The Story of Arthur Truluv

by Elizabeth Berg

  Lucille closes her eyes. Let’s see, what else did they say about the cake? Oh, how light it was; of course, they commented on the lightness, anyone who has ever had that cake has commented on the lightness. All those egg whites, whipped with a whisk by hand before adding to the batter, because then you can be absolutely precise about the texture and the amount. The recipe may say add six egg whites, but what Lucille always thinks about any instruction in any recipe is: We’ll see about that. She also hand-whipped the cloudlike whipped cream she served with the cake. Marigold cake doesn’t want ice cream, it’s too delicate. It wants a nice-size plop of whipped cream, just off to the side. Most people put too much vanilla in whipped cream. Other people don’t use it at all. They’re both wrong. Use just a kiss. Lucille makes small cuts on a vanilla bean and uses it to stir the cream. If that’s not quite enough, she dips a toothpick into double-strength vanilla and stirs that in. Voilà.

  Only once did Lucille think of Frank and all he was missing during this lunch. Only once did she think exactly that: Oh, Frank, look what you’re missing. Although if Frank were still alive, it’s entirely possible she wouldn’t have been at this lunch. It’s probable she wouldn’t have been.

  Isn’t life funny. It could drive you crazy if you thought about it too much. Turn this way and that happens. Turn that way and this happens.

  A baby on the way! She’ll have to keep a sharp eye out. She’ll have to be over there all the time to make sure things are being done right for that little one, whom she thinks she will secretly call Emma Jean. That’s what she named her favorite doll when she was a child, after her best friend, Emma Jean Beanblossom, and that’s what she had wanted to name a daughter. Yes, she’ll call the baby Emma Jean in her mind, no one needs to know. It is a girl. Lucille is certain of this. She has predicted the sex of at least ten babies and not once has she been wrong.

  She’ll offer to cook for them. No more lonely meals for her and Arthur, and she can make sure Emma Jean is properly nourished. There must be cookbooks for babies. If not, she’ll write one. Now that she’s back in teacher mode.

  Her first class is in three days. She put an ad up in the grocery store, in the library, and at the Walmart on the outskirts of town:

  BACK TO BAKING WITH LUCILLE

  Why buy store bought when you can make your own? Baking from scratch costs less, means more to people, tastes better, and it’s not as hard as you think. Participants will start with the basics and progress to fancy desserts that will impress all. Learn with a pro. You won’t be sorry.

  So far she has two fish on the line. Certainly not as many as she was hoping for, but she will be gracious to those who did sign up. It’s not their fault more people don’t have the good sense to take advantage of an offer like this. Word will spread. She might even get interviewed for the local paper. In fact, she might as well buy the outfit she’ll wear for that now, before it gets too busy. They should photograph her at the kitchen table, with a nest of mixing bowls nearby. A block of butter, a pile of chocolate squares, unwrapped, but with the paper still on them for an artistic touch. And a finished chocolate cake on her beautiful floral cake platter. They should take a few different angles, and refrain from any close-ups of Lucille. They should put the picture on the front page, because it would help sell copies. People love to look at food, especially chocolate cake.

  —

  At seven o’clock in the evening on the day of her first class, Lucille is lying in bed, exhausted. One thing she now knows for sure is that you can’t tell people anything. No. People have lost their ability to concentrate, to pay attention. They also have lost their manners. Hello? Have you ever heard of please and thank you? Although on the way out, holding a boxed-up, very generous slice of the delicious pistachio party cake Lucille had helped her make, her student (only one of the two signed up had come) had said, “Okay, well, thanks.”

  She was a fortyish woman, a kind of blowsy-looking blonde named Trudy. She kept eyeballing her phone on the table beside her, even though Lucille asked her very nicely to turn it off. She said she couldn’t turn it off but she wouldn’t answer it. And then didn’t it just whistle or buzz or play some stupid tinny song every five minutes. Who did people think they were, anymore, that they could never turn off their phones?

  Lucille had to repeat instructions over and over, the woman could hardly crack an egg. She didn’t want to whip anything by hand; she had the gall to say, “There’s a new thing called a mixer.” And then Lucille had to keep calm and carry on and say, “Ha, that’s funny, but you know what? You have so much more control with a whisk.” Then, attempting a little humor, she said, “And it’s good exercise!” And Trudy said, all smug-faced, “Well, I go to a private Pilates class, so…”

  “Isn’t that great?” Lucille said, seething. And then she made Trudy use the whisk; she shoved it in her hand and put her own hand over it and said grimly, “Okay, here we go.” And Lucille had the kindness not to gloat when Trudy saw how well it worked. “Wow,” she said, and Lucille said, “See what you did?” just like she used to with her kids in school.

  There were some nice moments. While the cake baked, Lucille taught Trudy certain substitutions that always worked, what to do when adding spices so you didn’t forget if you’d added this or that, why you should freeze butter wrappers to grease pans. She was glad to see that Trudy took notes in the little pad Lucille had given her. Best of all, Lucille supposes, she is coming back next week and she is bringing along two friends for the chocolate soufflé class. If they have time, Trudy cautioned; they’re very busy.

  Lord. This is going to be harder than she thought.

  She looks over at Arthur’s house and sees so many lights on. It makes her a little jealous. She wonders if there will be a bedroom set aside for the baby, even though she won’t be there long. Arthur has all that room, four bedrooms, just like she does. After Nola died, Lucille wondered why he didn’t sell that house. Well, what about her? Why didn’t she sell her house? Her parents left her a nice inheritance, and she bought her house because she thought it was charming and that eventually she’d need all that space, but she never did. Lots of closed doors. And if there’s anything that makes you feel lonely, it’s a lot of closed doors in your own house.

  She should sell her house. She should sell it and move in with Arthur and teach her classes over there. They could have a kind of commune. She could cook, Maddy could clean, and Arthur could tend to the garden and take out the garbage. And squash any spiders that came in, although knowing Arthur, he wouldn’t squash them, he’d put them back outside. Well, fine. Arthur can be in charge of insect removal, method totally up to him. And mice. Though he has a cat, so that probably isn’t much of a problem. A mouse ran across Lucille’s kitchen floor last winter, and she climbed right up on a chair, just like a cartoon person, she climbed up there and screamed, “Get out! Get out! Get out!” and then cried and then smacked the thing with her broom until she killed it. Which she still feels bad about.

  But really, they might as well live together. It’s been done before, those hippies and their communes. And it was done before that, too, families used to always live together, babies and parents and grandparents all under one roof. Unmarried aunts and uncles. There weren’t so many sad old people like…Well, like her and Arthur, standing at their windows and looking out. Making coffee for one every morning. There were none of those god-awful holding pens that they try to pass off as some sort of social club (not to say sex club, don’t think Lucille hasn’t heard stories) for the elderly that charged an exorbitant amount of money and then raised the rent every ten minutes. They’re everywhere now!

  Her friend Charlotte moved into one of those places when she turned eighty-two, and she told Lucille it was the biggest mistake she ever made. “Do you know what happened the first day I moved in?” she asked Lucille. “My next-door neighbor presented me with a housewarming gift of an undone wire hanger because the toilet always gets blocked up. She said I might as well have
it right away, they all used them, and they were the only things that worked.” And then Charlotte died within a year. She wasn’t sick when she went in there, either.

  Lucille will never live in one of those stupidly named places, their names were all stupid. Brookdale when there wasn’t a brook for miles. Crestwood. Crestwood! What did that mean? And inside, all the same kind of person, everywhere you looked. No. She’d rather rot in her house. Or in Arthur’s house. They can rot together, there’s something nice about rotting together. Though of course you wouldn’t say it that way. You’d say there’s something nice about heading into what are inarguably the final few years of your life in the company of one kind person, who can relate to all that you’re going through, and vice versa.

  She’ll suggest it. She’ll go slowly, make a little, subtle suggestion, and let him think he thought of it. That was men. You had to make them think they thought of things and then they were more likely to do them.

  She closes her eyes, and thinks of Frank. Here and gone, just like that. Oh, you couldn’t count on anything, really. You had to seize the moment, act on a good impulse before everything just disappeared. Before you yourself disappeared. She picks up the phone and calls Arthur.

  When he answers groggily, she says, “Can I move in with you? With you two? I’ll be the cook and I’ll pick up all the groceries and pay for them, too. And I’ll pay rent.”

  “You…? Well, I don’t know. But you wouldn’t have to pay rent, don’t be silly.”

  “I’d help with everything. Listen, Arthur, a girl needs another woman around when she’s pregnant, believe me. So, what do you say?”

  “Well…I guess so.”

  “Oh, thank you, Arthur! What a good idea. Won’t we have fun?”

  She hears him yawn.

  “I could move in tomorrow! I’ll bring a few small things and then I’ll call EZ Move, I’ve seen those young men around the neighborhood, they have the nicest uniforms. I don’t think they speak English, but they certainly will understand that I want to move, or I can pantomime.”

  Silence, and the sound of deep breathing.

  “Arthur?”

  “Hello?”

  “Are you sleeping?”

  “No!”

  “So, I’ll move in tomorrow.”

  “All right, Lucille.”

  “Until then!”

  She hangs up the phone and sits still, her eyes wide. Until then! As though she’s Myrna Loy, tossing a mink stole seductively over her shoulder on the way out the door. So foolish! But Arthur didn’t seem to think so. He’s calm water, that one.

  She won’t sell her house right away, of course. She’ll just have those men move over her baking supplies and her clothes and her bed. Some pictures for the walls. A few other things. Not much. Maybe her piano and her grandfather clock.

  She lies back down and closes her eyes. She will teach her classes and shop for groceries and cook. Maddy will clean and do the laundry. And Arthur will tend the roses and prevent animal abuse.

  Early the next morning, Lucille calls a realtor. Just for an appraisal, she tells the agent, Rhonda House, and isn’t that funny, but it’s true, her last name is House! But Rhonda House knows a few things about people who call for just an appraisal and she’s practically licking her chops. She knows Lucille’s house very well. That’s a nice place! Assuming the inside isn’t a wreck, Rhonda can sell it in five minutes.

  —

  At nine o’clock, when Arthur comes downstairs for breakfast, Maddy is cleaning the kitchen. She has on jeans and a T-shirt and a bandanna wrapped around her head, and Arthur thinks she looks beautiful. “Morning!” she says, and Arthur smiles and nods. He’s not much of a talker in the morning until he’s had his coffee. Actually, he’s not that great a talker, period. He’s a quiet man. He was a quiet boy and he’s a quiet man.

  He goes over to pour himself coffee from the pot Maddy has made—how nice not to have to make your own coffee!—and sits down at the table. “This is good,” he says.

  “Thanks,” Maddy says, and then she keeps quiet, just continues scrubbing the stove as though he isn’t there. Well, isn’t that nice! Rare thing for a woman, Arthur thinks.

  Nola used to get perturbed with his quiet. “Oh!” she’d say, sometimes. “I just wish you’d make yourself a little livelier!” Once when she said that, it was at dinner and he rose up from the table, took in a deep breath, and yodeled good and loud for a full half minute. And Nola stared at him in amazement. “I didn’t know you knew how to yodel!” she said. And he said, “Now you do.” “Why didn’t I know you could yodel?” she asked, and he said it didn’t really come up that much, the need to yodel.

  Arthur watches Maddy work, and he realizes that an essential loneliness he had is abating. He didn’t notice it as much when it was there as he does now, when it is lessening. Isn’t that funny. He doesn’t want to get too attached to her; she’ll be leaving, and then he’ll be alone again. It makes for a sinking feeling, until he remembers that Lucille is moving in. And that makes for another kind of feeling. Panic.

  “Maddy?”

  She turns around.

  “I have to tell you something.”

  She comes to the table, sits across from him. He sees that she is worried, like she’s done something wrong, and it breaks his heart.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” he says.

  Now she brightens.

  “But I want to tell you that Lucille called last night, and she…Well, she would like to move in with us. I told her she could. I hope that’s okay with you.”

  Maddy says nothing.

  “Is it okay?”

  She shrugs. “I mean, it’s your house, right?”

  Arthur crosses his skinny legs, leans back in his chair. “All right then.”

  Well, he’s a dead duck now. He’s gone and made everything official and he isn’t even sure if he’s sure. What if it doesn’t work out? Then he’ll have to tell Lucille to leave and maybe drive her over the edge.

  Or! He could get used to her and then she could want to leave and then what? Or she could die. Or he could die.

  Enough!

  Maddy has said something and is looking at him expectantly.

  “What was that?”

  “Would you like more coffee before I go upstairs?”

  “I’d love some.”

  Maddy gets up to grab the pot of coffee and refills his cup. And he is content.

  Long after Arthur has showered, Maddy is still in her room. Arthur climbs the stairs and knocks at the door. No answer, but she’s in there, he knows. He can hear her in the quiet; he can very nearly see her: head bowed, hands clasped, breathing shallowly. He knocks again, then speaks into the crack of the door. “Maddy? If you want to be by yourself, I’m going to let you be by yourself. But if you wouldn’t mind talking to me, I’d sure like to talk to you.”

  Nothing. He waits with the unperturbed patience that is given to many older people. He stares at the door, thinking it could use a varnishing. He examines his hands: front, back. He listens to the cardinal whistling outside and to the distant sound of a lawnmower, and gives thanks for his hearing aids. He wonders what’s for lunch.

  Finally, he says into the crack, “Okay then, I’ll just be downstairs somewhere. You let me know if you need anything.”

  Now she opens the door. She is wearing her jacket and holding her duffel bag. Her bed has been stripped; the linens are folded neatly at the bottom of the bed. She sees him looking over at the bed and says, “I didn’t sleep in those sheets. I’d just put them on this morning.”

  “What are you doing, Maddy?”

  “Moving out.”

  “Why?”

  “Lucille is moving in, right?”

  “Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean—”

  “I figured if she was moving in, I should move out.”

  “But why?”

  Nothing.

  Then she says, “I need to get to the bus stop.”

  “W
here are you going?”

  She doesn’t answer, just stares at the floor.

  Arthur gestures toward the inside of her room. “Can we sit and talk for a minute?”

  She hesitates, then moves to sit on the side of her bed. Arthur sits at the desk.

  He clears his throat. “I would never ask you to do anything you didn’t want to do. But I guess I don’t understand why you want to leave. I thought you were happy here.”

  She nods. “I was.”

  “So…”

  “I just don’t see why she needs to move in. She lives next door! Why does she have to live here with us?”

  Arthur nods. “I kind of wondered that myself. After I hung up from talking to her, I lay wide awake in my bed, thinking, Oh, boy, now look what I’ve done.”

  Maddy relaxes a bit from the stiff posture she had assumed, her back ramrod straight, her chin up defensively.

  “I thought, that woman minds everybody’s business,” he goes on. “She’ll be telling me how much cream to put in my coffee and how tight to buckle my belt. When to go to bed and when to get up. If I want to have a little thinking time in my room, she’ll come barreling in like the Queen Mary asking what am I thinking about, then telling me whether or not I should be thinking about it.”

  Maddy crosses her arms. “So…?”

  Arthur holds up his hand. “Wait a minute. Let me finish some of the horrors I’ve envisioned. She’ll be taking over the kitchen entirely.”