Kery Rowden, LCSW from the Center for Psychoanalytic Study - Houston
On April 1, a small woman moved into the apartment next door. A small woman with a big footprint. Oy, the stuff. Boxes and boxes of it. She must have come from somewhere with a lot of room. It took a couple of guys the whole day to bring it all in, up and down the stairs they went, toting boxes and furniture and God knows what until their blue t-shirts with the drawing of a muscled Atlas turned dark and their faces dripped. I hope she gave them a tip. Back and forth, up and down, the hot, humid air rising up the stairs, filling the hallway. At least it wasn’t raining. That would have been a mess. It was Good Friday. Easter was late. Or was it early? I never understood those holidays that move around on the calendar. What I do know is that it was hot early. I mean, it’s mostly hot in New Orleans, but what people don’t know is that it’s not hot all the time. Sometimes it’s really cold, but what it mostly is is wet.
As he was about to address the assembled guests he couldn’t find his voice any more. He felt Amanda’s hand on his thigh, gently, tenderly. He put his hand on hers, breathed deeply, closed his eyes, then opened them again, taking in the faces around the table, these people that he loved, waiting, patient, still. He felt the familiar weight settle on his shoulders, sink into his chest. He wished his father were there, missed his resonant voice, his steadiness. But his father was gone.
Her attention was drawn to a piece of paper on the desk. Mother quickly stood, slipping the paper into the writing box, a gift from Father. “Darling,” she said coolly. “What are you doing here? Where is Irena?” “She’s gone out.” “Out? What about your lessons?” “I don’t know. We were in the library when Mrs. Leyden brought a note for her. She read it and her face got very red and she said we will stop here for today. And she left.” “Left the house?” “Yes. I saw her walk past under the window. She was wearing her coat but not her hat.” “And she didn’t say where she was going?” “No. She just left. What were you writing?” “Don’t be so nosy. Go and ask Mrs. Leyden to come here.” Her voice changed then. “Darling,” she murmured sweetly. There was a flush creeping up her neck.
First I thought it was all a misunderstanding. He had mentioned at lunch, which I inwardly swore would be our last, that he was looking for a new place to live. I listened
70
Made with FlippingBook Annual report maker