Holly

February 8, 2021

January has been bitterly cold, but February brings unseasonably warm temperatures, as if to make up for three weeks of lake-effect snow and teeth-clattering near-zero weather. On this Monday afternoon, with the mercury in the mid-fifties, Roddy Harris decides to rid the Subaru wagon of the built-up encrustations of salt, which will eventually rot out the rocker panels and undercarriage if allowed to stay. Em suggests he take it to the Drive & Shine on the Airport Extension, but Roddy says he’d rather get out in the fresh air while the fresh air is bearable. She asks about his arthritis. He insists it isn’t bothering him, says he feels fine.

“Not bothering you now,” Em says, “but you’ll be moaning about it tonight, I bet, and you’ll be stuck with Bengay because the good stuff is down to dribs and drabs. We should save what’s left for an emergency.” If my back or your neck locks up again is what she means.

“I’ll wear my gloves,” he tells her, and Em sighs. Roddy is a dear man, the light of her life, but when he decides to do something, there’s no swaying him.

He enters the garage by the back door, gets the hose, and attaches it to the faucet bib on the side of the house. Then he returns to back the car out. There are three buttons on the garage wall. One opens the left bay, where the van they seldom use is parked. One opens the right bay, home to the Harrises’ Subaru runabout. The third button opens both bays, and Roddy has an irritating habit of pushing that one. Because it’s in the middle instead of at the bottom or top is what he tells himself when both doors go rattling up instead of the one he wants. It’s not forgetfulness, just bad design, pure and simple.

He gets in the wagon and backs to where the hose is waiting with the spray attachment already screwed on. Roddy is looking forward to this little chore. He loves the way the high-pressure blast cleans away the caked-on clots of road salt. He lifts the nozzle, then stops. There’s someone standing at the head of the driveway, looking at him. She’s a pretty girl wearing a red coat and a matching knitted scarf and hat. Her facemask is also red and so are her galoshes—a Christmas present, as it happens, because the girl has admired her good friend Holly’s pair on several occasions. In one hand she’s holding a slim file folder against her chest.

“Are you Professor Harris?” she asks.

“I am indeed,” he says. “One second, young lady.” He opens the driver’s door of the Subaru. The remote for the garage is clipped to the visor. This one has two buttons instead of three. He pushes one and the lefthand door trundles down, enclosing the van. He doubts she even noticed it, it’s him she’s looking at, but always safe, never sorry.

He approaches her with a smile and holds out a hand. Mostly these days she greets people with a Covid-aware elbow bump, but he’s wearing gloves and she’s wearing mittens (not really necessary on a day this warm, nor is the scarf, but the ensemble makes a fashion statement), so it’s okay.

“What can I do for you this fine mild day?”

Barbara Robinson smiles. “It’s actually your wife I was hoping to see. I wanted to ask her about something.”

Based on the folder she’s holding so protectively to her bosom, he guesses it’s the Writer’s Workshop she’s interested in. He could tell her that she’s probably too young for the program—most of the wannabe writers who attend are in their twenties and thirties. He could also tell her it seems more and more likely that there won’t be a workshop program this fall. Jim Shepard has passed, and few other pro writers have expressed an interest. The department’s current scribbler in residence, Henry Stratton, has also turned down a return engagement. He told English Department head Rosalyn Burkhart that the idea of remote learning in an intensive writing program was absurd. According to Emily, who got it from Rosalyn, Stratton said it would be like making love while wearing boxing gloves.

But let Em give pretty Little Red Riding Hood the bad news; he is just a humble (and retired) biology prof.

“I’m sure she’ll be happy to speak with you, Miss—”

“I’m Barbara. Barbara Robinson.”

“Very nice to meet you, Barbara. Just ring the bell. My wife is elderly, but her hearing is acute.”

Barbara smiles at this. “Thank you.” She starts up the walk to the house, then turns back. “You should do your van, too. My dad had one when I was little, and the muffler fell off on the Interstate. He said the salt ate right through it.”

So she did see it, Roddy thinks. I really have to be more careful.

“I appreciate the tip.”

Would she remember? Did she see anything she shouldn’t have seen? Roddy thinks not. Roddy thinks Little Red Riding Hood, aka Barbara Robinson, is only interested in whatever uncut gems of writing she’s carrying in her folder. Dreaming of being the next Toni Morrison or Alice Walker. But he will have to be even more careful in the future. All the fault of that button in the wrong place, he thinks. Idiotic engineering. My memory is fine.

He turns on the hose and directs it at the side of the Subaru. The salt begins to wash away, revealing the gleaming green paint beneath. He was looking forward to this, but now not so much. The girl, pretty as she is in her red gear, has darkened his mood.

Barbara gives him a final wave, goes up the front walk, and rings the bell. The door opens and Em stands there, looking no more than seventy in a green silk dress, her hair fresh from the beauty parlor that morning. Hair Today is supposed to be closed because of the pandemic, but Helen makes exceptions for longtime customers who tip well through the year and remember her at Christmas.

“Yes? May I help you?”

“I wonder if I could talk to you. It’s about…” Barbara gulps. “It’s about writing.”

Em looks at the folder, then gives Barbara an apologetic smile. “If it concerns the Writer’s Workshop, they are not taking any new applications. The fall-winter program is rather up in the air, I’m afraid. This sickness, you know.”

“No, it’s not that.”

Emily gazes at her visitor for a moment: pretty, sturdy, obviously healthy, and—of course—young. She looks over the girl’s shoulder and sees Roddy looking at them as the hose sprays the driveway. That will freeze if the temperature drops tonight, she thinks. You should know better. Then she returns her eyes to the girl in red. “What’s your name, my dear?”

“Barbara Robinson.”

“Well, Barbara, why don’t you come inside and tell me what it is about.”

She stands aside. Barbara walks into the house. Em closes the door. Roddy continues washing the trim green wagon.