Paper, Scissors, Death

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  So that was what all this caterwauling was about. Money, not friendship. I could barely contain myself. What was wrong with these people?

  Merrilee was too self-involved to notice any change of expression on my face. After all, I wasn’t even human. I was a servant, and therefore, part of the décor. How could I possibly have feelings? And if I did, who cared?

  “Roxanne was always larger than life, you know?” Merrilee blew her nose. A big booger stuck to the tip of it, but I didn’t tell her. Nana used to say, “Pretty is as pretty does,” and this new accessory seemed just right.

  “Roxie was perfect. Really, really perfect. You saw how she dressed and how beautiful she was. What a figure. And that hair. Gorgeous. Only thing was, she couldn’t have kids.”

  Roxanne couldn’t have kids?

  With one turn of the phrase, all the colored glass settled in the kaleidoscope, and the pattern revealed itself. While Merrilee yammered on, I picked up the layout featuring Harry Lowenstein. I studied George’s father’s face with fresh insight.

  From the farthest recess of my mind, I recalled the rabbi at our wedding saying that in the Jewish culture, a man isn’t a man until he marries and fathers a child. I remembered Harry davening, mumbling his Hebrew morning prayers. I thought back to the joy in the old man’s eyes as he talked about the granddaughter he wouldn’t live to see because cancer would claim him first.

  A door opened, revealing a pathway lit with understanding. On one side I saw George and a barren Roxanne and on the other Harry and a frustrated Sheila. I walked a narrow road between those couples and carried Anya in my arms. I saw the forces that shaped my married life. Forces I couldn’t reckon with because I hadn’t known they existed. As I made my journey, the solemn voice of my daughter reminded me, “Daddy said we were a family, and he’d never, ever leave us.”

  My unplanned pregnancy had intersected with George’s father’s need to leave a legacy. What conflict my husband must have felt! On one hand was a woman he loved (or at least lusted after) who could never have children. On the other was a woman he barely knew but had gotten pregnant. In the end, he chose easing his dying father’s mind over making himself happy. The joy George felt when he held our baby in his arms had been real. It was the joy of continuation, of preserving his father’s memory, and of being a father himself.

  George meant what he said to Anya. He never planned to leave us. He had managed to compartmentalize his relationship with Roxanne, dividing his thoughts as though his mind was a duplex. We lived in one half; she lived in the other.

  And what must it have been like for Roxanne? To have that “perfect” body betray her? To watch my daughter and her father and to know a portion of George would always be off limits to her?

  It must have made Roxanne mad enough to kill. But if that was the case, then who killed her? And why? And what did the photos we’d downloaded from the shower have to do with any of this?

  Suddenly, I thought about Sheila bribing the housekeeper at the Ritz-Carlton and the waiter at Antonio’s. Maybe she had more moxie than I credited her for. Could she have killed Roxanne? Had Roxanne gone from favored candidate for daughter-in-law to dead woman walking when Sheila discovered the debutante had murdered her son?

  “Hey? Kiki? Hello?” Merrilee waved a soiled Kleenex in front of my face.

  “Sorry. My mind wandered.”

  “I want an album for Roxanne.” Merrilee snuffled loudly. “I want you to do all that scrapbook stuff for me. There will be a celebration of her life at Antonio’s on The Hill. I want to show off the album at the gathering.”

  Antonio’s! Now that Roxanne was gone, maybe one of the wait staff would be willing to talk.

  “Of course.” I made the bride-to-be a copy of my special handout, and we moved to the album display.

  I had one more question for Merrilee. “Did Roxanne have a favorite waiter at Antonio’s?”

  Kiki’s memorial album ideas

  1. Begin with a title page. Showcase a favorite portrait of the loved one and the subject’s full name, date of birth, and date of death.

  2. Collect as many photos as you can. Ask other mourners to contribute. Once you have those pictures, edit them judiciously. You’ll want to leave plenty of space for written remembrances.

  3. Remember: Your job is to fill in the spaces between the dash, the symbol that separates our birth date from our date of death. If your subject lived from 1934 to 2006, think about his or her lifetime in the context of the times, those seventy-two years of history. Our lives are shaped by the world around us and events we live through.

  4. Prepare a list of significant events during your subject’s lifetime and add them to the album.

  5. Compile a list of people who knew the deceased. Send them the following letter:

  Dear Friend,

  I am creating a memorial album for ___________, and I’d appreciate your help. Please share any special memories you have. When and how did you meet? What did you have in common? What did you like or admire about him/her? What did you like to do together? Where did you enjoy going? How would you describe this person? What will you always remember about him/her? What message would you like future generations to read regarding this person?

  My goal for completion of this album is (date). Of course, I’d also appreciate any photos you can share.

  Sincerely,

  (Your Name)

  6. Add pressed flowers from floral offerings, memorial programs, obituaries, and pressed flowers from floral offerings to your pages. Slip them inside a protective pocket.

  7. Consider how complex you want your album to be. The simpler the album, the easier it will be to make multiple copies for friends and family.

  Merrilee had no more than walked out the door when Detweiler returned my call. “We’re still looking for Roxanne Baker’s camera.”

  “That’s a good idea,” I said. “Who knows what’s on it? Do you think her murder is connected to George’s? Or my break-in?” I tried to sound calm, but my heart was racing. I didn’t tell him I planned to visit a certain waitress at Antonio’s. It was none of his business. Detweiler had given up on finding my husband’s killer and was now totally focused on tracking down the person who killed Roxanne.

  “Unfortunately, I can’t get any more done today because I’m leaving town this afternoon. I have to testify up in Springfield, Illinois, on Monday. Real pain in the butt. I’ll be staying at my parents’ house, but you probably can’t get me by cell phone. The towers are pretty spotty on the other side of the river.”

  I assured him I didn’t anticipate any need to call. “The security lights are up.”

  “Good. Be careful. Keep your doors locked. Patrols are still scheduled to watch your house, but don’t let your guard down. Those lights are a good first step.”

  Typical man-talk. Detweiler was now comfortable enough with me to be a real Mr. Bossy Boots. I didn’t tell him the security lights were due to come down, and I was going to have to find a new home. I could only handle one complication at a time. And it was his fault I was being evicted. Wasn’t he the hotshot who demanded I put the lights up before I got permission?

  He told me to give Gracie a pat, tell Anya hello, and then he hung up. The warmth of his voice flooded me with complex sensations. I was trying not to like him. I was working at it really hard. But I was falling fast and I knew it. My phone rang again.

  “Mrs. Lowenstein? Bridget Kammer here. I’m the school nurse at CALA. I don’t want to alarm you, and your daughter is fine. Do you have a moment?”

  “Is something wrong?” I worried when anyone from Anya’s school called. I bet every mother did. A phone call from the school nurse was especially unsettling.

  “Not exactly. I’m calling because Anya looks a little thin to me. She seems to be losing weight. Does it look that way to you?”

  “Yes. In fact, I told her a few days ago I was concerned.”

  “How did she respond?”

  I thought back. “She s
aid she wasn’t hungry. I’ve encouraged her to listen to her body. I don’t want to push food on her like my mother did on me.”

  “That’s to be commended. You are absolutely right. Our bodies will tell us what we need and how much, if we will only listen. Can you remember when she last had a full meal?”

  “Actually, now that you mention it … no. But she’s at school and her grandmother’s as well as home, so I guess I assumed …” My voice faded. A tidal wave of guilt swept over me.

  “Hmmm. I made a special point of watching her at lunch. She took a salad and an apple from the cafeteria. As far as I could see, she only ate two bites of each. Did she eat any breakfast?”

  “No, I poured a bowl of cereal. I offered her a granola bar.” I was becoming increasingly frantic. How had I let this slip past me?

  “Hmm. Is she in the habit of eating breakfast?”

  “No. I’ve never been able to get her to eat much in the morning.”

  “And I assume she doesn’t eat a big dinner.”

  “No. Especially lately. Of course, the nights when she’s at her grandmother’s, I don’t know what she eats.”

  “I see.”

  Was she thinking or judging or both? I felt like my world was caving in. I said, “Mrs. Kammer, what are you telling me? What do you think is going on?”

  The other woman sighed. “I wish I knew. I don’t want to alarm you. We have to watch these young girls so carefully. Eating disorders can sneak up on us. We’ve had other girls in Anya’s class diagnosed with both anorexia and bulimia. Unfortunately, girls are very impressionable at this age. As a culture, we send mixed messages. Movie stars are severely underweight, but we put them on a pedestal. All the magazines talk about six-packs but don’t explain you have to get down below your suggested body weight for them to show. Conversely, on television we see one image after another of food. In restaurants our portions are enormous. It’s terribly confusing.”

  “It’s even hard to sort out as an adult,” I added. I thought about all those years when I found myself staring mindlessly at the boob tube and snarfing potato chips or candy. I would be surprised each time I reached the bottom of the bag. Where did the food go? I’d been “unconscious” as I ate it!

  “When one student stops eating, another child who’s at risk may join in. They get notions, ideas about thinness. Often it’s a passing lark, but I really do try to keep on top of any changes I see. I know Anya’s father died right before Thanksgiving. How is she adjusting?”

  My breath caught in my throat. “We have good days and bad.”

  Mrs. Kammer sounded kind. “Stress can cause all sorts of … well, coping mechanisms. Adjusting to the loss of a parent takes time. Any disruption to a family routine can be unsettling, even in the best of circumstances. Have you had any other lifestyle changes?”

  “We moved, and I started a new job.”

  “Goodness. You certainly have had your hands full. Why don’t I try to talk with Anya? Let’s see if she’ll open up to me. Afterward, I’ll call you, and we’ll discuss how to tackle this if there seems to be a problem.”

  I was speechless. My heart was competing with my Adam’s apple for limited space.

  “Meanwhile, I suggest you hold off on any more changes if you can. Give Anya the chance to catch her balance emotionally. It’s important she feel a sense of security and stability.”

  No way was I going to tell this woman we’d just been evicted. That’d cinch my chances of being Rotten Mother of the Year for sure.

  Drat. I thought to myself, this really stinks. Anya needs stability and I can’t provide it.

  Things couldn’t get much worse.

  Or could they?

  On one hand, I felt all yippee-skippee about the buy-sell agreement. On the other, I knew better than to count on the money. After all, look what happened when I was so confident I was the beneficiary of George’s life insurance. Since his death, my life was just so uncertain. Hadn’t I learned the hard way not to let my guard down?

  If the buy-sell gave me enough money to find somewhere else to live, I’d be set.

  I closed my phone and stood rooted to the spot. During Friday crop nights, Anya goes home with Sheila and spends the night. The two of them enjoy their special evenings together, by lighting Shabbat candles, snuggling, and eating the roasted chicken and kugel Linnea is famous for.

  After that disturbing conversation with the school nurse, I needed assurance Anya was all right. CALA wouldn’t let out for another fifteen minutes. I decided to turn to the one other person who shared my concern for Anya’s welfare. I dialed Sheila. I tried to sound bright and cheery. “Hello, Sheila, are you on the way to pick up Anya?”

  “Of course I am. Don’t be silly. Where else would I be? Have I ever let her down? Or shown up late?”

  “No. No you haven’t. And I appreciate it,” I trailed off. I wasn’t sure how best to approach this. Sheila could be prickly. “Sheila, Anya seems rather thin to me lately. I’m concerned she’s losing weight. Would you please encourage her to eat a good meal? And a big breakfast? I know she loves Linnea’s cooking—”

  “Of course she loves Linnea’s cooking. That’s why she was getting pudgy.”

  “Pudgy?” I couldn’t believe my ears.

  “Darn right. I put a stop to it. I told her that with her mother’s weight problems, she needed to cut back now or no one would ever love her.”

  I saw red. Steam came out of my ears.

  Dodie walked by carrying a clipboard. She took one look at my face and mouthed, “Something wrong?”

  I could only blink twice in reply. I needed to choose my words carefully. Getting upset with Sheila wouldn’t help the situation. I needed her cooperation, and Anya needed her love. I willed myself to calm down. I stammered, “Sheila, I know you care about Anya’s well-being. I know you want what’s best for her, but she’s only eleven. She’s never been overweight. She is underweight. The pediatrician said so at her last visit. We need to encourage her to eat, not scare her away from food.”

  Dodie’s jaw dropped. A head shake of incredulity told me that even as a casual listener she, too, was horrified. If her stunned look was a reflection of mine, I must have been wearing a fright mask.

  “Confused? I’m not confused. Childhood obesity is a national epidemic. I simply won’t allow my granddaughter, my flesh and blood, to pack on the pounds.”

  “But she hasn’t packed on the pounds. She’s underweight! Didn’t you hear me? For her age and size, Anya is underweight. I repeat: at her last check up the pediatrician said she was slightly below average weight. Since then, she’s lost a few pounds and gotten taller. Encouraging her to eat less is not healthy. Please tell me you’ll have Linnea fix her a sensible meal. Please, Sheila.”

  “We’re having salad for dinner.”

  “Just a salad? But she hasn’t had anything today but a couple bites of apple and some lettuce!”

  “And she’s not going to. You can never be too rich or too thin. She needs to start thinking that way now.”

  Something broke loose inside. I think it was the last remnant of my self-control. I’d had it with this woman. “Too rich or too thin? Are you nuts? She’s eleven years old. Now either you see to it she gets a good meal and quit this nonsense or—”

  She hung up on me.

  I stood staring in horror at the phone, my mouth flapping like a flag on a windy day. She’d gone too far. She’d imposed her out-of-whack, bizarre, elitist thinking on my child.

  “I’ve got to go. I’ve got to stop her. I’ve got—”

  “You’ve got to settle down.” Dodie put a meaty hand on my shoulder. “She won’t listen to you now. You are both irrational. Calm down.” Dodie turned me to face her. “Think this through. Give it a rest for now. That lightweight birdbrain isn’t capable of hearing logic when her feathers are ruffled. Leave it to good old Dodie. I’ll take care of this. Listen and learn.”

  She pulled her cell phone from her back pocket and hit the
speed dial. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other while wringing my hands. I heard the ringing stop and a voice say, “Domino’s Pizza. Pickup or delivery?”

  Dodie said, “Delivery. I’m going to give you my credit card number. I want you to take this to a friend’s house in about forty-five minutes, got it? A big hand-tossed cheese pizza. An order of chicken fingers. A liter of lemon-lime soda. Some of those garlic sticks and dipping sauce, okay? Throw in those cinnamon thingies for dessert. Now here’s the address.” She handed the phone to me. “Tell him where Sheila lives.”

  I did. She took the phone back, gave the man her credit card number, and ordered three more pizzas for the store. With a look of triumph, Dodie snapped her phone closed.

  “Get the door, Sheila, it’s Domino’s!”

  The Father’s Day page was a big hit. We had a full house with newcomers. Since newbies need a lot of time and attention, I try to keep our class number under a dozen. In any group, you get visual learners who catch on quickly, and folks who need their hands held, literally speaking. Occasionally, I’ll get a person who really, truly can’t manipulate the paper or the tools. It’s a struggle not to yank the stuff right out of her mitts and do it myself. But I’m learning. See, it’s not about how good the teacher is. It’s about how good the student feels. And nobody feels good when you do things for them. Besides, the best way to learn is by making mistakes. I know because I’ve made plenty of them. I’ve inadvertently cut photos in the wrong place. I’ve dropped pieces of paper and had them stick to the sole of my shoe, which left me to re-cut them. I’ve spilled glue on my layouts. I’ve gotten water on photos. And those are just the highlights. Whoo-wee, do I know how to make a mess of a page.