The Company We Keep

Dedication

For lifelong friends, the 63s, with love

I’ve got your back; I know you have mine

especially group 9

Catherine Hoogerhyde, Carol Hall, Sydney Patterson, Ann Moore,
Carol Jay, Marilyn Moore, Jill Russell

and very much missed, Elaine Newman (1942–2020)

Epigraph

There’s a time to laugh and a time to weep . . .

But sometimes the two get muddled up.

—Remembering the Bones

Hold your collar, touch your toes.

Don’t want to be in one of those.

—The Lore and Language of Schoolchildren

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

September

The Notice

Flock

Carry Tiger

An Act of Love

Facing Up

Talking Heads

Rigmarole

Memory Vault

Irresolutus

Escape

October

Stories, First-Hand

A Normal Life

Backroom at Cassie’s

Wall at Your Back

November

Remember, Remember

A Small Party

Ways of Listening

Keeping Vigil

Changes

The Floodgates

December

A Foot Steps

Desperate Measures

On His Watch

Being Present

Ways of Seeing

Seeking Balance

The Company

Solidarity

May

The Wedding

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Frances Itani

Copyright

About the Publisher

September

The Notice

HAZZLEY

No one knew that Hazzley was emptying her house, one room at a time. An early riser, she’d been up since six, working on room two, Lew’s office. She pulled at his desk, which refused to budge. She went around to the other end and shoved hard, hip against the side. Years ago, Lew had insisted on sticking felt pads to the bottom of everything. As long as there was no carpet, even the largest pieces would slide across the floor if she could get them started.

Carpets were already gone.

She stopped after manoeuvring the desk through the doorway and into the wide hall. She had emptied its side shelves the night before. She went back for chairs, a tall and narrow set of drawers and a low filing cabinet. Lew had been thorough; the filing cabinet, too, had pieces of felt stuck to the bottom.

The small items were easy. Her conditions, also easy. Do not shift items from one place to another; that solves nothing. Get rid of it all. Unclog your space, give yourself some air. Think of the pleasure of living in an empty house.

Everything was lined up, ready for the truck. She leaned into the door jamb and thought of what Sal would say. “Mother, why is your furniture in the hall? Why are all the rooms empty?”

And Hazzley would reply: “I am clearing my life.” Or should that be “cleansing”? Didn’t matter; her daughter lived in another city. Not her decision. Hazzley suspected that if Sal pushed her to explain, she’d have to admit that what she was really trying to do was recreate a life—her life, the story of herself as she wanted to be right now.

AS PROMISED, Habitat for Humanity had its ReStore truck at the house by eight thirty. Two strong men loaded everything she’d pushed into the hall. She couldn’t believe the size of one of the men. He must have been seven feet tall, maybe six-eight or -nine. He and his lifting partner were efficient and made the work look easy. Since the truck was half-empty, Hazzley told them to take the hall sideboard, too. At the last minute, she threw in a wingback chair. Men and truck were gone by eight fifty. She closed the door and stretched out her arms, did a forward bend, touched the floor with her palms. She’d better quit while she was ahead or she’d wreck her back.