Short story
Tearfall in October
.
October is the month when your senses are at their peak, tuned to the aroma of apples and cinnamon, the discovery of decorations that create coziness, the passing of the year, and the buzz of the upcoming holiday. You breathe in a little, and now you are enveloped in the warming smells of pumpkin spice, and with them, a multitude of memories of past years fly up in your head like fall leaves. A compass appears in your chest, beckoning you towards a cozy fireplace, a cup of coffee, and a warm home.
Not for Hetta McLoy. For her, October is no different from the previous months. She turns on the electric fireplace in the heat of July, bakes apple and pumpkin pies year-round, and has an infinite amount of coffee cups. Or rather, only one cup of coffee is seen on her table every morning.
Not for Hetta McLoy. For her, October is no different from the previous months. She turns on the electric fireplace in the heat of July, bakes apple and pumpkin pies year-round, and has an infinite amount of coffee cups. Or rather, only one cup of coffee is seen on her table every morning.
However, October also enhances Hetta's sense of smell. In the mornings, when Hetta goes out to get her mail, she inhales the fresh, slightly prickly air and immediately catches the subtle, penetrating scent of curiosity. For example, there is Martha, her neighbor on the street for thirty years. Martha simply reeks of nosiness. Hetta meets Martha's gaze, nods, and turns sharply. It’s good that Martha isn’t walking alone but walks her dog. The dog seems to be Hetta's ally because he lingers at every bush and fence. Or maybe Martha's rheumatoid arthritis is the true ally.
Hetta slows her pace and smiles wryly. She doesn’t have to hurry. Thank heavens that at sixty she still stretches in the morning to the sounds of the early eighties and sometimes even jumps, just like the girls in shiny leggings on the old CD. Hetta even takes out her hairband and puts it on her thin hair. Beforehand, however, she closes all the curtains on the living room windows. She doesn’t want to share her secret of slimness and health with any of her neighbors.
“And two, and three. And…!” Hetta freezes with her leg raised barely above the knee. “What’s that sound?”
Hetta slows her pace and smiles wryly. She doesn’t have to hurry. Thank heavens that at sixty she still stretches in the morning to the sounds of the early eighties and sometimes even jumps, just like the girls in shiny leggings on the old CD. Hetta even takes out her hairband and puts it on her thin hair. Beforehand, however, she closes all the curtains on the living room windows. She doesn’t want to share her secret of slimness and health with any of her neighbors.
“And two, and three. And…!” Hetta freezes with her leg raised barely above the knee. “What’s that sound?”
She comes up to the window and opens the curtain. “It’s not his day today.”
Hetta pulls the hairband out of her hair and walks out of the house, waving her arms.
"Bob! Hey, Bob. Is my calendar acting up, or is yours in a hurry?"
Bob, the broad-shouldered, wide-waisted postman, stretches his lips into a smile and digs his plump fingers into his bag.
Hetta knows Bob inside and out. She has known him since he was thirteen, when he had peeked through the window at her aerobics class and then spent half the day hanging out with the local girls. Back then, the whole gang had whispered and pointed their little fingers at Hetta. She had sighed and wondered, “Was the school bullying era really behind?” All these years, Hetta has been dreaming of Bob being transferred to another district. She even shows him brochures titled “Ideal Counties to Finally Start a Family” and magazine articles called “Top U.S. Cities with the Best Post Offices.” Usually, Bob looks at the bright pictures and big words with interest, but he always responds to Hetta with the same smile, as bitter as an unripe persimmon.
Hetta pulls the hairband out of her hair and walks out of the house, waving her arms.
"Bob! Hey, Bob. Is my calendar acting up, or is yours in a hurry?"
Bob, the broad-shouldered, wide-waisted postman, stretches his lips into a smile and digs his plump fingers into his bag.
Hetta knows Bob inside and out. She has known him since he was thirteen, when he had peeked through the window at her aerobics class and then spent half the day hanging out with the local girls. Back then, the whole gang had whispered and pointed their little fingers at Hetta. She had sighed and wondered, “Was the school bullying era really behind?” All these years, Hetta has been dreaming of Bob being transferred to another district. She even shows him brochures titled “Ideal Counties to Finally Start a Family” and magazine articles called “Top U.S. Cities with the Best Post Offices.” Usually, Bob looks at the bright pictures and big words with interest, but he always responds to Hetta with the same smile, as bitter as an unripe persimmon.
“Miss McLoy, you’ve got a letter.” Bob pulls an envelope out of his bag and shakes it in front of Hetta.
“You could have brought it tomorrow. The nursing homes can wait one day.” Hetta waves her hand.
“It’s not what you think.” Bob’s eyes narrow, and his lips stretch almost to his temples.
“Give it to me. I mean, give it to me, please.” Hetta snatches the envelope from Bob’s hands.
Upon reading the address, she would have immediately shouted, “Damn it, too early!” However, glancing at Bob and catching his gaze sliding down her tight leggings, Hetta only drawls, “Mmm, fascinating.”
And then it smells like October again, the month that marks the countdown to major family holidays and thus more inquisitive glances from neighbors. Hetta spots Martha again, now on the opposite side of the street. She also spots Vincent in the second-story window of the house across the street and Eddie in his garage. He opens it every few months to shove in a new pile of junk from a garage sale. Martha is approaching at a snail's pace. She even opens her mouth and raises her hand, but Hetta knows she has time.
“Thank you, Bob,” says Hetta, running inside the house with the letter.
She slams the door and leans her back against it. Hetta can swear she hears Martha and Bob discussing her at her own mailbox.
“So what happened?” Martha asks.
“Letter from Miss McLoy.”
“So early, in October?
“Yeah …”
“Ooh...”
And their entire subsequent conversation consists of sighs and groans with various shades of surprise.
“You could have brought it tomorrow. The nursing homes can wait one day.” Hetta waves her hand.
“It’s not what you think.” Bob’s eyes narrow, and his lips stretch almost to his temples.
“Give it to me. I mean, give it to me, please.” Hetta snatches the envelope from Bob’s hands.
Upon reading the address, she would have immediately shouted, “Damn it, too early!” However, glancing at Bob and catching his gaze sliding down her tight leggings, Hetta only drawls, “Mmm, fascinating.”
And then it smells like October again, the month that marks the countdown to major family holidays and thus more inquisitive glances from neighbors. Hetta spots Martha again, now on the opposite side of the street. She also spots Vincent in the second-story window of the house across the street and Eddie in his garage. He opens it every few months to shove in a new pile of junk from a garage sale. Martha is approaching at a snail's pace. She even opens her mouth and raises her hand, but Hetta knows she has time.
“Thank you, Bob,” says Hetta, running inside the house with the letter.
She slams the door and leans her back against it. Hetta can swear she hears Martha and Bob discussing her at her own mailbox.
“So what happened?” Martha asks.
“Letter from Miss McLoy.”
“So early, in October?
“Yeah …”
“Ooh...”
And their entire subsequent conversation consists of sighs and groans with various shades of surprise.
Hetta walks up to the sofa, but after thinking, she sits down on the carpet next to it.
“Emma McLoy
2 Rivers Cove
Austin, TX, 73344”
Hetta rustles the envelope and casually opens it. Pulling out a rectangle of postcard, she frowns, then holds the envelope up and opens it. Just a postcard and nothing else.
The card has a picture of a large witch riding a pumpkin. The caption reads, “Happy Fall!” Hetta chuckles. She turns the card over and reads.
“I'm moving to a new state soon. I just wanted you to know my new address.
41st Street
Spokane, WA, 99201
Emma.”
Hetta clicks her tongue, clutching the postcard. She jumps up from the carpet and runs up the stairs. Hetta pulls a pen and a huge folder out of a desk drawer. Christmas trees, usual trees, flowers, cakes, and babies, but not a single fall card. After some more rummaging, Hetta finds a card of King Salmon, which Michigan is famous for. She bought it from a local scout for a dollar.
“Thank you for letting me know.”
Hetta lifts her head, then makes a dot and circles it three times. “I…” She writes. Hetta raises her hand and, after a few seconds, adds, “I appreciate this. Hetta.”
She presses her lips together and almost bites them.
“No, no, that won’t do.”
“Emma McLoy
2 Rivers Cove
Austin, TX, 73344”
Hetta rustles the envelope and casually opens it. Pulling out a rectangle of postcard, she frowns, then holds the envelope up and opens it. Just a postcard and nothing else.
The card has a picture of a large witch riding a pumpkin. The caption reads, “Happy Fall!” Hetta chuckles. She turns the card over and reads.
“I'm moving to a new state soon. I just wanted you to know my new address.
41st Street
Spokane, WA, 99201
Emma.”
Hetta clicks her tongue, clutching the postcard. She jumps up from the carpet and runs up the stairs. Hetta pulls a pen and a huge folder out of a desk drawer. Christmas trees, usual trees, flowers, cakes, and babies, but not a single fall card. After some more rummaging, Hetta finds a card of King Salmon, which Michigan is famous for. She bought it from a local scout for a dollar.
“Thank you for letting me know.”
Hetta lifts her head, then makes a dot and circles it three times. “I…” She writes. Hetta raises her hand and, after a few seconds, adds, “I appreciate this. Hetta.”
She presses her lips together and almost bites them.
“No, no, that won’t do.”
Hetta goes down to the kitchen, opens the pantry, and pulls out an onion. She trims the ends, cuts it in half, and rubs the halves together. Hetta holds one half of the onion to her face. Her eyes immediately sting. They want to close, but Hetta stubbornly keeps them open, holding the postcard with one hand to catch the flowing tears.
“That’s it. That’s enough.” Hetta puts the onion in the fridge and blows a couple of fat tears off the card. The text is still legible. She puts the card on the table and goes into the bathroom to touch up her makeup.
Half an hour later, Hetta is at the post office. She chose a branch away from Bob's workplace. “The urgent mail,” she says, as she drops the envelope into the blue box. While she’s doing so, a bird flutters up in her chest.
“That’s it. That’s enough.” Hetta puts the onion in the fridge and blows a couple of fat tears off the card. The text is still legible. She puts the card on the table and goes into the bathroom to touch up her makeup.
Half an hour later, Hetta is at the post office. She chose a branch away from Bob's workplace. “The urgent mail,” she says, as she drops the envelope into the blue box. While she’s doing so, a bird flutters up in her chest.
For four days, her phone has been ringing. Hetta stares at the screen and shakes her head. Her endurance is ironclad; she has honed it on all her husbands who wanted her back. On the fifth day, the phone is silent. After lunch, Hetta picks up the phone to call and hangs up. No, she has to win.
In the evening the phone is still silent, but at six o'clock in the evening the doorbell rings.
Hetta fixes her hair, then massages her cheeks and rubs her eyes so hard that her eyeliner begins to sting. After this ritual, she slowly walks to the front door.
“Hello, Emma,” she says with a slight note of melancholy.
“Hi, Mom. Or should I call you Hetta now?” The blonde-haired young woman’s thin eyebrow arches. “So, everything’s okay?” Emma cranes her neck and peers into the room that had opened up to her. “So, I can go back home.” Emma turns on her low heels and walks toward a silvery car..
In the evening the phone is still silent, but at six o'clock in the evening the doorbell rings.
Hetta fixes her hair, then massages her cheeks and rubs her eyes so hard that her eyeliner begins to sting. After this ritual, she slowly walks to the front door.
“Hello, Emma,” she says with a slight note of melancholy.
“Hi, Mom. Or should I call you Hetta now?” The blonde-haired young woman’s thin eyebrow arches. “So, everything’s okay?” Emma cranes her neck and peers into the room that had opened up to her. “So, I can go back home.” Emma turns on her low heels and walks toward a silvery car..
“Wait!” Hetta rushes after her. “Wait,” she repeats more quietly. The neighbors’ faces are already poking out of their windows, and the birds are quiet. Even they are eavesdropping.
“I made some pie. Too much, to be honest. It would be a shame if it goes to waste.”
Emma looks at Hetta. Her hazel eyes boring into her mother's matching ones.
“Why not?” She shrugs. She pulls a greenish duffel bag from the front seat and follows Hetta inside.
“This paint is awful,” is the first thing Emma says as she walks into the living room that adjoins the hallway.
Hetta looks at the living room with new eyes. She chose this paint after Emma left for grad school. It was October, and Hetta had chosen the color of the maple she could see from her bedroom window. This maple was stubborn. It refused to redden like all the others but got orange like metal in the rain. Hetta doesn’t like orange, and now, looking at the walls, she winces as if she’s noticing them for the first time.
“Hmm,” she said. “I can’t stand orange.” She walks over to the wall and runs her hand along it.
“Why did you choose it?” Emma chuckles.
Hetta says nothing. She almost said that the paint had been on the walls for four years and that it had been chosen on that fateful day when Emma had called and said she couldn't come home for Halloween. Hetta knew then that her daughter would never come home again. This thought was confirmed when Emma didn't come home for Thanksgiving. Hetta spent Christmas alone as well.
“I made some pie. Too much, to be honest. It would be a shame if it goes to waste.”
Emma looks at Hetta. Her hazel eyes boring into her mother's matching ones.
“Why not?” She shrugs. She pulls a greenish duffel bag from the front seat and follows Hetta inside.
“This paint is awful,” is the first thing Emma says as she walks into the living room that adjoins the hallway.
Hetta looks at the living room with new eyes. She chose this paint after Emma left for grad school. It was October, and Hetta had chosen the color of the maple she could see from her bedroom window. This maple was stubborn. It refused to redden like all the others but got orange like metal in the rain. Hetta doesn’t like orange, and now, looking at the walls, she winces as if she’s noticing them for the first time.
“Hmm,” she said. “I can’t stand orange.” She walks over to the wall and runs her hand along it.
“Why did you choose it?” Emma chuckles.
Hetta says nothing. She almost said that the paint had been on the walls for four years and that it had been chosen on that fateful day when Emma had called and said she couldn't come home for Halloween. Hetta knew then that her daughter would never come home again. This thought was confirmed when Emma didn't come home for Thanksgiving. Hetta spent Christmas alone as well.
Hetta looks at her daughter and notices that her forehead is now adorned with three wrinkles and that there are dark circles under her eyes that are carelessly hidden with concealer. She notices that Emma has lost so much weight that her trench coat hangs on her like it's on a hanger in a store. Hetta bites her tongue, remembering how, years ago, she said that her daughter could have gotten the part of a skeleton in the fall musical. Hetta laughed then, but Emma did not.
“I hope you didn’t touch my room.” Emma goes upstairs, throwing off her trench coat.
Hetta stands on the first step, watching Emma go. The orange color is the only thing that had changed in the house. October has moved in.
“Mom!” comes from above. Hetta shakes her head; Emma’s voice hasn’t changed at all. She has expected an eighteen-year-old girl to come out to her, but instead it’s a woman with experience in her eyes.
“It's like you haven't moved anything in my room. I thought you'd turn it into a guest bedroom the minute I walked out the door.” Emma laughs; Hetta does not.
“What guests? Just neighbors.” Hetta looks with horror at the curtains in the kitchen. Emma and she are in full view, especially against the darkening sky.
“And Dad? He didn’t ask you for shelter anymore, did he?”
Hetta goes to the cabinets, picks up a large plate of apple pie, and places it on the dining table by the window. Then she picks up a large knife.
“Just the first year,” Hetta says, cutting off a piece.
“I was in his new house,” Emma says. She pours herself and Hetta a cup of tea, watching her mother’s reaction.
“Oh. So, he does have a house.”
“And a wife. And now I have a brother, two years old.”
Hetta drops the knife.
“I hope you didn’t touch my room.” Emma goes upstairs, throwing off her trench coat.
Hetta stands on the first step, watching Emma go. The orange color is the only thing that had changed in the house. October has moved in.
“Mom!” comes from above. Hetta shakes her head; Emma’s voice hasn’t changed at all. She has expected an eighteen-year-old girl to come out to her, but instead it’s a woman with experience in her eyes.
“It's like you haven't moved anything in my room. I thought you'd turn it into a guest bedroom the minute I walked out the door.” Emma laughs; Hetta does not.
“What guests? Just neighbors.” Hetta looks with horror at the curtains in the kitchen. Emma and she are in full view, especially against the darkening sky.
“And Dad? He didn’t ask you for shelter anymore, did he?”
Hetta goes to the cabinets, picks up a large plate of apple pie, and places it on the dining table by the window. Then she picks up a large knife.
“Just the first year,” Hetta says, cutting off a piece.
“I was in his new house,” Emma says. She pours herself and Hetta a cup of tea, watching her mother’s reaction.
“Oh. So, he does have a house.”
“And a wife. And now I have a brother, two years old.”
Hetta drops the knife.
“Sixty-five years old, and a kid?” She shakes her head. “Grandchildren! At that age, you can only have grandchildren.” She picks up the knife again and cuts the pie. Soon it’s cut into thin slices. When Hetta comes out of her thoughts, she puts the knife in the sink and picks up a saucer.
“I overcut it,” Hetta says, handing Emma a saucer with six thin slices.
“I got your card. I thought you wouldn’t answer me.”
“Why? I always answer back.”
“I know that better than anyone.” Emma meets Hetta’s gaze, then looks down into her tea mug. “Got any milk? New habits. I’ll get it,” Emma says quickly, forestalling Hetta’s response.
Emma gets up from the table, crosses the kitchen, and opens the fridge.
“Ugh, that smell.” She wrinkles her nose. “What is that?” Emma pulls out the onion halves. “What is it doing here?”
“I overcut it,” Hetta says, handing Emma a saucer with six thin slices.
“I got your card. I thought you wouldn’t answer me.”
“Why? I always answer back.”
“I know that better than anyone.” Emma meets Hetta’s gaze, then looks down into her tea mug. “Got any milk? New habits. I’ll get it,” Emma says quickly, forestalling Hetta’s response.
Emma gets up from the table, crosses the kitchen, and opens the fridge.
“Ugh, that smell.” She wrinkles her nose. “What is that?” Emma pulls out the onion halves. “What is it doing here?”
“I, I'm just cleaning out the fridge. Onions collect odors.”
“This one can only breed them. The milk probably reeks too.” Emma throws the onion in the trash, then takes out the milk carton and sniffs it. “Little onion tea, that’s something new. I remember you making me chop onions,” Emma says, pouring milk into the cup. Then, she takes a sip and adds, “And not just one onion, but at least three for that stupid onion soup I couldn’t stand.”
“Your father loved it.”
“Ha, that soup was made of my tears. You were exploiting me wickedly!”
“You’re my kid.”
The two women look at each other and smile. It’s a brief moment they share for the first time in years.
“Do you know that Dad didn’t eat that soup?”
“That’s not true; he always cleaned the plate. That’s why I cooked it for him.”
“He fed it to Thomas.”
Hetty looks at Emma in horror, putting her hand to her chest. “He killed my dog!”
“Thomas died of old age, not heartburn, Mom.”
“Whatever. The old liar.”
“This one can only breed them. The milk probably reeks too.” Emma throws the onion in the trash, then takes out the milk carton and sniffs it. “Little onion tea, that’s something new. I remember you making me chop onions,” Emma says, pouring milk into the cup. Then, she takes a sip and adds, “And not just one onion, but at least three for that stupid onion soup I couldn’t stand.”
“Your father loved it.”
“Ha, that soup was made of my tears. You were exploiting me wickedly!”
“You’re my kid.”
The two women look at each other and smile. It’s a brief moment they share for the first time in years.
“Do you know that Dad didn’t eat that soup?”
“That’s not true; he always cleaned the plate. That’s why I cooked it for him.”
“He fed it to Thomas.”
Hetty looks at Emma in horror, putting her hand to her chest. “He killed my dog!”
“Thomas died of old age, not heartburn, Mom.”
“Whatever. The old liar.”
A couple of minutes are spent in complete silence. Hetta slowly helps herself to more pie, and Emma occasionally stirs the milk in her mug.
“I’m thinking of staying with you for a couple of days.”
“Oh.”
“Or maybe even till Christmas. I was offered a job here and...”
“Doesn’t’ that postcard say Washington?”
“I found an offer here too. They pay a little more.”
“Ahh,” Hetty says with a hint of disappointment.
“Mom.” Emma reaches across the table to Hetta. “I’m having a hard time. Help me out a little.”
Hetta looks up, takes Emma's hand, and then looks into her daughter's eyes. She opens her mouth, her lips trembling.
“Emma, I… Hon… I… I…”
Emma looks at her expectantly.
“I’m thinking of staying with you for a couple of days.”
“Oh.”
“Or maybe even till Christmas. I was offered a job here and...”
“Doesn’t’ that postcard say Washington?”
“I found an offer here too. They pay a little more.”
“Ahh,” Hetty says with a hint of disappointment.
“Mom.” Emma reaches across the table to Hetta. “I’m having a hard time. Help me out a little.”
Hetta looks up, takes Emma's hand, and then looks into her daughter's eyes. She opens her mouth, her lips trembling.
“Emma, I… Hon… I… I…”
Emma looks at her expectantly.
“I used an onion to drip tears onto the card,” Hetta blurts out.
Emma is hard to read. Hetta looks into her daughter's brown eyes and can't separate the emotions that are flashing in them. She’s clutching Emma's hand tightly, expecting to lose it at any moment. Hetta is almost certain that Emma will jerk her hand away in a second and run out of the house, as she did the other times. But Emma’s hand is still warming Hetta’s wrinkled one.
“I knew it.”
“Huh?”
“I knew it the moment I saw that onion. I suspected it the moment I got the card and saw Hetta’s name.” Emma sighs. “You never cried in front of me, and there were too many tears on that card. I could barely read the greeting.”
“I went a little overboard. Like with many things in life.”
Hetta pulls her hand free, stands up, and turns away from Emma. She breathes deeply, then holds her breath. Her eyes still sting. The tears don’t obey her. She wipes them away with her hand, saying, “So what do you want for dinner?”
Hetta turns to her daughter.
“What about some French onion soup?”
“Great. I have a food processor now. A magical thing.” Hetta points to the small machine on the table. “It threshes everything in seconds, and you can even grate carrots,” Hetta babbles.
Emma isn’t interested in the food processor. At almost thirty, she made the decision to go toward her mother, even if her mother was moving toward her at the speed of her neighbor Martha.
Emma is hard to read. Hetta looks into her daughter's brown eyes and can't separate the emotions that are flashing in them. She’s clutching Emma's hand tightly, expecting to lose it at any moment. Hetta is almost certain that Emma will jerk her hand away in a second and run out of the house, as she did the other times. But Emma’s hand is still warming Hetta’s wrinkled one.
“I knew it.”
“Huh?”
“I knew it the moment I saw that onion. I suspected it the moment I got the card and saw Hetta’s name.” Emma sighs. “You never cried in front of me, and there were too many tears on that card. I could barely read the greeting.”
“I went a little overboard. Like with many things in life.”
Hetta pulls her hand free, stands up, and turns away from Emma. She breathes deeply, then holds her breath. Her eyes still sting. The tears don’t obey her. She wipes them away with her hand, saying, “So what do you want for dinner?”
Hetta turns to her daughter.
“What about some French onion soup?”
“Great. I have a food processor now. A magical thing.” Hetta points to the small machine on the table. “It threshes everything in seconds, and you can even grate carrots,” Hetta babbles.
Emma isn’t interested in the food processor. At almost thirty, she made the decision to go toward her mother, even if her mother was moving toward her at the speed of her neighbor Martha.
