Olive Kitteridge - Elizabeth Strout [41]
Harmon’s mother didn’t sew, but she used to make popcorn balls at Christmas. Speaking of this, he felt something had been returned to him, as though the inestimable losses of life had been lifted like a boulder, and beneath he saw—under the attentive gaze of Daisy’s blue eyes—the comforts and sweetness of what had once been.
When he got home, Bonnie said, “What took you so long? I need you to climb up and fix those gutters like you’ve been promising to do.”
He handed her the bag with her doughnut.
“And the pipe under the sink has been dripping into that bucket for weeks. Ironic you should own a hardware store.”
Unexpectedly, a ripple of terror went through him. He sat down in his La-Z-Boy. In a moment he said, “Hey, Bonnie, would you ever want to move?”
“Move?”
“Say to Florida or somewhere.”
“Are you crazy? Or are you kidding.”
“Where there’s sun all year long. Where the house isn’t so big and empty.”
“I’m not even going to answer such a ludicrous thing.” She peered into the bag with the doughnut. “Cinnamon? You know I hate cinnamon.”
“It’s all they had.” He picked up a magazine, so as not to look at her. But in a moment, he said, “Has it ever bothered you, Bonnie, that none of the boys want to take over the store?”
Bonnie frowned. “We’ve talked about that, Harmon. Why in the world should it bother us? They’re free to do what they like.”
“Of course they are. But it would’ve been nice. Have at least one of them around.”
“This negativity of yours. It’s driving me nuts.”
“Negativity?”
“I just wish you’d perk up.” She crumpled the doughnut bag closed. “And clean out those gutters. It isn’t pleasant, Harmon, having to feel like a nag.”
By November, the leaves were gone, the trees along Main Street were bare, and the sky was often overcast. The shortening days made Harmon recall a soberness of heart that he had felt off and on for a long time; no wonder Bonnie had told him to perk up. In a small, private way, he was perking up. Because now, as he went around closing up the store, selling nails to a last-minute customer, he found himself looking forward to his Sunday mornings with Daisy with a sense of gladness, not the furtive urgency of those few months they’d been…“buddies.” It was as though a lightbulb glowed in a town where nighttime came swiftly, and sometimes driving home he would go the long way to pass by her house. Once he saw a dented Volvo parked in her driveway; it was covered with bumper stickers, and he wondered if some of Copper’s family had come from Boston to visit.
The next Sunday, Daisy said, in a hushed tone at the door, “Come in, Harmon. Have I got a story to tell you.” She put a finger to her lips, then said, “Nina’s asleep upstairs in the little room.” They sat at the dining room table as Daisy told him in a whisper that the girl, a few days earlier, had had a fight with Tim—they’d been staying at some motel on Route 1 since getting kicked out of the Washburn place—and he’d gone off with their cell phone. Nina knocked on Daisy’s door, so distraught Daisy thought she might have to get her to a doctor. Nina got hold of the boy, though, and he’d come by to get her. Daisy thought they’d made up. But last night the girl knocked again, another fight, and she didn’t have a place to stay. So now she was upstairs. Daisy clasped her hands together on the table. “Boy, do I want a cigarette.”
Harmon sat back. “Well, hold off if you can. We’ll get this figured out.”
Above them the floor creaked, there was a motion on the stairs, and here was the girl, wearing flannel pants and a T-shirt. “Hello,” said Harmon, so as not to frighten her, being startled himself. He had not seen her for weeks, since she’d been in the