Mrs. Hepzibah Thomashaw--or Miss Eppie, as she was commonly know--was Juliet and Allan's neighbor on the right side--she lived in the only ugly house on the street, a terrible marbled-brick affair with a bulbous glass cupola on the top that looked for all the world like a wart on the end of a nose. The realtor who had let the couple into the house had told them a bit about Miss Eppie.
"She's like a tiny old bird," he said. "She's a little, little thing, but her hair's as blue as the bay. She's a bit blind, you see, and uses too much bluing rinse. You'll likely get a call from her soon--she knows all about you by now."
"How could she?" Juliet had asked. "She hasn't even seen us yet."
"She's looking out her window now," the realtor said, pointing and sure enough Juliet saw a curtain at one of the side windows move.
"And she's a gossip," the realtor said. "She's got a tongue like the devil and a disposition to match--have I mentioned that?"
He hadn't--but Juliet couldn't believe that there was any malice in the small wrinkled face she saw at the window. Her heart went out to her neighbor. The realtor was saying right now that Miss Eppie had no friends--all of her children were long gone and seldom wrote--and she'd buried three husbands already. What would it be like to be old and forgotten and rattling around in that ugly old house with no one who cared--not a whit--about her? No, Juliet would not be afraid of Mrs. Hepzibah Thomashow.
"In fact, I'm going to march over there tomorrow and bring her a cake," said Juliet. "I bet she doesn't get cake very often--she looks too frail to cook much--and even if she does I bet she doesn't get cake like this."
But the next morning, while Juliet was measuring flour and beating eggs and Allan was hanging the wallpaper in the upstairs bedroom a knock came on the door.
"Mrs. Thomashaw!" cried Juliet, offering a floury hand to the bird-like woman who was frowning on her porch. "Oh--what is it that you--we meant to come and visit you, we didn't mean for you to come all the way to us! I meant to make you a cake--I was going to bring it over as soon as it was done, as soon as it cooled--won't you please come in and sit down? I'm Juliet, Juliet Ken--Juliet Miller."
Juliet blushed at her slip.
"If the mountain will not come to Mohammed, Mohammed must go to the mountain," quoth Mrs. Thomashaw, inexplicably. "You might have visited last night when you come in. I saw you looking over. I've had a lightbulb burnt out in the hallway for four months, count 'em, four. I ain't tall enough to reach up and change and and if I stood up on a chair and reached I'd likely fall and break my hip. Not that anyone cares. I don't want to hire a young ragamuffin to come in 'cause he'd likely pinch something or let my little pug loose. Pug's my only friend in the world--better than a thousand children I say. He can't sass back and he always comes when I call him. My, this parlor's awfully dusty. You must not have cleaned yet. Oh you did? Well dearie, don't fret. Some houses just accumulate dust and there's nothing you can do about it."
Juliet stifled a horrified laugh with her hand. Oh--she was terrible!
"So's I was going to ask you folks for help," Mrs. Thomashow said, settling back into her story. "With the lightbulb, I mean. Help with changing it. But on my way over I thought that my own children don't give a whit for me--why should you? But by then I was already winded and thought I'd come and sit a spell before crossing back over to my place. Well? I don't suppose you would send your man over to help me?"
"I'll--go--get my husband," Juliet stammered. "I'm sure he'd be glad to help you, Mrs. Thomashaw."
"Don't exaggerate," Mrs. Thomashaw said. "Folks are never glad to help others. And call me Miss Eppie. I'm old but I'm no Methuselah, child."
"I think you're wrong, Miss Eppie," said Juliet cordially. "I think that knowing you have done something nice for a neighbor is one of the best feelings. And I know Allan feels the same way."
"Well, God's nightgown, girl!" said Miss Eppie. "The world'll teach you a few things, sooner than later, I expect. But I suppose I was idealistic, too, once upon a time." She said idealistic as one else would say, 'swindler' or 'murderer.'
Juliet went quickly to get Allan--and came back to Miss Eppie, still calm and composed. But we will never know how hard she laughed once her husband and neighbor were out the door and crossing over to see about the burned-out lightbulb--nor for how long.
"I like her," said Juliet delightedly as she watched Allan reaching out and holding one of Miss Eppie's arms for support--and the old lady shook him off like a pesky fly. Allan turned back to the house and shrugged. "She's not nice--or polite--and she said five things that hurt my feelings while she was here. But she's honest--and she's got a tang. I must write Mother about her right away--perhaps she could use a character like Miss Eppie in one of her in one of her books!"
* * *
Their little house was on a cul-de-sac so they had no left-hand neighbor. But across the street from Juliet and Allan's little house was a dear, tiny little cottage. Juliet had no idea who lived there. They never saw anyone go in or out and the curtains were always tightly drawn. She meant to ask Miss Eppie about it--Miss Eppie came over every afternoon now, for tea. She was teaching Juliet how to knit, and always had some little task for Allan to do. Not that Allan minded. He rather liked Miss Eppie too, though neither he nor his wife could explain why.
She was horrified that Juliet didn't know how to knit. "Likely your ma was too busy writing novels to teach you anything," she sniffed. Miss Eppie knew all about Emily Starr Kent's novels--they had been reading Moral of the Rose together in the early evenings. Miss Eppie had revealed to Juliet that she hadn't read a book in fifteen years--not ever since her eyesight began to go. Juliet, an avid reader, was horrified by that. Imagine not being able to escape into a world of words--to no be able to while away a rainy afternoon lost in a flight of written fancy! Miss Eppie was flippant toward all novels--toward all books, really but the Bible. But she could not hide her interest in the plights of the fictional Applegarths and when the book was finished she pronounced it "nice--and only a little wicked."
Juliet meant to ask her about the little house across the street right away but Miss Eppie talked so copiously that it was a few visits before she was able to work it into conversation.
"That's Haight's Cottage," Miss Eppie said when Juliet finally asked her. "All of this land was part of the Haight estate, years ago. My house was the big house, of course. Yours was the garden house--and the house across the street was the coach-house. It's tinier than tiny, but solid and well-built. The War-Widows live there now."
"The War-Widows!" Juliet's mind conjured up a picture of two frail old women knitting together in early afternoons.
"Yes," Miss Eppie confirmed. "There's Desdemona Cash--heathenish name, isn't it? Although yours isn't really--normal--either. Sounds like one of those names out of the soap operas."
"Juliet is a name from Shakespeare, Miss Eppie. So is Desdemona."
"Well I've never read any of Shakespeare's novels, but he must have been a wicked man to think up such outlandish names," Miss Eppie sniffed back as Juliet and Allan exchanged wry smiles. "She goes by Mona, anyway, which isn't so bad. The other one of the widows is Maggie O'Keefe--Margaret Mercy O'Keefe. That's a pretty name."
"It is," Juliet agreed, if a bit prosaic for her tastes.
"Better than mine," Miss Eppie said. "Hepzibah Ernestine Llewellyn, I was born. My folks had a conniption when I agreed to marry Billy Larrimore. 'Think of what the initials spell!' they crowed. They was God-fearing folks. Anyway, then I married George Oliver and I was H.E.L.L.O. And then Frank Thomashaw, which spoiled it all. Oh, well."
"Miss Eppie, why haven't the widows been over to call?"
"Oh, they're shy," Miss Eppie explained. "Some people think it ain't right for two women to be living together in this day and age with no man. You could call on them, I suppose, but I don't know as if they'd open the door for you. The only time they've ever come to me was years and years ago, when one of their little 'uns were sick and they wanted to use my telephone for the doctor. But I visit them every Christmas. They don't want me there and I don't want to be there, but I consider it part of my duty as a neighbor to call." She gave her blue curls an emphatic nod.
Later after Miss Eppie had gone, Juliet took the plate of cookies that she was saving for Allan's supper and, with her new green hat on, walked across the street to the Haight Cottage. She must have knocked for five minutes but no one answered--though the lights were on. Juliet left the cake on the doorstep with a hastily penned note that explained who she was and then left with a backward glance.
She never saw anyone open the door, but the next morning the dish the cookies had been on was sitting on her doorstep with a simple note: THANK YOU. And nothing more.
Juliet felt strangely bereft. She needed a friend. She thought of Bea and Bella and Trudy and Joy at home--and Greta and Alice--and the corners of her mouth turned down. Here she had Allan, yes, and she had Miss Eppie, but neither of them were like her old girl-friends. Juliet was friendly with Anoushka, the daughter of the Italians that ran the café, but Anoushka spoke very little English. And now here she was, almost crying because two old women across the street wouldn't open the door for her! She needed a friend her own age, who spoke her own language!
"But at least the War-Widows liked my cookies," Juliet said with a sigh. "That's something."
