Good Grief: A Novel Read online

  “Come in. Meaning sleep over,” I said, not as a question, but as a statement.

  He looked down, searching for the right words. As he opened his mouth to speak, I leaned across the seat and bit into the soft flesh of his lower lip and tried to tell myself not to worry so much.

  Now I anticipate drinking my first cup of coffee at the bakery kitchen table, eager to inhale the rich, roasted steam as the ovens preheat and the sweet-roll dough rises. I walk faster, working out the day in my head: bake sweet rolls, muffins, and scones; serve morning rush of coffee-and-muffin customers; unpack supplies. Fill birthday cake orders, bake cookies, prepare and chill pie dough, balance books, schedule employee interviews.

  As I reach the gallery beside my shop, I glance down to step over a puddle. When I look up, a car accident jolt of adrenaline shoots through my body because I think I see Ethan standing in front of the bakery. His back is toward me as he bends over the trash can on the corner. The three thick stripes of red, yellow, and navy on his ski sweater stand out like a flag.

  My bowels rumble and my legs wobble. I almost kneel on the sidewalk involuntarily.

  Ethan plucks a Coke can out of the trash and turns, looking at me. I realize it’s not Ethan, but an elderly gentleman I’ve often seen in town sitting on a bench in front of the post office, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. He’s short and stout, with a long Santa Claus beard that hangs in a V shape over his chest. His belly swells under the sweater, round and hard like a basketball.

  When I finally left the sweater at the Goodwill, handed it over to the woman behind the counter as though it were the Holy Grail, she pointed out that winter items aren’t big sellers in August. Yet this gentleman certainly snatched it up in a hurry.

  “Good morning,” I say, trying to smile. The man wears too-big khakis slung low around his hips, fastened with a woman’s shiny faux crocodile belt. He shuffles his feet a little on the sidewalk. His sneakers have one white and one yellow shoelace. Ethan’s ski sweater looks rumpled, slept in, one sleeve caked with something brown. The man looks like Colonel Sanders’s black sheep brother. Clearly not a skier. He smiles and cocks his head. I’m surprised at how straight and glossy his teeth are. Dentures, maybe.

  “Ma’am.” He brings his hand to his forehead, as though tipping a hat, then pops the soda can into a bulging garbage bag resting at his feet.

  I wonder what Ethan would have looked like as an old man. Even when he was sick he never developed wrinkles or a single gray hair. He just lost his vibrancy, as though cancer had rendered him in black and white while the rest of the world remained in color.

  “Would you like to come in for coffee?” I pull my keys out of my purse and nod toward the bakery door.

  The man cocks his head the other way.

  “I own the bakery,” I tell him. Once I get him inside, I’ll ask for the sweater. I’ll offer to pay three times what he paid for it at Goodwill or ask if I can buy him another. Maybe he’d like a coat. A tuxedo. Whatever. I’ll explain there’s been a mistake.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” The man claps his hands clean. As he shuffles in behind me, he sets his bag of cans in the doorway, looking back to make sure he can keep an eye on it. I seat him at one of the tables in the front window, start the coffee, and turn on the ovens. Then I slice open a blackberry muffin from yesterday, toast it in the oven, spread it with butter, and pour him a cup of coffee.

  While he eats, I pull on a chef’s jacket and apron. I slide the sweet-roll dough out of the refrigerator, throw a moist dish towel over the bowl, and leave it beside the ovens to rise. Sitting next to the man, I cradle a cup of coffee in my hands.

  He takes big bites of the muffin, looking up at me shyly. I notice he has the same sour fabric smell as the Goodwill. He’s not as old as I originally thought, maybe only in his early sixties. More weathered than elderly. Deep grooves line his forehead, and red leathery skin hangs from his chin.

  “Where do you live?” I ask, and immediately regret the question. Maybe he doesn’t have a home.

  “At a boardinghouse,” he says through a mouthful. His nose is purplish and vein riddled, like a plum. “They serve dinner, but not breakfast.” He holds up the muffin. “Delicious.”

  “Would you like another?”

  “No, thank you. I have to be going.” But he sits back in his chair, relaxing.

  I think that’s my sweater, I could explain. I donated it to the Goodwill, but it has great sentimental value and I’d like to have it back. May I buy it from you? Instead of saying anything, I drum my fingers on the table and gulp my coffee, skipping the slow, pleasure-filled sips.

  The man rests his bearded chin on his chest, peering down over his belly. He runs a thick finger along the line between the red and yellow stripes. My fingertips flutter as I imagine the sensation of the bristly wool. It always felt good to bunch the sweater in a ball against my stomach as I slept. For some reason, I like to have something against my belly when I sleep. It used to be the curve of Ethan’s spine, his lungs expanding and contracting. After he died, I tried several different pillows. Somehow the lumped-up sweater fit just right.

  “You won’t need that in an hour,” I tell the man, nodding at the sweater. “It’s going to be a scorcher.”

  The man thrusts back his shoulders and puffs up his chest, modeling. “I rather like the stripes, though, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” The red is as lustrous as a fire engine, the yellow as bright as lemons, the navy as rich as midnight. I know it’s a ten-year-old sweater with a tea stain, but I envisioned someone more . . . appealing inheriting it from Ethan. Maybe Brad Pitt or Mel Gibson. Why can’t they shop at the Goodwill in Ashland?

  The man squeezes his chin in one hand and looks up at the ceiling. Ethan always did this when he was thinking. As if there were answers on the ceiling. This is an Ethan gesture. I remember a TV news story about a heart transplant patient who insisted that her new heart made her more artistic. Suddenly she could paint watercolors and throw pots. Could Ethan’s sweater carry similar powers? Will the man start writing software code?

  Of course not. But if you can donate a heart or kidney, why not a ski sweater? How lame to renege on this small gift of charity. I tighten my grip around my coffee mug, even though it’s empty now.

  “My wife was a good baker.” The man picks crumbs from the muffin wrapper. “She made the best pie crust.” He pauses and gazes up at the ceiling again, thinking. “With lard.”

  “Did you lose your wife?” At least I’ll see the sweater on occasion, when I run into the man in town.

  “Divorced me.” He glances out across the street as the owner of the bookstore unlocks her shop.

  “I’m sorry.” The buzzer in the kitchen goes off. I get up to punch down the dough, then return to the table.

  “It was my fault.”

  I’m not sure what to say. “I’m sorry,” I repeat.

  We sit and listen to the ovens tick.

  “By the way, my name’s Sophie Stanton,” I finally tell him.

  He smiles, tips his head toward me. “Jasper Jenkins.”

  “Let me pack you something to go, Jasper.” I get up and fold one of the pink boxes into a square, then line it with waxed paper. I choose a miniature jalapeño cheesecake, ham-and-chive croissant, and two egg brioches. Savory items that seem filling and meal-like. I want to pack the box until it’s bursting, but I worry the food will go stale and that sometimes charity can be overbearing, even condescending.

  “You ski?” I ask Jasper, hovering near the sweater as I hand him the box of goodies.

  “Never learned how.” He uses his napkin to wipe the crumbs from the table into his cupped palm, then shakes them into his empty coffee cup. “My wife knew how to ski.” Jasper cradles the bakery box in his lap.

  “Maybe you could get back together,” I offer. “There’s always hope, as long as someone’s alive.”

  “It’s too late. She married someone else.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” I
feel as though I’ve ruined the guy’s day, interviewing him like a nosy talk show host. “You mustn’t worry too much about the past,” I tell him, knowing this is impossible.

  “You ski?,” Jasper asks.

  “Not anymore. Want to, though.” Maybe next winter Crystal and I will go skiing. Ruth and Simone could join us. But I’ll wear my own ski sweater.

  THANKSGIVING

  31

  Two days before Thanksgiving, Crystal, Marion, and I sit in the living room at Colonel Cranson’s. Crystal paints Marion’s fingernails while I snap green beans.

  “Hold still, please,” Crystal commands as she anchors Marion’s fidgety hand and dabs her nails with Misty Mauve polish. Crystal’s adopted a chiding but protective attitude toward Marion, as an older sibling might. Marion fidgets, her foot tapping the TV tray. Her fingernails are yellow, hard, and ridged—sort of the way she is. “This color matches your Thanksgiving outfit perfectly,” Crystal tells her. Although she usually favors black nail polish, she spent a long time choosing this pinkish shade for Marion.

  “That’s going to look pretty,” I agree, trying to encourage Marion to relax and focus on her hands.

  Both Marion and Crystal have moved in with me. They’re sort of like my two kids now. I knew Ethan would be sad to see his mother spend her final years alone in a facility in San Jose, and at the end of her three-week summer visit I invited Marion to live with me. We rented her house back home. I flew down with her and helped her pack. She wanted to bring everything to Ashland, even the food in her refrigerator. This time I was the bossy packing coordinator putting my foot down.

  “We have melon in Oregon,” I told her, wrestling a five-pound bag of frozen cantaloupe balls from the Price Club out of her gnarled hands, the icy wrapper nipping at my fingers.

  After Labor Day, Crystal’s mother announced she was moving to Texas with her new boyfriend, an electrician with broad shoulders and blond hair pulled into a rock star ponytail who bought Roxanne a ring with an almond-size ruby. Crystal lobbied to move in with me so she wouldn’t have to switch schools. I reminded her that she tried to blow up her school. Still, she insisted she didn’t want to leave Ashland and talked her mother into letting her stay. Apparently Roxanne likes her new boyfriend more than she loathes me.

  Some nights, I lie awake worrying about Marion. Will she wander through the car wash or tumble down the stairs? Other nights, I toss and turn fretting about Crystal. Will she revert to cutting herself or get kicked out of school again? Then there’s the bakery to lose sleep over. How far will my sales dip in the slow months of January and February? At least I’m not plagued by the fears I had back in San Jose, where I couldn’t even muster enough courage for the produce section.

  Now, Marion gazes up at her burgundy dress, which hangs from the back of the living room door. “I went dancing one time with Anthony in an outfit like that,” she says.

  “Who’s Anthony?” Crystal asks.

  “Old boyfriend.” A web of thin blue veins pulses along Marion’s temple as she struggles to remember. “In junior high. We won a dance contest.” Her left hand is finished. She blows on her nails, reflecting.

  “We’re going to have a great Thanksgiving,” I tell Marion, trying to bring her back to the present. This seems remarkable, given that I’ve always hated Thanksgiving. When I was a kid, no relatives lived close enough to come to our house. I longed for bustling gatherings with brothers, sisters, and cousins overflowing onto card tables. Grandparents belting out Broadway tunes around a grand piano. Glamorous aunts whipping cream in the kitchen. After Mother died, it was always just Dad and me, moping over Stove Top stuffing. Ethan never really appreciated the holiday; he always insisted on working.

  I still won’t have to put leaves in the dining room table this year, but at least we’ll have a group of nine, including Crystal, Marion, Dad, Jill, Ruth, Simone, me, and Drew. Even without Ethan, this finally seems like the Thanksgiving I’ve always longed for.

  The pies are finished, the turkey is soaking in brine, the silver is polished, the tablecloths are pressed, and the house is filled with red roses from Drew. Dad and Jill are flying into Medford tonight. Our ninth guest will be Jasper Jenkins, the inheritor of Ethan’s ski sweater. I’ve treated Jasper to a cup of coffee and blackberry muffin once a week or so since the first morning he and I met. While I work, he sits at the table in the window at the bakery, looking out at the street and harboring conspiracy theories: The moon landing was all plaster of Paris and string; the CIA offed Jim Morrison; drug companies want to clone Elvis with nail clippings. These ideas seem to help Jasper stop thinking about his wife.

  Last week I stopped by the post office, where Jasper smokes on the front steps, and asked if he had Thanksgiving plans. He said the boardinghouse was serving dinner, but it was “usually crap.” He picked bits of tobacco from his lips, considering my invitation.

  “What are you having?” he finally asked.

  When I told him turkey, the usual, he decided that would be acceptable.

  Now, Crystal finishes Marion’s last nail, using a wisp of cotton to dab at the polish pooling around her cuticles.

  “Just sit for a few minutes,” Crystal tells her.

  “But we need to make the yam puff before everyone gets here.” Panic creases Marion’s brow. “Where’s Ethan?” she adds. Marion is convinced Ethan’s coming for Thanksgiving dinner, that he’s somewhere in the house and she just hasn’t run into him yet. She looks wistfully through the living room door toward the stairs. “Is he sleeping in?”

  32

  “Sophie!” a man’s voice booms, full of fear.

  What? Oh! Fire, earthquake, Crystal, emergency room. I fly out of bed, only to discover that I’m still in bed, sitting up, a corner of the sheet clenched between my teeth. A tangle of arms, Drew’s arms, circles my waist. We’re in bed. Together. It’s Thanksgiving morning.

  “You’re still here,” Drew says. He pulls me down, burrows his head into my chest.

  “Yes,” I tell him, heaving a sigh of relief. “I don’t leave the house in my pajamas anymore.” The warm sheets feel almost damp against my bare skin. “Or naked.”

  There’s a faint knock on the door. “Everything all right?” Jill whispers.

  “Fine,” I assure her, embarrassed that Drew’s in my room. I didn’t want him sleeping over during Dad and Jill’s visit. But last night he joined us for pizza, and after dinner, as he played the piano and sang Jill’s favorite Broadway song with her—“If I Were a Rich Man”—his voice grew croaky. He was obviously coming down with a cold.

  “You mustn’t go out in this weather,” Jill insisted, heading to the kitchen to fix him a cup of Sleepytime tea. She’s as smitten with Drew as Marion is. “You better stay here and let us take care of you.”

  Dad nodded, but I was self-conscious, wondering if everyone knew that this meant Drew would stay in my room. I felt as if I were in an ad for the Charming New Boyfriend(TM). The Charming New Boyfriend(TM) loves your parents! He plays the piano and sings!

  Now, I hear Jill continue down the hall.

  “Just a bad dream,” Drew whispers. He tightens his arms around my waist. His breath is hot against my cheek. “I dreamed that you were gone. That I lost you.”

  “How? That’s silly.” But I know this anxiety dream by heart. In it the person sleeping beside you suddenly vanishes. I had this nightmare for months. Only when I woke up, it wasn’t just a dream—Ethan was really gone.

  “You left,” Drew says.

  “I’m not going anywhere.” I hold his face in my hands. His whiskers are rough against my palms. “For starters, I’ve got a year’s supply of cake flour.” The upper hand with my boyfriend. Is it all right to be grateful for this on Thanksgiving?

  Drew drifts back to sleep, his cold making him snore slightly. His pink lips are parted and squashed against the pillow, his unshaven cheeks bluish with beard. My good-riddance list for him has dwindled to nil. He’s great at keeping Marion company. The
two of them sit for hours on the porch, Drew practicing his monologues, while Marion comments on the car wash as though it’s a sporting event. (“A coat hanger! Why can’t they get a real antenna?”) For my birthday, in August, he gave me a pair of antique teardrop diamond earrings. Last week, he bought Crystal the potbellied pig she’s been pining after. “Great! Where is he going to live?” I asked. Drew hadn’t thought through the details. But he quickly offered to keep the pig in his yard, which is twice as big as mine, and he even rushed the thing to the vet when it choked on a crab apple.

  While Drew had originally planned on going out to New York for the six weeks the festival is closed, he’s decided to stay in Ashland to be with me. According to Ruth, who heard it from a friend who works at the festival, Ginger’s left town for the winter break on a Caribbean cruise with the phantom fiancé. When I heard this news I had a vivid fantasy in which Ginger contracted food poisoning from a sketchy shrimp curry at the cruise buffet, leaned over the edge of the boat to retch, her skinny ass perched in the air, and fell overboard, strands of long red hair floating in the sea like kelp, the body never to be found.

  I watch Drew sleep. While today I have the upper hand, it seems it would be easy for him to derail my recently acquired happily-ever-after status. All he would have to do is downgrade me to coffee again or announce that he’s gay or moving to Seattle. He could get hit by a bus or diagnosed with cancer. A pea-size tumor somewhere in his body would be the size of a walnut by the time I let myself fall completely in love with him. It would be the size of a baseball by the time we got married. He’d be a walking tumor by the time we had kids.

  I smell toast burning downstairs. At least I hope it’s toast. Last week Marion stuffed a glove in the toaster. I gently lift Drew’s arm from around my waist, slide out from under the covers and into my robe, and head for the kitchen.