May 12, 1924
The metallic clang, repeated several times over and emanating from the front hallway, indicated some friend wished to speak with a member of the household. I moved around my cat Roger, who swirled at my feet like water around the dishes I was swashing, and moved down the high-ceilinged hallway to the telephone stand, which sat next to the window under the staircase. I grabbed the receiver and leaned against the window sill.
“Gooood afternoon, 221 South Fifth, R-P-C-T on the line, how may I help you?” (My mornings working at the newspaper had conditioned me to answer all phone calls in a vaguely important business tone. I had only recently dropped the, “Who is this please?” my mother had taught me to add as a tag to all telephone introductions.)
“Dearest Ry-an,” drawled a voice in a familiar faux-English accent. I smiled. It was Elizabeth Uhlman, who had shared this house with me and three others until almost exactly a year ago today, when life had fewer responsibilities yet a great deal more headaches--thought said aches were, nearly unanimously, caused by a lack of water following a night of liquid liberation.
“My sweetest Elizabeth,” I intoned in return, “how may I assist you this fine eve?”
“I have such news! I have set a date for my departure!”
‘Departure.’ The word shocked me like a surprisingly huge bark coming from an otherwise small dog. When she leaves town, I thought, the book of last summer will slam closed, a book that had slowly been closing since May of 1923. When Elizabeth had declared herself the first to leave the house then, we turned closer to the last page. Then Brittany had gone North, and Jason had left to chase his closer-than-ever Hollywood dream, and I felt the book had only one chapter left, one that Elizabeth and I could still write; she only lived across town, after all, in an apartment just off the tracks of the trolley that had so often ferried us to Wrightsville Beach.
But now, as she continued, “--we shall have a party at Omar’s residence--you know, where he lives, of course, near Dock Street...or is it Orange?--on Thursday night…” I could hear the pages of our life turning, and suddenly there was only a single paragraph left to write.
“--and we shall dance and drink and cry till morning, for I leave Wilmington for all time Sunday next!”
“My sweetest Elizabeth,” I intoned in return, “how may I assist you this fine eve?”
“I have such news! I have set a date for my departure!”
‘Departure.’ The word shocked me like a surprisingly huge bark coming from an otherwise small dog. When she leaves town, I thought, the book of last summer will slam closed, a book that had slowly been closing since May of 1923. When Elizabeth had declared herself the first to leave the house then, we turned closer to the last page. Then Brittany had gone North, and Jason had left to chase his closer-than-ever Hollywood dream, and I felt the book had only one chapter left, one that Elizabeth and I could still write; she only lived across town, after all, in an apartment just off the tracks of the trolley that had so often ferried us to Wrightsville Beach.
But now, as she continued, “--we shall have a party at Omar’s residence--you know, where he lives, of course, near Dock Street...or is it Orange?--on Thursday night…” I could hear the pages of our life turning, and suddenly there was only a single paragraph left to write.
“--and we shall dance and drink and cry till morning, for I leave Wilmington for all time Sunday next!”
I sighed. If there were a worse correlation of plans between hers and mine, I couldn’t think of it. I dropped the accent, and said, “Liz, you know I work overnights at the paper...and besides, I--I’ll actually be out of town on Thursday night. I have to meet my family in Raleigh to catch a train to Chicago...Meghan’s moving there for the summer.”
Silence on the other end of the line, but I could hear Liz take a drag of her ever-present cigarette--though it very well could have been reefer.
“When do you leave Thursday?” she asked coolly.
“Train from here leaves at 10am.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah…”
“Wednesday I could see you.” She coughed, then chuckled, adding, “I have to give you the part of your front porch railing that I stole.”
“Wednesday morning, yeah.”
Then, nothing. Not even the sound of a cigarette being puffed, or a cat knocking something over in the background, or the trolley rattling past the house. I hung up the receiver, fearing it had been disconnected.
I stayed there, my back against the warm glass of the window, taking in the remarkable ability of this house to completely and effortlessly conform itself to imitate the lifestyles of its inhabitants. We four living there now--one film associate, one dancer teacher, and two newspaper editors--were, in a certain respect, young, working professionals, just mature enough to pass as adults in the world of business yet able to largely retain the joys of not yet being thirty. The house had absorbed that spirit and turned it back on us. The walls, white and undecorated, smiled at you as you entered the house and directed your attention down the long hallway to the attached kitchen, where a smattering of dishes and one or two opened soda bottles indicated that someone did, indeed, make use of it. The house was clean yet inviting, a perfectly respectable house to begin life as a grown person.
How different it had all been only a year ago.
Silence on the other end of the line, but I could hear Liz take a drag of her ever-present cigarette--though it very well could have been reefer.
“When do you leave Thursday?” she asked coolly.
“Train from here leaves at 10am.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah…”
“Wednesday I could see you.” She coughed, then chuckled, adding, “I have to give you the part of your front porch railing that I stole.”
“Wednesday morning, yeah.”
Then, nothing. Not even the sound of a cigarette being puffed, or a cat knocking something over in the background, or the trolley rattling past the house. I hung up the receiver, fearing it had been disconnected.
I stayed there, my back against the warm glass of the window, taking in the remarkable ability of this house to completely and effortlessly conform itself to imitate the lifestyles of its inhabitants. We four living there now--one film associate, one dancer teacher, and two newspaper editors--were, in a certain respect, young, working professionals, just mature enough to pass as adults in the world of business yet able to largely retain the joys of not yet being thirty. The house had absorbed that spirit and turned it back on us. The walls, white and undecorated, smiled at you as you entered the house and directed your attention down the long hallway to the attached kitchen, where a smattering of dishes and one or two opened soda bottles indicated that someone did, indeed, make use of it. The house was clean yet inviting, a perfectly respectable house to begin life as a grown person.
How different it had all been only a year ago.
