Reparations

            by Tina Li

 

The doorbell rang as she straightened the orchid in its vase, lightly tapping its stem. Slightly to the left, a little farther, perfect. The doorbell rang again. The clicking of her heels on the polished hardwood floor seemed to reverberate throughout her kitchen as she walked toward the front door. An old woman was waiting expectantly for an answer.

“Aunt Ida,” she said hesitantly. “Right on time.”

            “A few minutes late really, Lane dear. I’ve been knocking on your door for a full five minutes!”

            “Actually, you…” she trailed off. It was best not to contradict old Aunt Ida. Her only son had died in a car accident about two years ago and since then she would often visit Lane to talk about her dear Richard. Robert. Ronald. “How was your week?”

            “Just grand, dear. I thought I’d bring you a housewarming gift, seeing as your place is so sparsely decorated.”

            Lane had lived at 246 for three years, nine months and fifteen days. She liked her house the way it was. Everything had its place and everything matched. Lane led her aunt to the leather sofa. She went into the kitchen and opened the third cupboard from the right, where she kept her tea set, one pot and eight cups with a periwinkle trim.

            “Cup of tea, Aunt Ida?”

            “The usual, dear. Oh that reminds me, what a perfect time to show you what I’ve brought.”

            Lane cringed and a drop of tea landed on her marble countertop. As she hastily wiped down the counter, she thought about how much she hated her aunt’s gifts. She cautiously approached the old woman in the living room as if the box she carried contained live ammunition, ready to go off at any second.

            “You didn’t have to do that, Aunt Ida. Really. You’ve already given me so much.”

            “Nonsense, dear. I wanted to bring you something that you could use, not just admire, and I remembered the antique tea set that my mother left me. One of the cups has been missing since before she had it, but it’s really quite nice, isn’t it?”

            Lane looked at the cups. Years of improper cleaning had yellowed the bottoms, and several were chipped. Feigning a smile, she said, “Thank you, Aunt Ida. I’ll put these away for special occasions.” As a preemptive strike, she added, “I’ve already got the other set out.”

            “So dear, how is work?” Aunt Ida tried to steer away from topics concerning Lane’s love life, which she found particularly hard to talk about since her boyfriend had left her one year, five months, and nine days previous. She found him charming and intelligent. He found her controlling and monotonous.

When her aunt finally left, Lane took the tea set from her coffee table, walked past her kitchen, past her bedroom, past the bathroom, and into the one room she had not entered for one year, five months, and nine days, that is until her aunt began bringing gifts. It used to be her boyfriend’s den but she always called it “the back room.” Shortly after he left, the lock on the door became loose and she hired a locksmith to tighten it. He told her that it would only open from the outside, unless she wanted to replace the lock. She did not. Lane placed the tea set in one corner and stood, glancing around the messy room, imagining it without her aunt’s numerous gifts. She marked the spot where each piece of furniture, as she had placed it, used to be.

“Really Lane, if you let him have control of that room, soon he’ll want the bedroom, the living room, God forbid he take over the kitchen.”

“Aunt Ida, it’s fine. Please just let it go.”

“I’m saying this for your own good Lane. It’s never enough for them.”

“I’ll remember that, Aunt Ida. We’ll keep in touch.”

He waited for the door to click shut before finally coming out of his den.

“Lane, how many times must that woman come to our house and criticize the way we live? I’ve told you, I won’t stand for it.”

“I know. But come on, her son-”

“It’s been five months since her son died. I was sympathetic then, but it’s like she doesn’t even remember him anymore.”

He left three hours, thirty-two minutes later. Lane watched the scene play out over and over in her head. Finally, she spun on her heel, and left the room.

 

            Every Saturday afternoon since Lane’s boyfriend left, Aunt Ida would visit. Every time, she bore a “housewarming” gift. The first Saturday, she brought flowers. Lane stared wide-eyed at the bright red begonias in the off-color vase her aunt bore. She accepted them graciously and put them on the kitchen counter. They clashed terribly with her orchid in its clear crystal vase. After her aunt left, Lane threw out the vase.

The next Saturday, Lane’s aunt brought butter cookies for which Lane had no jar. The truth, widely known by her family and widely regarded as strange, was that she never ate cookies; her sharp eyes could pick out every greasy crumb they left on her snow-white rug. Her aunt returned two weeks later with a birdcage.

“I brought you a new bird cage because the other one is getting old and I know how your birds are always getting out.” Lane had never owned pets.

“How considerate of you, Aunt Ida.”

 

            On Monday through Friday, Lane worked as a bookkeeper for a big company. She always rose at exactly 6:00, showered for twenty minutes, and dressed. She wore a white blouse, a black or navy blue pencil skirt, and matching pumps. At 6:40, she drank a cup of decaffeinated coffee and checked her briefcase again, although she had already done so the previous night. At 7:00, Lane closed the front door behind her and jiggled the knob to make sure the door was properly locked.

            She returned every afternoon between 5:30 and 5:40, depending on the traffic. During that time, her next-door neighbor was usually out watering her rose bushes. Her neighbor would wave heartily, as she was a cheery woman, and Lane would put her hand up in salute, like a traffic guard stopping cars.

 

Lane ate dinner at 6:30 at a redwood table built for six. Every third Friday, she had a salad. On this particular night, she noted that her salad fork had a water spot on it, and was glad to have something to do after dinner. She thought of the tarnished set that her aunt had brought her and she grimaced. Eating her dinner in silence, she glanced around at the empty seats occasionally sighing. When she finished, she took her plate into the kitchen and washed it by hand with five parts water, one part soap. She opened the cupboard beneath the sink and reached for the silver polish, second bottle from the back. Lane polished the entire set of silver, pointless since she never invited anyone over for dinner. She finished at 9:00, changed into her pajamas, and went to bed at a twelve past.

 

Saturday afternoon. The doorbell rang. Lane stood in the kitchen, lost in thought. Her eyes seemed to stare through the solitary orchid in its crystal vase as her mind wandered. What monstrosity would her aunt unveil this week? Would it be big? Would it be colorful? The doorbell rang again, twice in succession, as her aunt was prone to doing when particularly impatient. This meant the gift was especially exciting. Which meant it was especially dreadful. The clicking of Lane’s heels echoed throughout her kitchen as she walked toward the front door, but she never noticed. Lane had grown accustomed to the sound of herself in her own house. The door opened yet again, revealing her aunt bearing a large gift wrapped in forest green paper. It was a table lamp. Its base was copper, although the original color was hard to discern beneath the gangrene-like layer of oxidation. Again, Lane brought the lamp, which was surprisingly heavy, into the back room after her aunt left.

She never threw out her aunt’s gifts, except for the first one. During her aunt’s second visit, she noticed that the begonia vase was no longer on the kitchen counter.

“Where are you keeping the vase, Lane?”

“Oh. I knocked it over. By accident.”

She promised to take better care of the cookie jar that her aunt brought the following week. Thus began the tradition of storing the gifts in the back room.

            Saturday afternoon. The doorbell rang. Lane walked from her orchid in its crystal vase on the marble counter towards the front door. Her aunt stood there, holding a large rectangular package and a small slender box wrapped in burnt auburn paper. She brought them inside, sat on the sofa, and waited for Lane to bring her a cup of tea. Lane set the periwinkle tray on her coffee table before gently settling into the loveseat perpendicular to the sofa. While her aunt revealed a bamboo cutting board and a chef’s knife with an oak handle, Lane wondered why the old woman wrapped the gifts if she insisted on unwrapping them too. After her aunt left, Lane took the gifts past the kitchen, past the bedroom, past the bathroom, and into the back room where she searched for an open space. She balanced them precariously on top of a plastic trash bin before backing out of the room.

 

            The time was 7:14 and Lane sat at her dining room table drinking soup. She noted that the silverware was still clean, but decided to polish it after dinner anyway. She sipped her soup and occasionally glanced across the table at the seat across from her, ignoring the greasy droplets on the table. She pretended to tell a joke, pretended that he laughed. Lane finished her soup in silence. She polished her silver and went to bed.

 

            Saturday afternoon. The doorbell rang. Lane stood in her kitchen, sipping from a cup of coffee. She prodded her orchid, and the stem sagged a little. “How many times must that woman come to our house and criticize the way we live?” The doorbell rang again, twice in succession. She turned toward the front door, her heels clacking against the hardwood floor. Her aunt stood on the grimy doormat, holding a small package. Without a word, Lane walked back into the kitchen and made her aunt a cup of tea with two sugars.

            “Lane dear, this was supposed to go with the salt and pepper shakers, but I don’t quite remember what they look like. Let’s see them together, shall we?” She paused. “Dear?”

            She looked over at Lane, who, in turn, was looking at nothing in particular. Her hair had grown out and straggles were hanging in her face.

            “Lane? Shall we proceed to the den?”

            Lane led her aunt past the kitchen, past the bedroom, past the bathroom, and to the back room. She turned the knob and opened the door. It stopped halfway with a dull thud. She marveled for a moment at the room. It looked like a shrine, holding her weekly offerings. She stepped into the room, becoming more and more aware of her aunt’s silence. Lane glared with empty eyes. “It’s never enough for them.”

            “Lane, I…” her aunt stammered. “What is this?”

            “You wanted this. You’re doing it on purpose.” Lane’s voice grew increasingly louder. “It’s all your fault!”

            “Lane, I think you should calm down.” Lane looked around and saw the piles and piles of gifts, burdens upon her house. Needlessly taking up space in the back room. Space that could have been anything. Even nothing. Her aunt was devoted to driving her mad.

            Lane could stand it no longer. She kicked the lamp. She overturned the garden gnome. Upon wrecking her shrine and destroying the offerings, she turned to face her aunt, who was backed against the wall. With her right hand, she slammed the door shut and with her left, she grabbed the chef’s knife with the oak handle. Lane cut herself on the sharp blade but she did not feel the pain. She picked up the knife.

            “You did it on purpose.”

Lane lost track of how many times the knife drove itself into her aunt’s body. She lost track of how long she had knelt, staring down at her. Finally, Lane got to her feet. She noticed that one heel had broken off. She limped towards the door and turned the knob. It would not open. She turned it again, left and right, struggling with it. Kicking it. Still, the door would not budge. She turned back to her aunt, still face down on the floor.

            It was all her fault.