Free Into the Valley by Ruth Galm Page B

But if you can steer the boat the right way, it’s the best thing.”
    B. knew she was expected to offer some personal story here, some hint of her plan, but she said nothing, watching the faded stores and buildings pass by.
    The woman eyed B. “Do you think you’ll be starting a family soon? These are the kinds of things it’s best for me to know, so you don’t settle in and find out you need a nursery.”
    â€œI’d rather just see something first.”
    â€œSuit yourself. I’ve only been in real estate for thirteen years.”
    They were on the highway now, alongside a line of sharp-edged pink and white oleander, and suddenly the town was behind them and they were back in the fields. It was a development, with a main artery and small streets shooting off, low beige mirror-image houses and thin new trees around the perimeter. Each had a new lawn and a two-car garage and, B. imagined, a swimming pool out back.
    â€œIt’s not what I want,” B. blurted out.
    The realtor was listing the amenities of the houses, “ . . . new double ovens, sunken living rooms, automatic garage doors . . . ”
    â€œI was in a neighborhood last night near your office,” B. said. “That’s where I want to go. Take me back.”
    â€œDowntown? That’s old folks. Retirees and widowers on their own.” The realtor grimaced. “Don’t you even want to go inside one of the new ones?”
    â€œTake me back now, please. That’s where I want to look.”
    The woman scowled. Her fingers gripped the white calfskin of the steering wheel so hard B. was afraid she might soil it. She turned the car around in one of the new driveways. “Those houses are too small, you realize, not in any condition,” she said. “Really, they’re falling apart inside. Not suitable for families at all.”
    As they drove back along the sharp oleander the lake house descended on B. again. She had the feeling whatever she had lost there she could get back in one of the old cottages. A desperation climbed through her to get to the cottages; she braced herself against the blaring white seat. Hurry , she thought, hurry . As they drove, she tried to calm herself with images of new curtains and a divan on which to read her books, a cookbook with recipes for fingerling potatoes and roasts, a sewing machine maybe. It seemed so simple.
    â€œThere’s only one I agreed to show,” the realtor was saying. “I felt sorry for the children, you know, trying to move on with their lives. The father eating out of tin cans at the end, for pity’s sake.” They parked in front of a white wooden cottage with green trim and one of the large magnolias in front. Its suede leaves littered the dry lawn. The realtor led her up to the front door. B. tried to ignore a pang of disappointment at the chipped paint and the rusted knocker. The house was empty. The realtor s huttled her through the rooms, with square pale outlines on the walls of picture frames removed. “No dishwasher, no central air, no electric stove, here’s the one closet you would share . . . ” B. tried to rally herself by visualizing the bookshelves she could stain herself, the new curtains she could learn to sew. But her heart sank at the cracked porcelain sinks and the splitting baseboards. She thought inexplicably of the girl’s dirty bare feet on the magazine cover in the Sambo’s. “Could you show me another?” she asked the realtor. “Nothing else is up in this neighborhood,” the woman said stonily. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. People stay until they die. They’ve been in there since their honeymoons, since the war.” She sighed. B. left her and walked back to the front yard. The houses all at once looked dilapidated, gardens dying. What had she been thinking? She couldn’t buy a house on her own; she couldn’t fix it up. The