Lily was not about to be daunted by her neighbor’s daily fussing about his yard, which apparently required mechanized tools as well as manually operated ones. And he always talked to his duck, Henry, who liked to follow him around much of the time. She knew this from a few years of spying on them from her kitchen window throughout the day, as well as in-person knowledge. Quack quack quack. It was a Pekin duck, a drake, Marlon had told her, and she had agreed it–he?– was pleasant enough. But that was before she had vast knowledge of how chattery Henry could be.
She wanted to finish absorbing her book’s information before it had to go back to the library. She dearly wished he’d speak to it more quietly; it marred her concentration. Marlon’s voice carried even when he wasn’t adamant. Did he think the creature was deaf? Did he think Henry cared about his opinions and directives? But they were neighbors and Lily had to find ways to live with it for as long as necessary. She should have been used to noise, or at least intermittent loud sounds. It wasn’t the street sounds that erupted off and on, for it was quiet although they were three blocks from the small downtown.
It was Phil, her husband–ex-husband, she reminded herself–who was the noise maker, being an amateur musician. They lived twelve years in their small three bedroom house before she’d had enough. One whole room was taken over by his keyboard, four guitars, drums and miscellaneous small instuments–harmonica, god save her– and whenever the fancy struck him, he sequestered himself for a good couple of hours. It might even be ten at night, whereupon close neighbors called to remind them quiet time had arrived. It was embarassing. It wasn’t that he was terrible. Lily was no critic, but she knew he had some talent even while on a steep learning curve. People seemed to his musical offerings, at least when joined by others, at the block BBQs. Or it was the beer that blurred critical thinking. But it increasingly grated on her nerves when he practiced alone.
When Lily threatened to go on a six month vacation and possibly longer, he built a music studio. It was a really utility shed with makeshift skylight and decent sound proofing. In summer it got sweaty and in winter it got chilly, but he jammed by himself a couple hours after work or dinner most nights, then on week-ends. She thought it might help their sparse and malfunctioning connections. Then Frank informed her he was inspired to go back to college to study music in California. He imagined he’d stay on; he liked it better than Washington, anyway. Did she want to come? No, she did not. They parted ways, not without a few regrets. But their hearts were not bruised for long, even after thirteen years.
Lily paused longer in her reading of the weighty tome about women artists of Canada. She sat in her easy chair in the living room but heard Marlon sputtering and muttering something of imagined import on the other side of the shared fence. Maybe about the weeds he’d said were recalcitrant. Henry quacked and muttered back. As this continued, loneliness snagged Lily a bit. Marlon had a wife though she was not well and a companionable duck. Not that she wanted animals–she’d done that long ago and it was enough. Not that she needed another partner yet. But she did lack for a missing part in her life. Quietness, for starters, and something more satisfying than sheer entertainments, simple distractions.
One evening when Henry and Marlon were tucked away and Lily couldn’t sleep well, she slipped out of her rooom and pushed open the back door to sniff the cooling night air. It was fragrant with a tender sweetness. Stepping onto the cement patio, she admired the roses starting to bloom along the fencing, and slowly inching up the trellis. She smiled and yawned–her one successful flowering plant, something she had worked at for years. Her bathrobe wrapped about her, she sat in a chair and gazed up at a hazy sprinkling of stars. What would round out her life and allow refuge from the cares of the world, as well as Marlon and Henry? What mattered, what called to her?
There was only so much Lily had time and energy for after 9 hour days of work at Rick Wellingham’s Photography Studio. Sometimes weekends required her services, though only in case of emergency. She was the receptionist/scheduler/prop person; she liked her job well enough. But sometimes she itched to make suggestions to Rick, to offer her viewpoint on lighting or decor or poses. Which she never did, despite being there fifteen years. And it didn’t occur to Rick to ask, either–she would have reeled at first if he did, then jumped at the chance.
She had long ago wanted to be an interior decorator or designer if she was honest, but that was when she was in her late teens, then early twenties and bored with her history and eduaction coursework. Oh, she liked history alright and she read widely. But when she was alone she had painted suureptiously during those years. She took brush to small, thick paper squares, and added pen and ink drawings. She tucked them away in shoeboxes once she graduated, then met Phil on a cruise ship and got married a year later. She taught American history a few years, then swerved from that path as Phil’s sales career took off.
Lily sighed and settled herself when a light went on next door in their rear bedroom. She automatically turned her head, ear attuned to Marlon’s wife’s lilting voice through a screen window: Grace, a lovely woman struck down by cancer. Grace and Marlon were older by twenty-odd years, but the women got on well, had coffee talks. Now the two of them seldom met up. She thought about Grace b ut for some reason got Marlon to carry a greeting or food or a card to her.
She slumped back. Why was it that the most comforting times had to come to an end so often? She imagined how it might be if she had been an interior designer, where she would have lived, what people she might have met. The theoretical scenarios filled her mind with pleasure. Her eyelids drooped as she began to drowse in her chair.
Henry, however, was roused by a coyote sneaking through underbrush in the back yard. He let out vociferous honking and quacking. Lily jumped up, peered over the fence just as Marlon flipped the outside light on and stepped out the back door.
“I’m gonna get you, don’t come any closer!” Marlon growled, his voice barely topping Henry’s.
Lily noted he had a baseball bat grasped in a knuckley fist. The underbrush rustled and out came coyote, who stood facing Marlon as if he were an annoyance. That stare could unsettle anyone, she thought but Marlon was glancing about, blinking in the light and shadow.
“Over there, Marlon!” she called out, and he glanced at her, then rushed at the advancing coyote, bat held high. The canine stopped, stepped back a few feet, then dashed off.
“And keep off my land!” Marlon shouted and gave chase as the creature squeezed through a bush covering a gape in the fence. “Henry, good job! Keep on guard! We’ll fix that tomorrow…danged coyotes think they own the world. John’s cat got taken last week, can you imagine? Go to bed, Henry, you’re safe there.”
The bedroom light went off. Lily imagined Grace was shuddering from the gross interruption of her own insomniac’s musings. She hoped she was not in much pain and vowed to call her soon.
Lily crossed her arms before her and squeezed herself with a mini-hug. She wondered if the coyote was lurking patiently and how it would fare against the onslaughts of Marlon. Luckily, Henry was enscounced in a well protected hut. What would Marlon do without that duck? The thought of his being gobbled unnerved her. For she understood that Henry –and the garden and yard work– were his sanctuary even more since Grace had gotten so so ill, left far behind from daily activities they used to enjoy sharing.
But it was all the excitement she was up to for one night–a duck, a man and a coyote soon to return, no doubt, and why not, there was a duck waiting out there! She exited the night yard and shut the door firmly. Crawled back into her queen sized bed, feeling all that cool blank space around her. Pulled a bue and white floral coverlet over her head and then arranged herself into a compact gathering of exasperated bone, flesh and mind. And covered her ears. New ear plugs were on her shopping list.
The morning dawned too soon, Henry quacking off and on, the birds offering a repertoire of fine songs. As Lily prepared coffee, she scanned the yard and her focus got stuck on Phil’s old music studio. He’d been gone over a year. Why was it still there, gaping at her, a useless, weathered shed that imposed itself on her small but savored patch of land?
She needed to make it her own. Why not?
She was going to make it hers, yes–create a refuge for herself.
The thoughts came to her as easily, an unfolding design plan as she sipped coffee on the patio. She considered colors she’d paint exterior and interior, the tall grasses and flowers she’d plant along the front, the ways its tight area could be rescued, enhanced with this and that. She’d use it for…what? A contemplative space. A library and reading room. A place for her friends to come enjoy private converations and drinks, beyond Marlon’s and Henry’s earshot. She’d find a comfortable lounge chair in– add a couple more chairs, a round table for two. She’d ask Grace over on her better days.
She would… paint. Make something interesting of nothing. She would make art again. The skylight was large and allowed for plenty of sunshine. Lily might still add a window.
Once she located the key to the padlock, she entered the shed, stood still inside. The drab walls almost hid spider webs and smudges, but that would be alleviated by elbow grease and fresh paint. Perhaps a soft peachy tone or a muted sunshiney color. Nothing there reminded her of him, though. It was empty of music, of his unleashed spirit. It was open to a new tenant.
Over the week-end Lily worked long and hard and carefully inside and out, handling ladder, paint and brush with some difficulty but getting it done. Marlon watched her with surprise but offered no comment or help; he was busy with Henry and garden. Over the week she shopped for secondhand wooden chairs and circular cafe table. A couple of fat square pillows for corner of the space. She splurged on a good lounge chair and gave it a small bouncing try.
By the following weekend she was done. Ready to put the studio to full use. Exulting in her handiwork, she strolled to the fence where she could hear and glimpse Marlon and Henry. To her happy surprise, Grace was sitting with a shawl about her shoulders.
“Hello! Gorgeous day, isn’t it?”
Marlon looked up sharply but agreeably nodded; Grace waved and smiled, offered a hello in return.
“I’d like to invite you both over this week-end if you’re up to it. I have a new spot to show you.”
Marlon gabbled at Henry who’d dashed beyond his grasp. “Phil’s place re-done?”
“Oh, let’s call it my place now. Lily’s studio.”
Grace smiled more broadly, her wan face betraying new lines but her eyes focused and brighter than in awhile. In her weakened but melodious voice she said, “Wondered when that might happen. Good for you, honey. I’d love to come over and see it. Try me tomorrow.”
Marlon peered over the fence with his bushy head inclined, his eyebrows rising, lips puckering to show his reserved approval. “Is Henry welcome, though? I mean, if he wants to come?”
Lily gave a little shrug. What was Henry to this man? Was marlone losing it a little? “Maybe so. If I’m not painting. It’s my snug refuge, Marlon, from all that quacking and muttering and all else that’s distracting.” She paused before adding, “But you know Henry is welcome in my home, if he wants to come.”
“Well, okay then,” he said, and walked off scratching his balding head.
Grace clapped her hands twice in restrained glee. It was enough to make Lily’s heart swell.
That night, Lily took her coverlet into the studio, lay on a pretty ivy fabric that covered the lounge. Breathed slowly from belly up and exhaled evenly. She hadn’t turned on the electric lantern hanging from a hook. Instead, she looked up through the skylight, searched for Venus and found her. The studio was entirely still. Not one irritating sound reached her, though there likely were few. The interior was so refreshed, but she decided she’d like a skylight that would open and close. Walls were darkened but gave hints of a spring green. A pink and white peony bouquet sat on the table. A compact easel was in one corner, in case she wanted to try painting a bigger picture. And her well made art box, a new purchase with handle for carrying in and out of the world, sat waiting by the flowers in a blue glass vase. It was almost like home, and would be as soon as her first painting found its way to a bright wall.
Tales for Life 
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