Page 3 of Sort of Seeing Someone

And so now, Wednesday mornings are puzzle mornings. I read the clues out loud, she answers, I fill them in. Her only thing is she insists I do so with pencil. I insist it’s not the one from behind her ear. And that’s the story behind how I purchased a pack of pencils for the first time since I was in grade school.

I get right to it: “One across. Kardashian matriarch. Four letters.”

Gerda is silent. Maybe she hasn’t been keeping up with the Kardashians.

“Kris,” I say out loud as I scribble it in. “It’s Kris. Okay. Two across.Ode on a Grecianblank,” I say. “Three letters.”

I look to Gerda.

“Come on, GG. This one was way before my time. I’m relying on you.”

Nothing.

“Okay. Let’s skip that one. Three across. Wonder Woman—”

“Moonie,” she interrupts. Finally, her comforting, gravelly voice making an appearance.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” she says.

That lead in, though, I donotfind comforting.

“What’s going on?” I ask, taking a nervous sip of my now lukewarm coffee.

She lets out a sigh and stares off into the yard. It hits me that what she’s about to tell me is serious.

I set down my pencil and focus in on her while I wait for her voice to crack open again. I see her face like I’ve never before. In the moment, she goes from being the quintessential old, quirky neighbor, to a vision of…well, myself. Her sea glass blue eyes are locked with mine—almost in a mirrored fashion. Her shoulder-length hair is parted down the middle and pinned back with a single, tortoise shell barrette on just left side of her silver hair. Gerda had beach waves before John Freida made beach waves a thing. Briefly, I wonder if she was a blonde back in the day. If so, there’s a good chance I’ll look a lot like Gerda when I’m her age. Except Gerda doesn’t have a nose ring in her right nostril and her wardrobe consists of clothes that aren’t all black like mine. She’s also skinnier than me, but who’s keeping tabs?

“You know, I really love that fig tree,” she says, interrupting my moment of reflection. “And they’re going to cut it down.”

“Who? The city? Is it dying? Oh, Gerda. I know the tree is beautiful, but it has always smelled a bit like rotten banana peels and it’s an eyesore. I think it’s probably time,” I say, as if she’s just told me her fifteen-year-old blind, deaf, incontinent dog needed to be put down.

“No, not the city. These people.”

Gerda slides over a piece of paper that was under the pile of mail she carried in. I pick it up and examine it. I’m far from a legal expert, or a realtor, or an investor, but from the looks of it, a combination of all of those kinds of people has some big plans for this little house on Narragansett.

“They’re going to eliminate the yard, build a three-story beach condo building, and flip the units for triple what they’re paying me,” Gerda adds.

“You sold the house?” I ask, my voice hollow like piece of rotted wood.

She says nothing. Her silence scares me. I take a few more moments to read over the letter, which is still by and large, mumbo-jumbo.

“Gerda, I need to know if you sold the house.”

“I did,” she says, unable to look me in the eye.

“But you love this place. I love this place. You said you’d never sell it,” I rapid fire her way. My intention is not to guilt her, but rather to recite the facts in case she…forgot?

“Idolove this place, so much. But Betty is going into assisted living and I decided I’m going with her,” she says. “Do you know much those places cost? I’m talking about the ones with the good food and the pickleball courts. I don’t have that kind of money, dear. Well, I didn’t before the sale.”

Why does everyone love pickleball so damn much?

In addition to being my landlady, Gerda is also my neighbor. She lives in the house behind me, across the alley, owned by her friend, Betty. Together, Betty and Gerda are the unofficial Thelma and Louise of OB and have ruled this part of the town for over fifty years. All the locals here know them, even if they don’t know them personally. In a way, I feel like I’m renting fromSoCal royalty.Wasrenting from SoCal royalty.

Anyhow, after Gerda’s husband died, I guess the one-bedroom house felt too big for her and she decided living alone was not her thing. So, she asked Betty—who never got married—if she was in the mood for constant company and just like that, it was like the 1960s all over again…maybe with less eligible bachelors spending the night but just as many joints to be rolled—hey, it’s legal here! Every day, the two of them can be seen strolling up and down Newport Avenue, the main drag, in their tropical-print housecoats and foam flip-flops, getting ice cream, eating fish tacos, and hopping from one psychic on the beach with a ten-dollar special to the next. Goals.

“I didn’t even know you put it on the market. When were the showings?”

“It didn’t happen like that,Moonie. Developers have been after my lot for decades. This land is a goldmine. One of them offered me three million dollars.Three million dollarsto move on with my life. How could I say no to that? I don’t make money off you,Moonie. You cover my property taxes and the bills—which is all I ever wanted. This house has been paid off for the better part of fifty years and Social Security covers the rest. I just wanted someone to enjoy the place like Larry and I did, and that was you. But you know what rent goes for around here—normalrent,” she clarifies, and I know exactly what she means. “There was no way I could afford to leave with Betty if I didn’t take this offer. Please, you have to understand. It was now or never. It was this way or no way.”

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