The Widow in the City

You can hear her humming in the summer afternoons, with the lazy tone and an unsteady rhythm. Yet, even if it is far from perfect, it was tradition. When the bustling of cars, and yelling of neighbors quieted, even just for a moment in the sweaty summer faternoons. From the streets below, you could hear her humming in her second floor apartment. 

When you're young on Braxton Avenue, the other kids whisper of the humming ghost, or the haunted humming. The one that traveled through the street when the air became too quiet. Once you grow into your own boots, and learn the truth, you might get the chance to meet her. 

Really she was a stout old woman named Heddy, who seemed to know everyone. For as long as anybody had lived on the road, Heddy had lived twice as long. There were many myths, or stories passed through generations. Some detailing she was the original owner, or maybe even the original owner's ghost.  

Very few people know what she really does, everyday, not even every week. Very few were as lucky as me, for very few people are humming Heddy’s granddaughter. 

*** 

Music was always playing at grandmas, from a bopping blues to melancholy waltz there was always some music. My father told stories of his mother and him dancing through the kitchen, knocking over the little bits of old rubbish lying around. When my aunt was born, they had taught her dancing, maybe even before walking. The strangling baby babbled as her mother attempted to get her to waltz. 

When my father had married my mother, she would teach my mom, and then she went to teach my uncle. Those were the two steady things of my childhood, the dear dancing of my grandmother, for I had been taught before walking, and my grandmother's humming. 

It made sense for this to continue, I didn’t think time affected my grandmother. She seemed so invincible when I was younger, like a tall oak that your own parents used to climb. Grandmother Heddy did age though, and she seemed to grow more ancient as the years went by. 

However, if the dancing had stopped, there was still some music playing, and her humming was still out of tune. 

***

It really didn't hit me that she might be dying, until my own mother brought it up. Though at the time, I really didn’t believe her. I had been helping Heddy around town for most of my adult life, hoping to bring her spunk back. She was more depressed than ever when her children moved away, I hoped by myself staying to relive some of that. 

Every Tuesday, I would go over to her second story apartment. Bringing gifts when I could, or maybe small pieces of jewelry, all were mainly pushed away. The only way, in the past four years, I was able to make her happy was baking with her. 

So here I was, getting the ingredients for our weekly dessert of chocolate-chip cookies. All piled high in my arms, barely allowing enough movement to open the apartment door. 

“Grandma! I’m here!” I called, walking to the kitchen to drop off the items. Looking around, barely anything had changed since my father was little, definitely not since last week. There were National Geographic magazines stacked on the floor, old paintings hung around, many by my late Grandfather. It smelled slightly of perfume, maybe even of slight vanilla. 

“Oh Quinn, you should have told me you were here,” Grandma quipped, lugging to the kitchen with the help of her wooden cane. 

“I was yelling Grandma, maybe your hearing has gotten that much worse,” I joked, knowing far better that her hearing was much worse than she was willing to admit. 

“Well, next time you should come find me,” she laughed, already spreading the ingredients along the counter. Ordering them from dry to wet, then reordering them in process. “Ready to get started?” 

I nodded, making sure to wash my hands thoroughly, not in the mood for a lecture on the idea of ‘proper’ hygiene. Heddy danced around the kitchen, grabbing bowls and preheating the oven. 

“Alright Grandma, I’m ready. What’s first?” I announced, watching her flutter around. Sometimes, if you were lucky, you would find her floating. Like a cloud, or a spray of humidity, she drifted among the people. She seemed so happy to be up there, especially when she was baking. 

“I need you to put the butter in the bowl, but make sure it’s soft first,” she commanded, and we were set in our own rhythms. Barely any little sounds were passed except for the minor instruction and guidance from Grandma. 

We practiced at this, the weekly tradition of soft baked cookies, and checkers. The same routine, but one thing was missing, there weren’t any stories. Usually, Heddy was passing along stories of trifling tales from her youth, yet today she was quiet. 

“Gran, you’re pretty quiet. Wanna tell a story?” I persuaded, looking over to her hunched form over the mixer. 

“Oh sorry sweetheart, guess I’m just a little tired today. What do you want to hear?” she voiced, still fiddling with the little cords connected to the wall. 

“How about the story of dancing with Aunt Holley?” I asked, and Grandma rang with laughter. 

“That’s a good one, but haven’t you gotten sick of it already?” she stated, turning to me with her warm sweet smile. I shook my head, and she sighed. “Of course you didn’t.” 

“Well, when Jim and Holley were little, much smaller than you are now. Your father wanted to dance, he had gotten his shoes and hat, even his cute bow-tie. He stated this dance would be very important, for it was his sister's first dance.” she started, and anticipation bubbled over me. “I had tried to explain to him that his sister couldn’t dance, cause she was barely able to walk, but that didn’t stop your dad. He had taken us to the living room, to that coffee table that still rests in the middle, and plopped your aunt up there.” 

That’s when she stopped, and I watched as she placed the cookies in the oven, making sure no sides were touching. 

“Go on,” I said, and Grandma urged me to wait a minute. 

“Right, where was I?” she hesitated. 

“Dad had Holley on the table,” I reminded her. 

“Oh right. Okay, your father had propped your aunt on the table. Making sure her little legs were under her enough to have her sorta standing, his hands holding her up,” Grandma spoke, making her hands flourish with story. “Then, he had placed the record playing prior to our entrance, and shook his sister enough to make her do a little dance. We laughed, all through the song. Then it became a tradition, even when your aunt was almost as tall as your father, she would climb on the table and dance to the same song,” 

She finished, resting her back on the kitchen counter, laying her cane next to her. I could feel the way she seemed to deflate as the moments ticked by, like she was lost in her own head, through old memories past. The cookies were almost done, and the timer cut through the kitchen. 

“Oh, let’s get those out,” she whispered, grabbing the oven mitts and opening the oven. The smell of fresh-baked cookies waved through the air, leaving behind a new found warmth. There was silence as we put the cookies on their cooling rack, seeming to move along in our practiced dance. 

“Let’s have these cool. While I tell you of the first time I took your father driving,” she said, just as we put the last dessert on the plate.

“Oh, this sounds it’s gonna be a good one,” 

***

 We were sitting on the couch, retelling the stories over again. Laughing over her children's antics, and my own when I would visit. It felt like we were floating again, away from the world, the horrible terrible world. 

My phone buzzed, cutting the world in two. Crashing us back to the living room. 

“Who is it?” Grandma asked, more annoyed than anything. 

“Just mom, let me go into the kitchen,” I responded, snatching the phone from my pocket. I trudged to the kitchen, grabbing a cookie from the table on the way. “Hey mom!” 

“Hello darling, are you with Grandma?” she blurted, barely getting in the greeting. 

“Of course, it’s Tuesday,” I snarked. 

“Honey, I think we need to talk about this,” she breathed, I could hear her muttering to my father on the other side. 

“Talk about what mom?” I asked, anxiety gnawing away at my heart. 

“Well about Grandma, she’s not gonna live forever.” she murmured. I tried not to out right sigh, settling for a mere eye roll. We had this conversation every month, always the same question, always the same answer. 

“Mom, she's healthy, there's nothing killing her,” I sighed. 

“But she's so depressed darling, she hasn’t been the same since Marie died,” my mother said, again bringing up the echoing argument. Marie was Grandma's best friend who had died three years ago, Heddy had been distraught but that’s not when the boredom started. 

“Mom, if you or dad visited, maybe she wouldn’t be so upset.” I argued, trying to get out of my own head. There was a stuffing silence on the other side, which was a new response compared to the calls. 

“She doesn’t have much longer Quinn, just enjoy the time now.” she answered solemnity, only being followed by the dial tone. I sighed again, watching the screen, the cookie was still in my hand. There was a slight crumb mark where I crushed it when arguing. 

I walked back to the living room, munching on the cookie as I went. 

“Hey Gran, wanna play checkers?” 

***

I stared at the board, tracing the checker pieces, then the squares. Really, I still had no chance, even if she was demenetd, she could still beat me in checkers. The chair creaked, and I looked up at Grandma leaning back in her chair, the sun lighting her face in a warm glow. 

“Gran, I promise I’m not that boring. I’ll make a move in just a minute,” I said, realizing she was probably getting bored of all my hesitancy. 

“Not that my dear,” she sighed, watching the window, I could see the reflection of the sunset in her eyes. She began to hum, first to high notes, then to low, the song was unrecognizable. 

This was tradition, I knew that, everyday, as soon as the sun was setting, she would break off in tune. Yet, somehow, this one time, this one week. My mom's words echoed in my head. 

‘She doesn’t have much longer Quinn, just enjoy the time now.’ I thought back to them. 

Would this be the last time I hear her hum? What if next week, when I walk in, she’s dead in the kitchen? I won't ever hear it again, a part of me wanted to record it, replay it over for the world to hear. 

Yet, this wasn’t for the world to hear, this was for the street of Braxton Avenue, a special little gift. Her own little present for her time. The world was billions of years old, and these people were lucky enough to live at the same time as my Grandmother, and so was I. 

As the present drew back in, I noticed the tears streaming down my face. Leaving my nose stuffy, and my eyes puffed. Grandma mirrored me, through her eyes gave a more faraway expression. 

“What’s wrong Gran?” I asked, watching as she herself came back to the world. She didn’t float anymore, she couldn’t seem to get her feet off the ground. 

“It’s been too long my dear, I need to see my Harold,” she murmured, eyes never leaving the horizon. That’s what she wanted, my dead grandfather, the one who died before his own daughter could speak. The one who collected National Geographic's, and made painted pictures for the kitchen. He was dead, grandmother longed for him. 

We played checkers long after the sun creeped behind the horizon. She won every time, with little effort, humming through the evening. 

***

She died two days later. 

The neighbors had heard a thump from the bottom floor, so the police and I were called. There weren’t many specifics, though it was expected she had passed while cooking. I messaged the family, her funeral would be within the week. 

I replayed the last few weeks with her in my head, the checkers, the baking, the memories, her stories. Everything seemed so far away now. Like it had happened months ago, maybe even years. 

It took me three days to go over there, except for the day she died, I hadn't been back. The place smelled, whatever she had been cooking was still left on the counter, and the neighbors were complaining. 

When I entered, the smell burned and made my eyes water. I lifted my shirt to cover my nose, and braved ahead. There was a bowl with molted dough, I picked it up, wiping it away in the mess. I cleaned over the other stuff, old newspapers piling on the table, the checkers, I even put the magazines in a bookshelf. 

I cleaned it all away. Time passed so quickly, just as it always did when we arrived at Grandmas. Now it was just a shell though, a place that will someday inhibit someone else. By the time I had everything packed into a rare form of order, the sun was resting on the horizon. 

I saw the golden rays drift along the curtains, the wooden floor boards, and the checkers table. All were painted in a warm tone. The summer air was still warm, a northern form of humidity seemed to pass over. Yet, something so horrible was missing. 

For the first time in seventy years, in these summer afternoons, when the sun was setting and the world quieted just a moment, it was truly silent.