Aunt Jenny's Solo

Aunt Jenny had been under her husband’s thumb for the better part of forty years and when he died, there was much speculation about what would become of her.  She’d never paid a bill or managed a checkbook or read a book other than the Bible.  She’d never planned a meal or ordered from the Spiegel catalogue, never learned to drive or pick out her own clothes.  She hadn’t had a birthday party since she was sixteen – the very year she married – and in more than fifty years had never once left the island.  Where to begin, the island women worried, with a woman who never left her home or business except to sing in church.

A widow woman with a daughter ain’t gon’ make a livin’ in the choir, that’s fer damn sure, Aunt Pearl announced grimly, Reckon we need us a plan.

A plan?  Aunt Vi said hesitantly, Why, Pearl, the man ain’t even cold in his grave yet!  Maybe Jenny has a plan.

Jenny ain’t got the sense God give a goose, Clara snorted, Else she wouldn’t of married that no ‘count drunk in the first place.

Aunt Vi started to protest but Nana cut her off with a look and poor Aunt Vi lowered her eyes and folded her hands primly in her lap.

Don’t make no difference how she got herself into it, Viola, Aunt Pearl observed, It’s our Christian duty to help her through.

But how?  her timid sister asked reasonably enough.

By the time Nana swapped out the iced coffee for martinis, a plan had indeed been formulated.  Clara would take on the job of teaching Jenny to drive, Nana would take her to the bank and get her finances arranged, Pearl was to oversee the day to day running of the store, and Vi was relegated to  hair and wardrobe and child care of Ruthie.

The only thing the women hadn’t counted on was Jenny.

She was a tall woman, sturdy looking and stout but rough around the edges with reddened, swollen hands and thick ankles.  Her hips, considerably wider than her shoulders, gave her a metronome-ish look and her cheeks and eyes were sunken with worry and weariness.  Nevertheless, when she met them at the door, her faded housedress was clean and pressed, the seams of her support stockings were straight, her hair – still black as night except at her temples where there were several strands of gray – was brushed and neatly pulled back and she managed a smile.  It was the first hint that the women, well-meaning or not, might have misjudged her. 

I watched as she offered them seats around the dinette table and served coffee and sweet rolls.  I listened as they announced their intentions to see her through this difficult time.  And I learned that some women simply won’t be beaten down.

No, she told them politely, she was grateful for their concern but didn’t need any help.  Ruthie had already taught her to drive – how Ruthie learned, no one dared ask and I thought it best to keep silent about the half dozen or so Sunday afternoons when she and I had met Sparrow at the old gravel pit for lessons – and she had already  made an appointment with the bank.  She’d collected all the bills and papers and carefully organized them and was expecting her sister, a certified public accountant from Halifax, the very next day.   Considering what little business there was, she assured them, the store practically ran itself and she had Ruthie to help out.  In other words, she was and would continue to be just fine, thank you very much.

Well, Aunt Vi said and there was very little trace of her usual timidity, You surely don’t look like no new widow, Jenny.  The boldness of this made her blush and Aunt Jenny patted her knee comfortingly.

Thank you, Viola, she said kindly, Mebbe one of these days you could give me a rinse.

Aunt Vi nodded and gave her a shy, thankful smile. 

There was a new voice in the choir that Sunday, a strong and clear soprano, unleashed and finally free.  It seemed she’d been there all along, taking notes, paying attention, being stronger than anyone knew and just waiting for her turn to solo.