The Significance of Sunlight

by Bob Thurber

The rooming house—a three-story Colonial big as a church—was on the corner of Euclid Avenue and Thayer Street, in a bustling section of Providence's East Side, a tough spot to find parking so late in the afternoon. The woman who managed the place didn't live there. Her name was Lilian White and she lived in an apartment above her real estate office two streets over. On the phone, she had agreed to meet me on the wide wooden porch of Seven Euclid Avenue.

She showed me two rooms, one on the second floor, one on the third. They were furnished the same, carpeted with mismatched squares of rug remnants. Both had wallpaper that belonged in a funeral home. The third-floor room was smaller, with a single window cut into the sloped roof. The shared bath was filthy and the community kitchen a grimy mess. While I measured my height against the room's slanted ceiling, Mrs. White explained that the third floor was cheaper, so I said I'd take it.

She wouldn't accept a check, even with I.D., so I had to take a walk to find an ATM, pull out cash, then go back and pay the lady. She refused to take my money until I had read a list of rules and signed a piece of paper stating I had understood them. She penned a receipt and handed me a key for the room and another key for the downstairs door. After all of it was settled, I drove back toward home. If I hurried, I could still make dinner. That is, if Donna had found the energy to cook.

I drove Hope Street into Pawtucket and ran into a snarl of rush-hour traffic near Blackstone Boulevard. I witnessed two minor accidents. I sat behind a fuming truck and listened to a van blasting "Don't Let The Sun Catch You Crying." The van had tinted windows so I couldn't see inside. I tried to remember which group sang that song, then the truck roared its engine and started moving again.


The closer I got to familiar streets, the darker it became outside and the more my excitement wore down, until eventually it settled into concern. Not concern for Donna's ongoing battle with depression, because I was done with all that. My problem was more immediate: how to get out quickly, how to escape with mind and heart intact.

I wasn't taking anything from the marriage. The furniture, the wedding gifts, the photos...she could have all that. I didn't want anything except what I'd come with.

I calculated the number of boxes I would need for my books and wondered if one liquor store would give me that many boxes. I imagined myself having to go from store to store, begging for boxes. I could use grocery bags for my clothes. How many bags, I wondered. My brain skipped into high gear and I missed the turn for my street.

I kept driving.

I rode around until almost midnight. I drove past my house twice. The windows were already dark, but I wanted to allow Donna plenty of time to fall asleep. I would tell her tomorrow, in the brightness of morning. I was doing the right thing, no question. After eighteen months, a clean, quick separation was the proper decision. Doing the right thing is always hardest during the spaces in between.

By the third pass, I was almost out of fuel. So I parked. I sat in the car a minute, then went inside. Donna was sitting in the dark smoking a cigarette. The tip glowed red, then faded to crossing-guard orange. I could smell the smoke but couldn't see it. I pulled the string on the overhead light. She was still wearing the bathrobe she'd put on that morning. Her hair was wild.

I didn't hesitate. I pulled a breath and told her I had found a place, a single room. "It's not much to look at, but it's affordable," I said.

She dropped her cigarette into a soda can, then jerked her hand up to her face so fast I thought she meant to slap herself. She touched her chin. She worked the tips of her fingers into the flesh beneath her mouth. Her lips trembled.

"I have to share a bathroom and a kitchen with six other tenants, but that should be all right. We'll see. It's small. But it's furnished. A bed. A chair. There's a little table that could be used as a desk."

I shrugged. "It's on the third floor. I didn't want the third, but it was twenty bucks cheaper. The second floor is cleaner. The bathroom especially. But not much cleaner. Not twenty dollars' worth. I imagine I'll get used to the stairs. Maybe they'll get me to quit smoking. I have a window that faces east, but there's not much of a view. Just a parking lot. Still, I'll get sunlight in the morning. I'll wake up every day to sunlight."

I held my smile and tried to appear upbeat. The smile came easy and I could have held it longer except that Donna began to sob behind her hand, which I didn't realize until her arm started trembling. I reached for her, but she turned away.

So I gave her a minute.

Sometimes with Donna a minute was all it took, a moment to digest, to put matters in perspective and push dark thoughts aside. In her better moments she sometimes pulled it off. I gave her a good solid minute to pull it off now.

Would anyone believe I was rooting for her?

When her minute was up, I brought out the keys to my new home and put them on the table. Donna looked at them like she'd never seen keys before. She seemed to be having trouble drawing breath. "Oh god," she gasped. "I need to lie down. I can't deal with this right now. I can't." Her voice trembled like a song fading in and out, a familiar song, caught between stations.

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