newly cut grass. Mr. Nichols, when he arrived, wore a sprig of lavender in his buttonhole. He must have bought it from the street vendor, who had only that morning appeared with his cart for the first time that year. "Sorry, ladies and gentlemen," Mr. Nichols said. He set his briefcase on a pew and rooted through it for his notes.
The church door opened again and in walked Ira Mo-ran.
He was very tall and somber, in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and slim black trousers. He wore a stern expression that lengthened his chin, as if there were something lumpy in his mouth. Maggie felt her heart stop. She felt icy at first and then overheated, but she stared through him blankly with dry, wide eyes, keeping her thumb in place in the hymnbook. Even in that first moment, she knew he wasn't a ghost or a mirage. He was as real as the gummy varnished pews, not so flawlessly assembled as she had pictured but more intricately tex-tured-more physical, somehow; more complicated.
Mr. Nichols said, "Oh, Ira. Glad to see you." "Thanks," Ira said. Then he filed through