Evelyn

         When I think of Evelyn, I think of the gnarled hydrangea climbing her latticed wall. We met in her garden. Newly widowed, I’d taken to walking around the neighborhood with my dog, Roxy, every night around seven. Each time I passed, I saw Evelyn working in her garden, plucking weeds, replenishing topsoil, planting annuals, clipping roses. Her friendly wave became my favorite part of the day. I began to loop around her block last, always savoring our visit.

         Evelyn was all color. Red curls fell over flushed cheeks and bright lips. Her arms were often caked in blue-black dirt, and the knees of her pants were threadbare and yellowed from fertilizer. Bent over plant beds, she was forever pushing wisps of hair from the corners of her amber eyes.

         She hosted a dinner party every Friday night: backyard cookouts, home-style fish fries, and even black tie cocktails. Only Roxy and I were regular guests. Sipping sherry and spreading aged gouda over Melba toast, I’d soon discerned what I’d already guessed: we’d each told Evelyn our own stories, but none of us knew her beyond her reactions to ourselves.

         “Jonathan, there’s only one thing you need to know to be my friend,” she laughed, when I asked her about it. “Never say, ‘Good-bye.’”

         None of us had meant to tell her our sad stories. Lips slightly parted, gold eyes gleaming, she seemed to pull them from us, one by one. Once, in her garden, I found myself talking about Margo. How we’d married out of college and never been able to have children. How her cooking knowledge began and ended with frozen foods. How she never talked much until she’d had a few drinks and then she’d go on forever. And how I still thought about the way her left cheek dimpled when she smiled. What I didn’t tell her was that I’d found my wife again in Evelyn’s garden. She was the tulip pushing through soil. The dappled light reflecting off the lattice-work. The blush of Evelyn’s cheek.

         The parties never really ended, they just faded away. In the wee hours of the morning, we’d find ourselves in her backyard. Dipping our feet in the pool, we’d comment on the rippling moonlight in the water. We’d talk until someone stumbled upon a long-forgotten desire or squandered hope. We’d say empty words like, “It’s better that way,” or “That’s not so bad.”

         But Evelyn always knew just how to respond. One woman talked about suffering a miscarriage last year. Evelyn squeezed her hand and wiped her tears. Through hushed whispers, another woman told Evelyn that her boyfriend threw her out when she lost her job and couldn’t help pay the rent. Evelyn invited her to live with her for a while.

         The guests would trickle back to their cars. And I’d return home just a little more sure of the world, of the people in it.

         “Good-bye,” I’d begin, but check myself.

         She’d wave. “So long.”

         Evelyn started wearing hats when she worked in the garden, even when it wasn’t sunny. I said hats got in the way of all her gorgeous red hair.

         “I’m having a party tonight,” she said, as if she’d just remembered.

         She was going on vacation, and she wouldn’t be back for a while.

         I asked if this would be the last party, and she shrugged. Couldn’t I stop asking so many questions?

         Cars edged along the street, and guests crowded at the open front doors. Everyone she’d ever invited came. The woman with the miscarriage was pregnant again, and the woman who’d been kicked out brought her new boyfriend.

         Evelyn wore a bright green turban and matching dress, and emeralds glittered from her ears. We told her she looked beautiful, that we were under-dressed.

         We all tried to guess her destination. From her outfit, we assumed somewhere exotic, maybe Palestine or Turkey. “I’m not even sure,” Evelyn shrugged. “It’s all up in the air.”

         As usual, we eventually found ourselves in her backyard. Feet poolside, we commented on the beauty of the night sky. Someone waxed poetic about how the moon seemed to illuminate Heaven itself.

         Stars twinkled in Evelyn’s eyes as she leaned back on her arms and watched clouds shift over constellations. Slowly, the guests bid her goodnight. I wavered at the door. Evelyn was still seated by the pool, looking up.

         “So long,” I said.

            She waved. “Good-bye, Jonathan.”