Olive Kitteridge - Elizabeth Strout [9]
“What in hell ails you?” Olive said.
“Denise,” he answered. “She’s helpless.”
“People are never as helpless as you think they are,” Olive answered. She added, clamping a cover over a pot on the stove, “God, I was afraid of this.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Just take the damn dog out,” Olive said. “And sit yourself down to supper.”
An apartment was found in a small new complex outside of town. Denise’s father-in-law and Henry helped her move her few things in. The place was on the ground floor and didn’t get much light. “Well, it’s clean,” Henry said to Denise, watching her open the refrigerator door, the way she stared at the complete emptiness of its new insides. She only nodded, closing the door. Quietly, she said, “I’ve never lived alone before.”
In the pharmacy he saw that she walked around in a state of unreality; he found his own life felt unbearable in a way he would never have expected. The force of this made no sense. But it alarmed him; mistakes could be made. He forgot to tell Cliff Mott to eat a banana for potassium, now that they’d added a diuretic with his digitalis. The Tibbets woman had a bad night with erythromycin; had he not told her to take it with food? He worked slowly, counting pills sometimes two or three times before he slipped them into their bottles, checking carefully the prescriptions he typed. At home, he looked at Olive wide-eyed when she spoke, so she would see she had his attention. But she did not have his attention. Olive was a frightening stranger; his son often seemed to be smirking at him. “Take the garbage out!” Henry shouted one night, after opening the cupboard beneath the kitchen sink, seeing a bag full of eggshells and dog hairs and balled-up waxed paper. “It’s the only thing we ask you to do, and you can’t even manage that!”
“Stop shouting,” Olive told him. “Do you think that makes you a man? How absolutely pathetic.”
Spring came. Daylight lengthened, melted the remaining snows so the roads were wet. Forsythias bloomed clouds of yellow into the chilly air, then rhododendrons screeched their red heads at the world. He pictured everything through Denise’s eyes, and thought the beauty must be an assault. Passing by the Caldwells’ farm, he saw a handwritten sign, FREE KITTENS, and he arrived at the pharmacy the next day with a kitty-litter box, cat food, and a small black kitten, whose feet were white, as though it had walked through a bowl of whipped cream.
“Oh, Henry,” Denise cried, taking the kitten from him, tucking it to her chest.
He felt immensely pleased.
Because it was such a young thing, Slippers spent the days at the pharmacy, where Jerry McCarthy was forced to hold it in his fat hand, against his sweat-stained shirt, saying to Denise, “Oh, yuh. Awful cute. That’s nice,” before Denise freed him of this little furry encumbrance, taking Slippers back, nuzzling her face against his, while Jerry watched, his thick, shiny lips slightly parted. Jerry had taken two more classes at the university, and had once again received A’s in both. Henry and Denise congratulated him with the air of distracted parents; no cake this time.
She had spells of manic loquaciousness, followed by days of silence. Sometimes she stepped out the back door of the pharmacy, and returned with swollen eyes. “Go home early, if you need to,” he told her. But she looked at him with panic. “No. Oh, gosh, no. I want to be right here.”
It was a warm summer that year. He remembers her standing by the fan near the window, her thin hair flying behind her in little undulating waves, while she gazed through her glasses at the windowsill. Standing there for minutes at a time. She went, for a week, to see one of her brothers. Took another week to see her parents. “This is where I want to be,” she said, when she came back.
“Where’s she going to find another husband in this tiny town?” Olive asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve wondered,” Henry admitted.
“Someone else would go off and join the Foreign Legion, but she