Lost in the Nowhere

Chapter 1

1995

Arthur glanced around the familiar room. The décor was definitely his wife Jean’s. Her taste was reflected in the pink cabbage roses splashed over bedding, curtains and even the wallpaper. He had seldom felt as comfortable here as he did in his own small study. However, over the thirty-five years he and Jean had been married he adapted to it. Often, when she was away it was the place he went to relieve his loneliness for her.

He stretched out his arm and stroked her side of the bed, wondering where she was. The light outside the window was a pale yellow. The sun was just beginning to show through a crack in the blinds. Jean wasn't normally an early riser. He had been the one who'd sneak out and watch the sunrise, puttering about in his study working on his latest research project. Then when the sky brightened, he would make coffee and take it to his still slumbering wife. She would lift her head, sleep still sitting heavy on her eyelids, sniff the fragrant aroma of the morning's brew and give him a gorgeous smile. After all these years, it still made his knees go to jelly. He had fallen in love with Jean the first time she’d turned to him with one of her joyous looks, on the night their romance began.

Later when he was alone in his small bachelor apartment, her features evaded him, but her look of pure delight he envisioned and would remember forever.

He patted the bed again. Where was Jean now? Funny how each person has his own side of the bed. Jean slept to his left. She couldn't sleep on the right. If they changed sides, she would toss all night and the next day dark shadows appeared under her eyes. Her usual buoyant spirit fled and she would be testy. On those days, he would tiptoe quietly around the house and ask few questions. They did not change sides of the bed often. Arthur knew it was for the best.

Stretching his arms and legs, yawning, he felt reinvigorated after his long restful nap.

Nap—No. Not a nap. Considering the way the light fell through the window he must have had a full night's sleep. Curious though, he thought he'd just lain down for an afternoon snooze.

He sat up, swung his long thin legs off the bed, and sunk his feet into the plush mauve carpet. Odd the carpet was a mess, lint and hair scattered over it. Jean was particular about her house, almost to the point of obsession. She vacuumed and dusted every other day. Although she adored her cat, when they had one, she had cursed the long grey hair it shed.

Either she was out of town and he'd forgotten or she wasn't feeling well. A shudder ran through his body and he remembered the old saw about a goose running over your grave. Jean would never let the carpet get so filthy. When she went to visit their daughter or one of her many sisters, he let things go. Then the day before she was due home, he rushed around vacuuming, dusting, scrubbing out the toilets trying to create some order. Even when he did his best, he knew it didn't meet her standards. She wouldn't say anything but the next day she would rise earlier than usual and begin cleaning. The house would sparkle when he returned from the lab in the evening.

He had best get going, check his calendar, and see when she was due to return. Looking at the dirty carpet, he had a long day of tidying up ahead. Suddenly he was aware of the stretch of a full bladder. His need to urinate was pressing. Old age had caught him unawares one day and the necessity of rising two or three times a night to piss aggravated him. He probably should see the urologist his internist had recommended.

"You have more options today, Arthur. Surgery isn't the only

solution. There are medications you can take; sometimes a change in diet can help. It would make your nights more restful," Doc Bradley tapped his pen on the desk and gave Arthur a quick nod.

Arthur knew he was right but just the thought of having some strange object shoved up his penis and a once integral part of his body removed made him nauseous. Doctors, nurses, and others staring at his private parts was more than he could stomach. He would tolerate the nightly trips to the bathroom across the cold tile floor a little longer. Until Jean nagged him beyond tolerance or just made the appointment and hauled him to the urologist’s office.

Now, though, he felt his bladder was about to burst. He must have slept much longer than he realized. He stood up and hobbled to the bathroom. He stood facing the toilet. He clasped his shriveled penis in his hand and waited. Slowly, at first just a dribble, the yellow stream stopped and started, then in a steady flow splashed into the pot. He stood there watching the reluctant flow, staring at the dingy, gray border ringing the bowl.

Where was Jean? The house’s disarray was appalling. She would never tolerate this. He could be in genuine trouble. Why couldn’t he remember if she had gone out of town? Am I suffering from brief amnesia? Had something awful transpired? Damn, what do I remember happening before my nap? It was all a blank. Had she maybe gone to see Maureen and their only granddaughter Michelle? He hoped so.

He stood a few seconds more watching the last drops of his urine dribble forth. Gave his penis a final shake and tucked it inside his boxers.

Should he shower and dress or just wander the house in his underwear? He opted for the latter. Jean would disapprove. She always frowned when he wandered into the kitchen clad only in his t-shirt and undershorts.

Funny, how I love a woman wholeheartedly who is so restrained, Arthur muttered to himself as he headed out of the bedroom.

However, he did. He adored her with the unfettered devotion of his body and soul. Maybe he needed her orderliness. In his lab, everything was immaculate and the way he wanted it. He might need it at home, but didn't want it to be his job to maintain. He relied on her cleanliness and organization. He always knew his things would be in there proper place and if he couldn't find something, he need only ask Jean and she would think momentarily and soon would be pulling the item from a drawer or shelf. It amazed him her ability to put things away months-even years ago, then go to them with just a few moments of thought. If she couldn't find something, invariably she hadn't used it last or put it away. He had. She would tactfully remind him of the fact, then help him locate the item. It was uncanny, because she always seemed to have the ability to point out the most likely place he had put something.

He walked into the bedroom. His bare feet felt icy. Where are my slippers? Jean usually left them sitting right next to the bed. She knew how cold his feet got and how sensitive they were to any small piece of sand or cat litter he stepped on. They hadn’t been there in their normal spot.

Oh, well, I’ll endure.

Shuffling, Arthur crossed the room, opened the door and entered the hall. He traveled its length in four steps. He strode casually by the Wall of Shame as his son Gab called the display of family pictures littering the entire wall. Jean had hung them herself over the years of their marriage. Starting with their wedding picture, adding school pictures of the children, other family, friends, happy occasions, pets and now grandchildren. Well, one grandchild anyway. I wonder if Gab and Colleen are going to have kids? They’ve been married over ten years. It’s just about past time if they want them while they’re young. The collection covered the full length of the hall. It started at eye level and reached almost to the ceiling. The children teased her about what she would do when she ran out of room.

Will you tack them to the ceiling, Mom? Gab inquired one day, on a quick visit home. They teased her, but the kids loved the pictures, and had been quick to point them out to friends they brought home during their college years. Any potential girlfriend or boyfriend was promptly introduced to the famed gallery, a test of their memory, when they later met the rest of the family or of their resolve, when they saw how their present date would someday look. When a girl looked at a picture of him as a young man, then looked at Gab, looked back at him. You could see in her eyes she was assessing the future. Arthur’s picture at twenty looked remarkably, like Gab did now. Was he going to have the same receding hairline and paunch? Then she'd see Arthur’s parents wedding picture, her pupils would dilate and she'd turn away.

Arthur knew Gab had found the right girl when she had looked at the wall. Then at Arthur. Then with a grin reached out her lovely, long fingers, patted his belly and said, I see I have much to look forward to.

Arthur loved her from then on. Although he would have to list her as the fourth most important woman in his life: Jean, Maureen his daughter, and her daughter, Michelle, came ahead of Colleen. His love for Colleen was special though, different from the other three, for she wasn’t a blood relative but chosen and he would have chosen her had he been Gab.

Odd, the pictures looked dull, dusty and cobwebs clung to the corners.

Arthur entered the den. The room seemed disrupted. Newspapers were strewn everywhere, and his favorite chair was moved. Why had his recliner been moved?  He heard a soft moaning from the direction of the kitchen. He hastened across the den, not stopping to pick up the papers or thinking anymore of his chair. In the kitchen, he found even more disorder. Dirty pots and pans filled the sink. The cupboards were littered with dishes, food, and mail. Still he didn't see Jean, only heard soft moaning sobs. She must be in the sewing room. Now he hurried, eager to see her. Although the clutter around him made it hard for him to believe she could really be here. Again, he felt a twinge of queasiness. He wondered at the untidiness he had seen all over the house. It just wasn’t typical of Jean. He still heard weeping coming from the sewing room. If it wasn’t Jean, who could it be?

Arthur stepped from the untidy kitchen into the sewing room. He glanced around it. Jean's private domain. It wasn’t big, but the large French doors let in abundant light creating a feeling of openness. Pale yellow walls and bright yellow curtains added a glow and gave warmth to the space. Only a few pictures hung on the walls and they were of flowers or outdoor scenes, adding to the serenity and quietude. Jean seemed truly comfortable in the one place, the one place in the house in which she would allow some disorder.

Her Singer 2000 stood in front of the French doors. It faced north. Jean liked the light from that direction.

Good light but not overpowering she would say. With it, I can easily see to sew, but it isn't so strong it fades the material on which I’m working.

The doors also looked out on Jean's rose garden. A small bench sat at its center and a birdbath occupied one corner. She could look up from a sewing project and see the beauty of her flowers. She might catch a glimpse of the reluctant cardinals come to drink or a scruffy sparrow there for a bath. In summer when the roses were in full bloom and the honeysuckle was blossoming, she had only to lift her head to catch the heady aromas.

Days Jean spent in her sewing room were good days. Arthur would return from a long day at the lab to find her singing, or making some special treat for their dinner. The room had mood altering properties. Arthur was pleased they had added it to the house.

31 Years Ago - 1964 

It was an auspicious day. There had been an earthquake in Alaska: an 8.4 on the Richter scale and Arthur had welcomed a new woman into his life, a seven pound nine ounce baby girl. They had called her Maureen. The devastation from the earthquake was huge, but as Arthur watched the pictures of destruction on TV, he couldn’t help but think there was devastation in his life as well.

He and Jean had been happily looking forward to the birth of their second child and hoping it would be a girl. However, within a week of coming home from the hospital, Jean was physically doing well, but mentally she was not. Jean had sunk into depression after Maureen's birth. Although her obstetrician said it would be short-lived. Arthur watched as each day Jean sank deeper and deeper into herself. She took methodical care of the children, but she did it like a robot. She went from chore to chore as if in a trance, giving hugs and kisses to the children in a perfunctory manner. Where was her smile? Her dazzling smile was gone.

Arthur had been at a loss. He didn't know where to turn. Even her three sisters and best friends couldn’t penetrate the mood which shrouded her. Arthur tried to help. He came home from work, played with Gab, fed and rocked the baby. He urged Jean to visit her sisters on the weekends. Go shopping Jean. Buy something new.

However, when he came home from work he found her with hair oily and matted. She still wore the same clothes she had on two days ago. She walked around with her head down and wouldn't look at Arthur. She only shook her head and retreated to their bedroom, where she curled up on the bed and feigned sleep. Arthur tried to cuddle, but she went stiff in his arms and he felt like a glacial cold exuded from her. Finally, Arthur gave up, turned on his side and soon was snoring.

*****

Jean lay there night after night, her mind admonishing herself over and over. You must stop this. You must be a better mother, a better wife. Repeatedly, those thoughts ran through her head like a fast flowing flood. Finally, when the night was nearly over and about the time Maureen cried out for the nighttime bottle, Jean would get up. She would feed Maureen, then pace the room with the baby in her arms, walking around and around the den. Arthur's alarm would ring and interrupt her pacing. She would put Maureen in her crib and another day would begin.

For weeks this continued. Arthur pleaded with her to see their physician. Jean refused. Nothing was wrong. She felt fine.

Finally, in desperation Arthur had decided a sewing room for Jean must be part of the remodel. It had been after Maureen was born when they began remodeling the house. Arthur was wondering if it had been a mistake. He knew how disorder distressed Jean. Maybe we should have waited, he muttered to himself as he passed through the disaster area, which was their kitchen. What now? What am I going to do? He heard the baby crying. He paused hoping Jean would go to the child but the crying continued and he walked down the hall to the nursery. He picked the squalling, wet, diaper-soaked infant up and cuddled her. She calmed and he changed her diaper. A task he hated, but had been obliged to perform the past few weeks. He heated a bottle and sat down in the corner of the room to feed Maureen. While she sucked eagerly, he rocked and looked around the cheerful room. Everything had been done to make it a perfect place for a baby. Except one thing which looked out of place Jean’s sewing machine?

That’s it. That’s what we need, Arthur winked at the child in his arms, who had stopped sucking and let the nipple fall from her mouth at his loud outburst. That’s it, pumpkin, a sewing room. That’s what your mommy needs.

Jean often mentioned how lovely it would be to have her own special space, a place where I can go and be alone, a sanctuary for my body and my soul. She would say it fervently, so fervently sometimes he laughed at her seriousness. This brought a sullen pout or look of grim resignation to her face. She would turn away and involve herself in whatever she had been doing. The subject would be closed and no amount of banter would soften her resolve. Time would pass and then another mention of my room would arise.

The day he came home with blueprints for her sewing room in his briefcase things began to improve. Jean, come look at these, he said. I have an idea.

They were plans for her room. One of Arthur's friends, an architect, had drawn them. After that day, it was as if a dark cloud had lifted from her mind. Together she and Arthur studied the plans. He explained to her about foundations, support beams, joists and insulating. She asked about windows, flooring, and the color of the walls. They had made some changes in the plans. Once her room took shape it was a go.

Arthur had been concerned about the mess of adding a room. He worried it would upset her. She assured him she would survive. It had been a mess, eight weeks of dust and sweaty carpenters traipsing through the house. He could see she relished every minute. The workers would leave at four and she would vacuum and dust the house, straighten the clutter they left in the room, and make the house as presentable as possible before Arthur came home from work.

Her bout with depression was broken. It had been wonderful from the first day when the architect, Scott Howe, came to look at the house and talk to Jean about her room. She mended. Now she was full of energy and plans. She arose early, worked around the house before the carpenters came, cleaning, doing laundry and making lists. Arthur wondered if she annoyed them, as she checked on their progress whenever she had a spare minute and often stood observing them at work. She seldom talked to them or offered criticism. She didn't need to.

Joe, Ned Landry’s lead man on this job, stopped him one day and said. Art, your wife's a mite different from most of the ladies we do remodels for.

How so Joe?

Well most of the ladies can't stand the mess and noise. They go away for the duration or at least spend the day out of the house. Not your lady though. She's always right there first thing in the morning to greet us. Offers us coffee and asks what we plan to accomplish. Once we've had coffee and set, to workin’, she never asks us any more questions, but she comes by often to look. One of my fellas calls her the ‘Chief Inspector’ and one of the guys got so uneasy with her watchin', he asked me to put him on another job. It's strange, she never says nothin' bad or even questions what were doin'. She don't have to though, none of my guys would cut a corner or stray from the plans and they sure wouldn't waste time. She's nice to them, but you know, I think they're afraid of her.

He could do nothing but shrug his shoulders. She’s an unusual woman, was his only comment. What was he to say? She was unusual. It was what had attracted him to her, that and her smile.

The remodel went well. Apparently, the Chief Inspector's presence helped move the project along. Soon Jean was painting the walls a warm yellow. The first Singer she had bought was delivered. With it, she made the bright curtains for the windows and recovered the old rocking chair, which had been her grandmother's. She loved the chair almost as if it were her grandmother. She sat it in the corner between the windows and when she wasn't sewing, she might sit there rocking, reading a book or humming to herself. When the children were older, she would allow them to sit in her lap if they sat still and listened, as she sang to them. When they were calm, they’d talk about their day at school. If they were in need of comfort, she would cuddle them closer, rock harder and sing one of their favorite lullabies.

Arthur remembered Maureen at sixteen, crying her heart out. A boy had passed her by to take another girl to the spring dance. She sat in her Mother's lap taller than Jean, arms and legs dangling onto the floor. Jean's arms encircled her shoulders and she sang softly, Sleep my child and peace attend thee.

He had come upon them when he arrived home from his work at the University. Hearing the sobbing from the little room Arthur peeked around the corner. He retreated to his study and left the two of them to this private moment. After reading the paper, he returned to the kitchen to find both of them laughing, discussing the new spring dress styles and preparing the evening meal, with no sign of the earlier unhappiness. Later Jean would mention Maureen's rejection by some ridiculous boy and make no further comment. He wondered what she said to comfort their daughter or if she had said anything. She might have just listened. She had the ability to listen. You knew you had her undivided attention and could tell her anything and she wouldn't repeat it.

*****

Jean had moved into her room with enthusiasm and energy. Since Gab and Maureen were both babies, she put a small cradle in the room for Maureen and the playpen for Gab. She was able to sew or read, but if one of the children needed attention, she could reach out to care for them or just lift and cuddle them. Gab never seemed to mind the confinement of the playpen, as long as he had blocks or Legos to build things. He could spend hours piling up his blocks in myriad shapes or forming things with the Legos. At an early age, we thought we saw the beginnings of an engineer or architect. Maureen was a peaceful baby, although as she grew out of babyhood, she didn't tolerate the playpen as her brother had.

During the remodel, Jean tried to stay out of the workmen's way, but it was difficult not to watch what they were doing, to keep track of their progress, and assure herself they were doing a good job. She knew Ned Landry ,the boss, well. She and his wife had been on many committees at the church for fundraising activities. She knew his reputation. His men worked hard and did excellent work. Still, she couldn't resist watching.

One of the first days they began the job, she offered the men coffee. All had been happy to accept the steaming cups. One man upset her. She handed him the heavy mug, as he took it, his hand touched hers and she jerked spilling some of the hot liquid over both of their hands. She looked up to apologize. When she looked at him, she saw a man whose eyes not only undressed her, but seemed to rape her in the middle of the kitchen with the other men watching. Strangely, the rest of the men seemed not to notice, but laughed, visited over their coffee, discussed their lives and planned work for the day.

She never handed out the cups again, but left them setting on the counter to be picked up. She did watch the work though and she paid close attention to the quality of this particular man's work. She could see he was not as thorough as the other workers were. He seemed to lack the pride they had.

She watched him carefully for a week. She never said anything to Ned or Joe, but she knew he noticed her observance. After a week, he didn't show up again. For a few days, she wondered what had happened but didn't ask. Arthur told her some time later, the man said she made him uncomfortable always watching, criticizing with her eyes. Jean said, I’m just interested in what they’re doing. I can't say enough about the great job they’ve done so far.

She never told Arthur about the strange encounter in the kitchen about the shiver of dread she felt when he looked into her eyes. How uncomfortable she had been with his presence in her house, for the few days he was there. She never told him how relieved she was when he left.

She continued to give the men coffee in the morning. Occasionally she would even hand a cup to one of the men. She would still sporadically stop by to watch them work and now and then praise the job they were doing. Then like magic one day, the mess was over. She had her room. She had only to paint and decorate and her retreat would be complete. Those chores were not work and the time to do them flew. Soon