Remembering Teresa

Remembering Teresa.

There was a four-lane highway where the old two-lane road should have been. His sudden confusion got him hopelessly lost. For a time he drove aimlessly in the rental, past an enormous mall, then saw the sign that had him going in the right direction. He recognized nothing.

Forty years, what did he expect? Slate gray sky hovered, pressing shabbiness on the town frozen in time. A railroad town with no railroad, a ghost town. Few people were on the streets and fewer cars. He fumbled his reading glasses on to see the street signs. Alfalfa Avenue came up too quickly. He left turned wide, heard the tires squeal, careened into the wrong lane, jerked the wheel back, and banged into the curb. Luckily there was no traffic. He turned the ignition off and sat there breathing quick little gasps.

When his vision cleared he looked down Alfalfa and saw the building, the small parking lot tucked in at its side. It was really there, five floors of ugly Gothic Victorian looming above its unfamiliar surroundings. The rest had been real too, the operator announcing yes she had a listing, the voice announcing Forest Hotel, may I help you.

The lobby was deserted. Lounge to the left, elevators to the right, massive front desk dwarfing the young man behind it. Nothing had changed.

“Mr. Dalton?” A welcoming smile, almost relieved. “Good to see you, I hope you had a pleasant trip, and I have good news, you’re in room 500 as you requested, we normally keep the fifth floor closed, not enough business, but Miss Twinings said---”

“Twinings?” He froze with the credit card halfway to the desk.

“The owner.” He was suddenly dizzy. “Are you all right, sir?”

“Fine, just a little tired.”

“If you'll just fill this out, I'll take your bag up.”

“I know the way.”


He stood in the doorway trying to sense her presence. The old furnishings were gone, replaced long ago by flimsy dressers, narrow beds, cable television, faded carpeting, and paper-thin drapes. For a moment he could see her long straw blonde hair fanned out across the pillow, pale arms beckoning, secret hungry smile drawing him. The image faded. Just a hotel room.

He sat on the bed to call Daniel and closed his eyes waiting for the new wave of complaints. He pictured David tugging at his twin brother's sleeve, mouthing: tell him that Mom would have thrown a fit about it. Driving three hundred miles to some stupid town for what? But Daniel seemed cautious with his questions, and he was cautious with his answers. Another temporary stalemate.

Thinking of his sons as jailers made him uneasy. In the year since Gwen's death, they had crowded his life with daily phone calls and watchful stares, and constant challenges and questions. The Hero At Sixty could not be trusted to navigate his own life alone. He resented them. They had not been close for years; he’d lost them sometime during their teens, just as he had lost Gwen years before something burst in her head and collapsed her at his feet like an unfurled sail.

He hung up, wanting to sleep, lie back on the bed, and let the dream come. His March fifth dream. How many years now? He thought back to his last semester at Axton College, a blur. The three years finishing school in Iowa were another blur. He couldn’t recall waking in terror, soaked in sweat, wide eyes fixed on the afterimage. It started sometime after his marriage, maybe that first year, and then every year after, not thankfully on March fifth, he didn’t think he could have endured that, but always close to that date. Gwen wondered at first but he dismissed it, told her nothing, and made light of it. Eventually, she stopped asking.

After Gwen died the dream took control, sometimes night after night, then nothing for days, then again. He would see them clearly, standing facing each other on the little triangle of the curb where Alfalfa Avenue and Courthouse Lane met. The bus to Buffalo had just pulled away. Two benches, a small plot of flowers beginning to bloom, and the enclosed bus shelter. March wind whipped around them, tossing her hair back and forth across her shoulders. She was bent forward as if he had punched her in the stomach, arms across her chest clutching herself, sobbing in great unending gasps. He was scared, couldn’t touch her, frozen with shame and disgust. All he wanted to do was to get away from her. He wrenched himself into motion down along Alfalfa toward Main Street, her wracking sobs following.


At the front desk, he asked to see the owner. The clerk frowned. “Something wrong with the room?”

“No, I just wanted to thank her.”

A smile. “She might drop by this evening, I’ll tell her if I’m still on duty.”

He asked for a street map. Another frown, rummaging under the desk, back in the office. “This is pretty old, I wasn’t sure we still had any.”

He studied the creased map in the parking lot, letting the memories flood. He knew this town, how much could it have changed? Towns like this didn’t change; they waited patiently for those who left to come back. Come home now, you’ve seen the outside world and it wasn’t what you wanted, it bruised and battered you, made your life surreal, tore your heart out, and spit on your dreams. Come back where you belong.

He drove slowly down Alfalfa. The triangle was still there, paved over, with no bus shelter or benches or flowers. A right turn onto Main Street, past the area once known as Doctor’s Row. Now the once lovely Victorians were abandoned, windows were broken, porch railings askew, shutters hanging. At the end of Main, he crossed the short bridge over the river whose name he couldn't remember, right-turned onto East Main, and slammed on the brakes. For a moment he thought he had made a mistake. His house, all the houses gone. The cracked sidewalk blended into one vast rubble-strewn, weed-choked lot as far down the street as he could see. On his right, the river hissed by.

He turned the car around and accelerated past the bridge onto Straight Street, recklessly, up and up the winding hill, faster, tires screeching, gripping the wheel white-knuckled. At the top he braked, lurched forward, bent his head, and sat there, numb.

When he looked up darkness had settled but he could see the house stark against the twilight sky. He had been inside only once. He remembered only the eerie quiet, the wing-backed chair where he sat rigid, looking straight ahead. Clarence Twinings across from him, massive bulk, hot eyes boring into his, hypnotizing, oily voice insinuating, offering, threatening. The fear in his belly, his bowels, along every nerve ending. He never wanted to feel that way again.


The lounge was deserted. Bored waitress, bored bartender, two businessmen at the bar, low hushed tones used at wakes. He sat to the left of the entrance, empty tables surrounding him. The menu was sparse but he ordered and absently pushed food around on his plate. He drank scotch knowing he’d regret it. The sharp bite roused him from his stupor.

He was on his second drink, the table cleared of his uneaten meal when he glanced up at the entrance. She stood there peering across the room, found him, and stared intently. He felt a sudden chill. She was reedy thin, long gray dress draping down to the tops of her shoes. She leaned heavily on a cane. Her steady gaze held him.

At last, she seemed to decide and limped down the two steps toward him. Her hair was a cap fitted close to her skull, limp and dull gray, wispy on her brow. She wore no makeup. The left side of her face was ruined. A burn blotch puckered her skin from hairline to jaw. Her left eye drooped as if dragged by the weight of the thin scar snaking from her lid to her pronounced cheekbone.

She slid onto the banquet and presented her good side. “I almost went home, then I remembered. God, my memory is terrible, thoughts come in, then they’re gone, poof." Her voice was smoky, an effort. “I’m Mercedes Twinings, do you like your room?”

He had never met her. She’d been away somewhere at school. Teresa adored her, the older sister who would understand their feelings for each other, who would champion their love. When he called just before he left for Iowa she shrieked bastard stop calling here haven’t you tortured her enough leave her alone you broke her heart you killed her---

“Uh yes, thank you for letting me have it.”

She gestured at the bar. “Yes, I remember, how many times did you two sneak up there, god she was the sly one stealing the key, drove everybody crazy.”

Tightness in his chest, tingling in his fingers. He tried to breathe. The waitress came with another scotch and a glass of wine. She took a large greedy gulp.

“What else, oh yes, I’m sorry calling you a bastard like that, I didn’t know about daddy, we found out though, oh yes we all found out. What was your name?”

His left arm ached. “Douglas Dalton.”

“Douglas, of course. You know, everybody called her Terry, she hated that name, you were the only one called her Teresa, she loved that, god how she loved you.”

He drank. A low buzzing started in his ears. “Where is she?”

Mercedes leaned closer, frowning, perplexed. “Wait.” She laughed, gestured with her glass, and drained the wine. “Thoughts come in, go right back out, very annoying.”

He held his breath as she concentrated, drumming her fingers on the table, absently sipping from the fresh glass of wine. “Oh she drove poor daddy crazy, she did, got kicked out of school, drinking, there were boys, god the scandals, cost daddy a lot of money---” She peered at him. “He didn't stop paying for your college, did he?”

He swallowed. “No.”

“Good. A deal is a deal, he was always going back on his word.”

She closed her eyes. For a long while he sat there willing her to come back to him. Just as he reached out to touch her arm she spoke sharply.

“I had to keep an eye on her, that was my new job. And she drove like crazy so I went with her, she drank too much, you know. And I remember we were laughing, god we always found something to laugh about, she thought everything was funny. It was foggy that night, yes that’s right, we flew off the road, we sailed through the air, laughing---”

She rapped the cane against her leg, clack clack clack. Turned her face to him full on. “Nothing to laugh about I guess.”

“What happened to Teresa?”

“Oh, I never forget that.” She smiled through the tears. “Well, sometimes I do, but we talk almost every day, it’s nice there, and I pull the weeds and bring flowers, not like those other graves, nobody comes there anymore it’s a shame---”


That night he didn’t dream. Blackness filled his mind, weighed him down, and pressed on his chest. He woke to a gray pall blanketing the town. Dressed and packed in slow motion, as if swimming in vain toward the surface just out of reach. He checked out with a new desk clerk. The town sat limp, drained of life. He didn’t need the map and turned left just before Route 59 widened at the eastern edge. Cemetery Hill Road. 

The cemetery was old, and crowded, weathered headstones askew. He parked just outside the arch. The gate was open, rusted, off its hinges leaning against the sagging fence. His parents were here, he had no idea where. He moved slowly up the gently sloping path, stopping to look left and right at faded names, and dates. Too many, he’d never find her.

The sound of an engine whine turned him around. The car careened through the arch, fishtailing, accelerating. It kicked up a cloud of dust, swerving from side to side. He had time to see Mercedes hunched forward at the wheel, face grim, staring straight ahead before he had to jump back. He fell sprawling, slamming his back against a tombstone. It collapsed under his weight. The car screeched to a stop at the top of the rise. His vision was blurred. He saw the figure limp from the car, stark against the gray sky, and disappear down the other side.

It took some time for him to make his way to the car, brushing off his clothes, and moving slowly, his back and left leg sore. The driver’s side door was open. He saw her inside a fenced-in plot with three headstones, leaning on her cane. The stones were straight, and the plot was well-tended. He gripped the outside of the fence, his back thrumming in pain, and squinted past her at the names.

Horace Twinings. Abigail Twinings. Mercedes Twinings.

Everything went black, then bright blinding white. He blinked back the grayness of the morning, her gray dress, gray hair, and ruined face turning toward him. “Teresa.”

She smiled. “God, no one’s called me that for years, who was it called me that, a boy, some boy, a long time ago, my memory is very bad.” She stumbled and leaned against the fence, very close to him. “I was late again today, I really try, she expects me to be here but sometimes I forget, do you ever forget things?”

“No.” He touched her arm. “I didn’t forget you.”

She looked at him, frowning. “I killed her, you know, so I have to come here and talk to her, tell her how stupid I was and how sorry. I think she’s forgiven me, you know, she understands I wasn’t myself, I was just crazy because of what they did to me, Daddy, and—”

“She did, she forgave you. Teresa, I’m sorry, I was a coward, I was scared, I was going to come back I swear but---oh god Teresa I loved you!”

She frowned again and reached up to touch his tears. “What was your name again?”

“Douglas,” he whispered. “Douglas Dalton.”

She wiped her fingers on her sleeve and limped forward. “I have to tend the graves now before I forget, I must have missed Daddy’s last time, look at those weeds.” She moved slowly to the plots and bent, cane digging into the earth. Her voice was low, casual, as she spoke to her sister. He watched her until his crying stopped and started down the slope, her voice drifting after him.

“Douglas?”

She stood straight, clumps of dead grass in her hand. Facing him, yet looking through him at something else. “I forgive you. Whatever you did I forgive you. Mercedes forgave me and I forgive you.”


He turned left at the bottom of the hill onto Route 59. The town behind him was still trapped in gray and he wondered if the sun ever shone here anymore. The farmland he remembered was gone, covered now with squat empty buildings and a sprawling mall with few cars in the parking lot. East of him the sun was shining. He was tired. The three-hundred-mile trip seemed endless. Perhaps he’d stop at a motel. He had time now, time for the memory of a young girl with long blonde hair and laughing eyes.