Good Grief: A Novel Page 26

  As Drew and Roxanne disappear, the guests continue chattering and laughing. Ruth slides a new CD into the player. Two actors break into a swing dance, spinning into a tray of maple moons and sending them toppling over and skittering across the floor. Marjorie Bison takes a step backward to clear the impromptu dance floor, and the heel of her shoe pierces a cookie.

  Crystal fumbles through her backpack and lights a cigarette.

  Outside, I mouth to her. The last thing I need is Marjorie spying the underage help smoking.

  I finish my champagne, grab a tray of banana cupcakes from Ruth, and head toward Marjorie, determined to win her over. The banana cupcakes are my favorite, with thick cream cheese frosting sprinkled with chopped walnuts and toasted coconut. She must try one.

  I stop halfway across the room. There, leaning in the front doorway of the bakery, is Ginger. Five feet eight willowy inches of come-hither sexpot sleaze. She’s lit from behind by the afternoon sun—fiery red hair and bare long legs outlined in a transparent blue organza dress. The dress is a tight, wraparound number with a V-neck plunging into a creamy crease of cleavage. Guys’ heads snap around like compass needles swinging due north. Suddenly their expressions say: No bra . . . nipple alert!

  Ginger’s eyes scan past me. She spots Drew as he emerges from the kitchen and saunters toward him, hips swaying.

  “What are you doing here?” Drew squawks as she approaches. She’s like a test that he has to pass, perhaps as difficult for him as algebra is for Crystal.

  Dear Miss Manners: What should you do if a red-haired praying mantis crashes your party?

  I forget about Marjorie and veer toward Drew and Ginger. Let’s get this over with for good.

  “I don’t recall sending you an invitation,” I tell Ginger. The tray of cupcakes wobbles in my hands.

  Ginger wrinkles her nose at the cupcakes. “Carbs,” she says, as though there’s a cockroach on the tray. She tosses back her wavy hair, slick red lips shimmering like cinnamon candies. “They ruin your waistline.” She scans my figure, smirking at my uniform.

  This is the closest I’ve ever been to her, and I notice a tiny spray of endearing freckles across her button nose.

  “I know,” I tell her, shifting the tray to my hip. “Some people are too vain to enjoy food.”

  “Darling,” she coos at Drew, ignoring me, breathy fake English accent heating up. She slides the plastic champagne glass from his hand and finishes it in one swallow. “Let’s go get a real drink.” She tips her heart-shaped face up at him, her thin eyebrows arched across her smooth, high forehead, emerald eyes twinkling.

  I watch Drew struggle against her undertow. He slowly shakes his head and looks to me, helpless.

  Get a spine! I want to shout.

  Ginger turns to me, waves a hand at my head. “Shouldn’t you wear a hair net?” She shudders dramatically. “I’d hate to think of all that hair getting in my cupcakes.”

  “I’d hate to think of cupcakes getting in your hair,” hisses a voice from behind me. In the next moment a flying cupcake smacks Ginger in the side of the head, glops of cream cheese icing and chunks of cake tumbling through her red locks and landing in her cleavage. Her glossy mouth drops open. Crystal bumps up against me, pulling another cupcake off the platter.

  “Nobody invited you, Cruella!” she says, hitting Ginger smack in the forehead with icing.

  “Who the hell are you?” Ginger asks, lunging toward me and snatching a cupcake. She winds up and chucks it at Crystal, who runs toward the kitchen. The cupcake sails past Crystal and hits the Chamber of Commerce president square in the middle of her stiff white hairdo. The hair is resilient, and the cupcake bounces to the floor.

  Suddenly the crowd is quiet, the guests gathering in a circle around the fracas, clutching their plates and champagne glasses. I see strained smiles, raised eyebrows, mouths ajar. They look at Ginger, look at Drew, look at me. I can tell they won’t be ordering their wedding cakes or party platters from this unreliable trouble magnet anytime soon.

  “Food fight!” the safety pin actress cries with glee, lobbing a miniature cherry cheesecake at her date. He retaliates by tossing his champagne across her chest.

  Food fight? But this is the part where I’m supposed to start living happily ever after. Just like the opening of The Mary Tyler Moore Show, where Mary spins and throws her beret in the air, the theme song cheering “You’re gonna make it after all!” Food fight! Where did these people get their manners?

  “Oh, my, what a zoo,” the Chamber of Commerce president tells her assistant as they bustle toward the door.

  “Wait!” I call after them. I want to apologize for the ruckus and explain how I intend to contribute to the community: tours for elementary school kids and cookie day for the senior center. They vanish through the door and up the street.

  Marion sidles into the middle of the dwindling crowd. “No one treats my daughter this way.” She pivots on one heel, scanning the group with a menacing gaze. “No one.” She narrows her eyes at Marjorie Bison. “Sophie has worked very hard to become a lawyer. You people must learn to appreciate her. My son appreciates her.”

  Again I’m flattered that she thinks I’m a lawyer. At least her dementia classifies me as a capable person, someone who could take depositions and fire off legal briefs. Maybe the lawyer daughter-in-law is the daughter-in-law Marion always dreamed of.

  “A baker lawyer?” Ginger seethes, wiping icing out of her hair with a paper napkin.

  Drew circles an arm around my waist. “Are you all right?” he asks.

  I unhook myself from his grip and brush off my uniform. “Fine.”

  Ginger turns toward Drew to say something, but then Ruth’s standing between them, hands on her hips. “How can I help expedite your departure?” she asks Ginger.

  “Did someone clone Betty Crocker?” Ginger asks, looking at Ruth’s uniform.

  “Bette Davis’s botox injections are making her cranky!” the safety pin actress says, giggling.

  “I thought we agreed you’d dump Little Miss Muffet,” Ginger tells Drew, nodding at me. I see now that I was dumped not just by Drew, but by a coalition.

  “We didn’t agree on anything,” Drew tells her. “Except that you’d leave me alone.”

  “Alone?” she purrs, tickling the underside of his chin with her red fingernails. “You don’t want to be alone, do you?”

  “No,” Drew says, stepping aside to dodge her touch and brushing up beside me. “I want to be with Sophie. I am with Sophie.” He looks at me, looks around the room. “I love Sophie,” he announces.

  “Yeah!” the safety pin actress cheers.

  The small crowd breaks into applause and whistles.

  I back away from the group, feeling my face flush. Drew never said the L-word when we were dating. A few times I thought he would: once after sex as he stared dreamily at the ceiling; the time we stayed up until three in the morning talking about our childhoods.

  Now he’s decided to profess his love, publicly, further humiliating me in the middle of my party flop. Making a big speech as though we’re all in a Shakespeare festival drama. This isn’t a play! I want to shout at him and Ginger, irritated by their histrionics. This is life. My life!

  “Sophie’s married,” Marion tells them.

  “See, she’s already married,” Ginger tells Drew.

  “She was married,” Crystal tells Ginger, stabbing a stubby finger at her. “She’s a widow now. Which is why you should butt out of her life and let Actor Boy decide for himself.”

  I back away, toward the kitchen. If Drew hadn’t dumped me in the first place, we wouldn’t be in this mess.

  “I have decided,” Drew says. He takes a shaky step in my direction, then swoops down on one knee and reaches for my hand. “Sophie . . .” He hesitates, wipes his brow with his free arm. I notice that his hand shakes around mine. “M-marry me.” His fingers are warm and callused. Even in a tuxedo he has that clean laundry smell. I pull my hand away, wondering ho
w this day could possibly get any weirder.

  Crystal bounces on her toes, clapping her hands. “Killer! Can I be the flower girl?”

  “No,” I tell her.

  “Why not?” she whines. “Who’s gonna be flower girl? Not Simone. Hey, can I be bridesmaid?”

  Ginger grabs her bag and clicks across the floor in her high-heeled sandals, her skinny organza ass swishing through the door.

  “There’s not going to be any wedding.” I turn from Crystal to Drew.

  Drew’s face sinks with disappointment, his dimples disappearing.

  “We’ll see,” I tell him.

  “You’re already married,” Marion sniffs.

  “I said, we’ll see,” I tell her.

  Crystal turns pleading eyes on me. “But—”

  “We’ll see!” I shout into the small crowd, clutching my throbbing head.

  Suddenly the piercing wail of the smoke alarm slices through the room. People grimace and cup their ears with their hands.

  “The soufflés!” Ruth gasps, running to the back of the bakery as smoke roils through the kitchen doors.

  “What happened to the timer?” Drew asks.

  I forgot to set it.

  The smoke smells sour and chemical, like burned lemons or something you’d use to clean the floor. Ruth manages to silence the alarm. Everyone sighs with relief. But then there’s a snapping noise overhead, followed by a low hiss. The sprinklers explode, a sharp spray shooting over the group.

  The safety pin actress tips her head back with her mouth wide open.

  “The floors!” I hear myself shout. The newly restored maple, which cost about $5,000 to have refinished, isn’t supposed to get wet. I grab napkins from the top of the bakery case and fall to my knees, trying frantically to wipe up the mess.

  The remaining guests swarm toward the door, everyone trying to squeeze through at the same time.

  “My silk!” someone yelps.

  In the distance a siren wails.

  “I called the fire department,” Crystal says proudly.

  Great. The Ashland Fire Department has already been to my house and now they’re coming to my business. What a way to establish yourself when you’re new in town.

  I feel water drench my back as I blot at the maple. In a matter of moments two firemen charge through the door, their yellow coats flapping around them.

  “No fire,” Drew says. “Just smoke. It’s under control.”

  The firemen hold their hose and ax poised, ready to spray and chop their way through my nest egg. Instead they head for the back of the building to turn off the sprinklers. Finally the water stops.

  “Oh my,” Ruth says, looking at the drenched floor. She quickly tries to adopt a positive spin. “Well, this is one way to wash up.”

  Everyone is gone now except for Drew, Marion, Ruth, Crystal, and me.

  “It was a lovely party,” Marion coos, hugging me.

  “Are you crazy?” I ask her.

  Yes, Crystal mouths.

  “Don’t worry,” Drew says, looking over the smashed cupcakes and cookies, cups and champagne glasses on the tables and floor, everything drenched in water. “I’ll help you clean this up.”

  Working in silence, the five of us mop the floor, using the big string mops and all the dish towels and paper towels we can find. When we’re finished I leave the mops and towels in the sink and the rest of the mess for the morning.

  “It wasn’t as bad as you think,” Ruth insists. “Everyone had a ball. Usually these things are boring.”

  “I could have used boring,” I tell her.

  I lock the front door and flip the sign over in the window: SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED. It makes me sad to think how many days the sign might have to hang there.

  Part Three

  ACCEPTANCE

  28

  I awaken from a starchy dreamless sleep, dim brown light seeping through the window shade and lace curtains. The numbers on the clock radio click forward to ten-thirty. The air in the room is thick and sour and presses down on me, making it impossible to lift my head. Another hot day.

  A year without Ethan.

  I am matter, and the pain of missing him is antimatter, and when you put the two together, kaboom, there’s nothing left of me to get out of bed and go clean up the bakery.

  I’ll never miss Ethan any less than I did on the day that he died. I know this, because I don’t miss my mother any less than the day she drove off the road twenty-three years ago. My grief is diminished, but it feels permanent, like a small scar. I have brown hair, brown eyes, wear size seven shoes. I miss my husband, miss my mother. Two chips out of my heart like birthmarks. Today I’m exhausted from carrying on as though this is all right. I’m starting over! I’m moving! I’m sleeping with someone else! I’m going back to school! I’m opening a business! Screw it. I’m lying down.

  I tug the hydrangea coverlet over my head.

  I’ll clean the bakery tomorrow. Stay in bed today. Create a sanctuary of sheets and pillows.

  But how pathetic to call in sick to your own business. No matter how ill Ethan felt, no matter how loosely his pants hung from his winnowing waist, he rarely missed a day of work, unless he was in the hospital. Every morning he waved and blew me a kiss from the driveway, then climbed into his car and drove off, fueled by optimism I envied. I waved back from the dining room window, drumming up the nerve to go to my own new job.

  I smell coffee and hear the tinkering of dishes in the kitchen, where Marion is probably reading over Miss Manners and eating her two slices of rye with marmalade. Peering over the side of the bed, I spot my waitress uniform balled in a clump on the floor. Nest egg overboard. My bladder feels on the verge of bursting, and my throat’s parched from the champagne. Colonel Cranson stares down at me angrily. Get up and check on Marion, he demands. Take a shower, get back to work! But a magnet pulls me into the center of the bed.

  Sandy’s right. It’s easy to believe for several months that someone who died is just out of town. But the one-year mark brings certainty.

  A year ago today I was at the hospital with Ethan. The last day was the worst, because he had such trouble breathing. His lungs sounded as though they were trying to percolate coffee. His chart said he didn’t want CPR or tube feeding, only a morphine drip. The oncologist said we would keep him comfortable. Everything had been as calmly and carefully planned as a trip out of town. Still, I felt hysteria boil under my skin. It made me fidget and itch and want to holler at the people coming off the elevators. Somebody do something!

  “This is called the agonal phase,” the doctor explained, touching my elbow. “Many family members prefer not to stay for this.” He assured me that while it sounded as though Ethan were in pain, he was not. I remember straining to concentrate on noises other than Ethan’s breathing: the tap-tap of Marion’s knitting needles and the squish-squish of sneakers and the click-click of high heels passing in the hall. The bing! of the elevator bell and the rush of TV sitcom laughter fading in and out like surf.

  I close my eyes now and try to think of something else. All I can see is the panicked look on Marjorie Bison’s face as she choked down a clump of raw cookie dough. My whole body shudders with remorse. Sometimes you want to turn back the clock so far that it seems you’d have to go all the way back to second grade to fix everything.

  The phone rings. I hear Marion tiptoe up the creaky stairs and hover outside my room. “She’s sleeping, Drew,” she whispers loudly. “I’ll tell her—”

  I hold my breath as she shuffles back down the stairs, wishing that it were my grief partner, Gloria, who had called.

  Gloria says that if you’re going to have a bad day, you should have a good bad day. Go all out on a pity party with whatever you want. Sandy looked a little uncomfortable as she recommended this, worried that we’d drink too much or overmedicate. Now I want to call Gloria and ask her how to have a good bad day instead of just a bad bad day.

  I pull my purse off the night table, dig her number
out of my wallet, and dial her house on the old black rotary phone by the bed.

  “Rachel?” a gruff voice answers. “Don’t hang up this time.” I figure it must be Teddy, Gloria’s teenage son.

  “Is Gloria there?”

  “She’s not home.” The boy sounds disappointed, irritated.

  “Teddy?” I remember how when Crystal blew up M-80s at school, Gloria said that was nothing compared to Teddy’s deeds: He was caught skinny-dipping at the town pool and even hot-wired and “borrowed” the neighbor’s car.

  “It’s Sophie Stanton. Your mom’s friend? Would you please tell her I called?”

  “Okay,” he mumbles. I can tell he’s not going to write down the message. He takes a deep breath.

  “You okay?” I ask him.

  “Yeah.” But he sounds despondent.

  “Rachel your girlfriend?”

  “She broke up with me.” His voice quavers. “Last night.”

  “That hurts. I know.”

  “It sucks,” he says accusingly.

  “My husband died,” I tell him. I have the urge to eat something hearty. A steak.

  “I’m sorry.” He blows his nose loudly.

  “It’s okay,” I say, a little embarrassed. “It was a year ago.” The wind picks up outside. “A year ago today.”

  “My sister died.”

  “I know.” I wonder what it’s like to be the child who lived. How much pressure that must be. “Do you miss her?”

  “Yeah,” he says tentatively. “Of course.” But why all the fuss? his tone seems to say. Why not just love the living now?

  “Dead people never do anything wrong,” I tell him.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What do you do that drives your mother crazy?”

  “Everything. Leave, like, one dirty dish in the living room. She’s so anal.”

  “Your sister never did stuff like that, right?”