Advice

OUT OF THE WASH

 

The screen door slams. Good. For a little while the noise will keep the flies away from the hole Robbie, our sweet, lovable golden retriever made two months ago. Time has already flown. It is 9 a.m. and my husband Irv and Harry who lives next door, have left for work. Two men, friendly neighbors, share little except their wives. (OOPS-I didn't mean that figuratively). We ladies are the best of friends, buddies, as close as sisters. My arms are full, the laundry basket of just washed clothes is heavy as lead. Irv wants to buy a dryer for me but I won't let him. He knows, as seen first hand a few times, how much Lily and I enjoy hanging our clothes out at the same time, Mondays ands Thursdays.

 

We have a simple routine. At 9 we start our washing machines, usually needing two loads. While that is taking care of it self, Lily and I have coffee and usually a homemade piece of pie or cake. Once I cheated, bought an un-iced chocolate cake from Barty's, put my own icing on it and was hurt badly when Lily complimented me, told me that was the best cake I ever made. I have held  my tongue on that fiasco for a long time.

 

You must think I'm a weirdo, don't want a dryer in our basement,  I do but not if it means Lily and I won't have our uninterrupted time together. No phones, no kids hanging on our skirts, Robbie lying on the cellar tile, it's Nirvana., that's what it is. If there is a storm, we have a contingency arrangement, going to an early movie, lunch out and wash clothes the first decent day. In three years, we had to switch times for only two major blizzards.

 

'Hey, Lily, I need a few more clothes pins.' From our her identical clothes bags, except hers is blue and mine is green, she sends them air mail over to me. What we both dislike is hanging king sized sheets. They take up so much room, usually drag on the ground and need another rinse. Shirts, underwear, p.j.s, dish towels, bath towels are like tulips popping up in spring. The colors, the soft winds, we never want to give this up. Once in a while one of us needs a little more line space, so we work it out. We hang the wash out even when the temperature is 35, stand together and watch everything freeze. The shapes fill out. It is easy to picture Irv in his frozen p.j.s I see him as a striped scarecrow, his ears flapping like wings. It's a challenge to undo frozen clothes and re-hang them on the lines in the cellar. As they melt, the floor becomes a wading pool. Lily and I don't give a damn. While we mop, we perk fresh coffee.

 

Spring breezes blow. It is close to ten and I am in the yard starting to worry. I don't see Lily yet. I wait a few minutes and 'yoohoo' to her. She doesn't answer. I go thru the alley into her yard and look in the kitchen window. No Lily. I phone her, hear it ring. There is no reply. My heart beats so fast I can hardly walk a straight line to her front door. The door is locked and there is no sound from inside. Before I get the house key she gave me for an emergency, I call Harry. 'She should be there. Maybe she is in the cellar. Go look. I'll hold the line.'

 

I look and I scream. Lily is lying on the cellar floor partly covered by the wet clothes she was bringing outside. Her eyes are open but sightless. The shock is unbearable and I react stupidly, taking the wet things off my dear friend, stuffing them back in the basket. 'Oh, my god,' I say over and over to myself, remember Harry is hanging on the phone and run upstairs to give him the terrible news.

 

Her funeral is swift, my sorrow, loneliness, everlasting. Irv means well and two months later, without discussing it with me, has a white Whirlpool clothes dryer delivered. It looks like a behemoth in the basement. I cannot bring myself to use it and continue hanging the wash outside until the first snowfall covers the ground. The little booklet of instructions, warranty, are still on the closed top of the unused dryer. I don't recall picking them up yet believe it was Lily who handed it to me. She smiles. I smile back and set the drying process in motion, don't overload the machine, set for 25 minutes and the soft hum runs itself.

 

As soon as Irv comes home I show him the dry, folded items, all done.  I tell him, 'The basement floor never got wet and I love my new dryer.'
That is when I look out the window in the cellar door and see Lily's clothes line still standing. So is mine. They both have snowflakes on them.

 

'Lily,' I say, 'I miss you so much but if you can get a dryer in heaven, get one. You'll love it.'