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THE GRAY HOUSE

 

We stop to ask a stranger if he knows where the Grays live. 'Sure,' he says, turns his back and walks way. Damn country smart aleck. Aaron and I are left sitting in our car, confused and tired. Some one in a nearby grocery store may be more helpful than that snot nosed nasty guy. I ask a lady poking cantaloupes, trying to find one ripe enough to eat this week. 'Do you know a family around here named Gray?'Rutherford Gray?'Mrs. Cantaloupe, circa 1975, tells us all the Grays live out on Gray's Point, near the lake. 'Go east for about five miles and start watching for a sign that points to the Point. Follow the arrow. Then start looking for a mailbox with your friend's name on it.' Aaron drives while I look for a big sign with an arrow. At eight miles I have still seen no big sign. Aaron makes a tight U turn and I see the sign. It is small, dull gray, stuck on a wooden pole. Black letters just say 'That way.' 

 

'There's a mailbox with R. Gray,' I shout. Aaron tells me he is neither deaf nor blind. He turns right. There is no view of a lake. The driveway is narrow, made of what looks like crushed oyster shells. We fear for our tires. 'Paula, look, all of the few houses are the same dull, boring gray. They are so sad looking. Rutherford Gray can't possibly live here, he just can't.' I look at mail box 110. 'Aaron, this Gray doesn't show even an initial.' Box 112 shows Mrs. Lindsey Gray. ' Does our Mr. Gray have a wife now?' My husband has no idea. The next mail box is so gray I think it is black. No name is on it but there is a low light in the front room. Only a dog barks when I knock. We walk together across the shelly road to the odd numbered three houses. 111 has a large R. Gray painted on one side of his box. 'This must be it,' I tell Aaron. He rings a woebegone rusty bell that we don't hear so I knock hard, get a small splinter in my finger. The door opens slowly. Two blood shot eyes stare at us. Cracked lips tell us the man doesn't want to buy anything. He says, 'Go away,' but I persist. 'Are you Rutherford Gray?' A sharp ,'No.' with an added expletive seems right. He adds, 'That man's a loner. He is the last house #115. The door closes.

 

The same kind of crushed oyster shells lead to the same kind of painted gray house, except it is a little bigger. Aaron knocks softly, gets no reply. I tap a bit more loudly and give it a little triple tap at the end. A most pleasant male voice responds. 'Who is calling on Rutherford Gray?'  'Mr. and Mrs. Harold Siegel from NY. ' Mr. Gray speaks thru his closed door. 'I'm sorry, Mr. Siegel. I never heard of you and don't allow strangers into my home.' Aaron won't accept that and asks, 'Are you the Rutherford Gray who wrote the book 'Rainbow of Life?' 'Yes, why?' I add my feminine voice with a plea. 'Please let us in, Mr. Gray. It is important that we meet you. Please, open the door.
It opens slowly, then all the way. Sunshine pours in through high skylights and white shuttered windows. Two caladiums with white spiked flowers sit on a teak table in front of a yellow and white striped sofa. Hot orange and lime green throw pillows look warm, inviting. Aaron and I are overcome by the colors, the fragrance of lilacs and white roses in tall clear vases standing in corners.

 

Aaron is so stunned he can barely speak. I can. 'Mr. Gray, Aaron and I have been trying to find you for three long years. May we sit down and talk to you?' Mr. Gray almost bows to us and  touches a button on the dining room wall. Sliding glass doors open wide. 'Come sit down in my garden. You willl find it delightful. I spend hours each day just watching the blue jays feed in their wooden houses. This is my haven, my heaven. Jasmine climbs up a latticed wall. It intoxicates us.
                              
We sit. I begin. Mr. Gray, we lost our darling daughter, Alice. After a long battle with leukemia. How we cried, together, separately, constantly. Our lives had lost their meaning. Life wasn't worth living. My deep depression sent me to a sanatarium for six months. It didn't matter to me if I ever got better or not. Aaron suffered for me and with me. Alice was everywhere I looked.

 

On a Friday in June, my long time friend who visited me weekly, came again. Molly brought me a box of chocolate fudge, covered with walnuts, placed on top of a book, wrapped in pink paper with wide pink ribbon that had yellow silk buttercups strung all over it. The ribbons made me smile. I unwrapped the book and most carefully saved the buttercup ribbon. Somehow it brought a ray of sunshine into my life. I held on to that special feeling and began to read your book, Mr. Gray. Your warmth, the passion for living enfolded me. The beauty of life that I had lost was still there. Aaron stayed by me, encouraged me. We read your book together, healing page by page. It was our medicine. I saw your rainbow, slid down it and found the pot of gold. I gave Aaron ½ of my pot and he covered it with chocolate fudge and walnuts.

 

Mr. Gray, we had to tell you personally how your book saved us. Surely others have found peace in it too. Our Alice didn't die.  I swear she is in your garden now, with us, listening to the bluebirds, enjoying the smells, the sun.   

 

She's in Wonderland.'