Strangers and Things

Searching for that time when things would quite come together, she walks the streets of the city looking for inspiration; or perhaps already inspired. Watching the seagulls’ up again, up again motion. This is a time for thinking, she thinks. She dilly-dallies along, yet not in quite the way dilly-dalliers do. She is following the motions of her rapid heartbeat and breathing. She is flowing with the way of the breeze and the tilt of the trees that stand along the sidewalks.

A murder of crows fills the air with swishing intact, glossy black feathers and cries. She looks up at them as she walks along. She has ear buds to fill her brain with quiet melody. She is caught up in that, yet not so caught up in it that she cannot capture the crows in her mind. Or, perhaps she is caught up in it enough that she can capture the crows in her mind. And she keeps them there.

The entrance to the coffee shop is warm and inviting, despite the signage on the doors with “masks on entry, please” and the yellow tape across the seating spaces inside. Minimal customers frequent the inside of coffee places in these strange days.

“I can help you over here, please,” calls a dry monotone voice from behind plexiglass. Shelby walks up to the translucent partition.

“Medium dark roast,; two sugar, two cream, please,” Shelby's voice is muffled by the surgical mask on her face, worn home from the blood clinic where she works.

“That's $2.02, follow the arrows for your order.”

Shelby walks to the next plexiglass partition to retrieve her coffee. As she waits she lets her mind wander. She thinks of everything and nothing; her age, her career, a condo in the valley so out of her grasp... global pandemics. She sighs; global pandemics. How can one not think of such things these days. The two words are in headlines of every news paper, blog, and social media post.

And she thinks of loneliness, because, whoever would have thought that pandemics were such lonely things. Shelby smiles a little despite herself. Whoever would have thought that people would be in the grips of a global pandemic at all in the year 2020. At the clinic she hears on the daily, from at least one co-worker in irritated bemusement, “It's just like we're in a real life movie. And one that should just end already.”

As Shelby retrieves her hot and aromatic cup from the opening beneath the plexiglass, her eyes drift momentarily to a slim, hooded figure through the window of the coffee shop. As she retreats from the shop she lets her eyes rest on the figure a little longer; it appears to be an elderly woman sitting on a park bench, scribbling in a notebook and shivering as she draws her long, dark coat closer around her with her pen free hand.

Now and again the woman stirs from her writing, looks around a little frantically, and returns to her notebook. The woman's appearance is what Shelby would describe as slightly disheveled; her coat is not new and her hair is not combed. She shivers and shivers, and she writes and writes. Shelby is very tempted to buy a black coffee with creamers and sweeteners on the side but then remembers that people do not go around folks they don't know personally these days.

Shelby seats herself at another of the benches across the street from the coffee place and warms herself with sips of the hot liquid and hands on the warm cup. She consults her mobile phone, absently scrolling through social media, finding more Coronavirus memes and debates on social distancing and mask wearing. Looking up to take a sip of coffee she notices that the old lady is rubbing her forehead nervously with a pinched look on her pale face. She gathers her belongings, hops up from her seat, and is off. Curious, thinks Shelby, and goes back to viewing her phone.

She gets up to leave and notices a fluttering white thing on the ground near the elderly lady's seat. Shelby walks over, hesitantly, and swipes up the little notebook the lady had been scribbling in. She places it carefully in her jacket and makes her journey home; thinking about her age, her career, a condo in the village (still so out of her grasp), global pandemics, and a small old lady whose name she doesn't even know.

Home for Shelby is a drafty little one-bedroom apartment, not in the best part of town but not the worst either. It is, however, a pocket filler for a slumlord. Shelby sits in her kitchen drinking tea and mulling over the little black book; nothing special, not too old, only slightly battered. She creates stories about its owner while looking out at the apple trees outside her apartment.

The book appears to be a diary of sorts. The tiny lady from the park has thin, loopy handwriting and only writes in black ink. Most of the entries within detail the weather and things that the lady eats day to day. There were some entries along the lines of feeling blue today but winter will do that.

Shelby flips through the little book, only reading lightly, yet searching for some indication as to who is the owner of the little book, contact information. Finally, following several blank pages, Shelby finds a phone number and address in the writer's handwriting on the inside of the second to last page of the diary.

This book belongs to Esther of Millview Road. A local phone number is written below the words.

Shelby feels a small prickle of excitement, despite herself. She tries not to think about her lack of social interactions outside the clinic. She tries not think about how the world has shut down.

She picks up her cellphone and carefully, carefully types in the digits in the little black book. She presses the “call” button and the rings go through. Five rings go through before there's an answer.

“Hello,” says a quiet female voice on the other end, and it's as much a question as it is a greeting.

“Oh, um, hello,” says Shelby brightly, “Would this be a Esther?”

“Well, yes,” Esther says, a little startled. “Who's asking?” Shelby notes a slight Irish lilt in the older lady's voice, which makes the quiet sound over the phone more endearing.

“I-I was at the sitting park. You know...outside the coffee shop. I found a notebook on the ground. Your notebook, I'm guessing. I found your name and number inside it.”

There is a pause and slightly audible intake of breath which almost gives the feeling that the woman on the receiving end of the conversation is mulling over this news.

“Oh my,” Esther says with a soft chuckle. “You have my daily diary then.”

“Yes. May I return it?”

“Hmm, are you sure that's ok with the...you know... the virus.”

Shelby smiles and thinks about elderly clients who come in for blood collection and make idle conversation about the pandemic. Their dialogue for such a foreign and unexpected concept is usually much less scientifically informed that her colleagues, but also usually remarkably insightful. Many of them see the pandemic as loneliness.

“Yes it will be fine. I work in a lab; I'll wear a mask and slip it to you through the doorway.”

“Well, that sounds quite fine. It's not particularly important but I would like it in my possession, you know. It is personal.”

Esther gives Shelby an address and they agree on a time that Shelby will drive the little book over to Esther.

Shelby finds a traditional saltbox house in need of shingles and new siding. She tentatively rings the bell. Pending a rustling from inside, a disheveled Esther appears in the doorway with a smile. Shelby smiles beneath her mask. It's such a simple thing, returning a lost belonging to a stranger, but also a break in a mundane and lonely daily routine.

“Thank-you!” trills Esther as Shelby slips the little book through a crack in the screen door. “I do wish I could offer you a tea or coffee for your trouble but, I suppose that wouldn't be wise.” And Esther looks genuinely sad at a missed opportunity to have tea with a stranger. Something about this is crushing to Shelby and she is unable to simply give a nod and drive away.

Shelby has a thought and pushes the screen door shut for Esther but holds up her cellular phone for Esther to see and dials the number from the little black book. Esther looks puzzled but holds up a hand for Shelby to stay for a minute as she scuttles inside her house; Shelby knows why.

“Hello?” comes Esther's greeting over Shelby's cellphone.

“Hello,” says Shelby, “Come back to your window.”

Esther does with a look of perplexity but also amusement.

“This is how people meet and greet now,” says Shelby with a laugh. “Nice to meet you Esther.”

Esther reveals to Shelby that she never has visitors. They begin to talk on that magical level of conversation that is only possible between two complete strangers who are also completely lonely.

At first it's just idle chit chat; about the weather and the political climate of lock-down due to invasive foreign viruses. But then Esther reveals that her journal is in fact prescribed by her doctor for early stages of a failing memory. And Shelby reveals the closeness of her relationship with her own grandmother who is no longer here and how she moved to the city and is alone except for her dog, Toto. Esther's three cats show themselves in turn and Esther admits that she is the definition of the proverbial stereotypical cat lady.

They talk and talk, a generation and a screen door apart, but knit together in a strange world. Until finally Shelby must admit that she is positively numb with cold and the two agree to do this again sometime.

And so they do. On Shelby's days off she returns to the saltbox house that needs new shingles and siding. And through the screen door they share telephone conversations and drink hot beverages together. Shelby shovels Esther's walkway and marvels at the old lady's cats and tries not to notice her lapses in memory or her sometimes too disheveled appearance. They share conversation and laughter.

Until one day in April when Esther does not answer the door for Shelby.

And the next day in April when there is again no answer.

Shelby carries on with her job at the blood clinic, her walks to the coffee shop. She thinks of her age, her career, a condo in the valley so out of her grasp, global pandemics, and worries for an old lady who has become a friend.

A week passes and Shelby gets an unexpected phone call. Not from Esther but a man she does not know. A man named Bill who tells Shelby that he is Esther's executor; that Esther has sadly passed away and Shelby the beneficiary of the following: a little black book, three cats, and $20,000 in unmarked bills which Esther kept in under her mattress in her saltbox house, needing new shingles and siding. And that night, as Shelby lies awake, thinking about her age, her career, a condo in the valley (not quite so out of her grasp), and global pandemics, she also finds herself thinking about a friendship she has lost and the three cats she will gain...and a little black book whose pages no longer were taken up by meals and weather and winter blues, but rather vivid recollections of meetings between friends.