Julia's Chocolates

by Cathy Lamb

  For Shawn and Carrie Lynn, Lara sent new outfits and art supplies.

  Over the next weeks, we received e-mails from her, although she was not in contact with Jerry, which broke his heart again. She had settled in with her brother and his partner. New York was wild. And exciting. And dirty. And dangerous. But she was painting, and her brother’s partner knew someone who knew someone, and that someone was coming to see her work.

  We wrote back cheery letters, wishing her well, keeping her up to date on Aunt Lydia’s progress and the farm, and Shawn and Carrie Lynn, who were finally smiling.

  Jerry called or came over now and then, bringing presents for Aunt Lydia. The operation had worn her out more than we had expected it to. He tried to keep a strong facade, but he often broke down and cried.

  Shawn and Carrie Lynn did not ask for their mother very often, but when they did ask about her, we told them the truth—well, the truth that a child is old enough to handle.

  We told them gently, oh so gently, that, no, they would not be living with their mother anymore. We knew this for a fact because their mother, and her boyfriend, were both going to jail, not only for the assault against the children, in which they had both taken part, in a methamphetamine-fueled rage, but because they had decided that weekend to also rob a liquor store at gunpoint. The store owner had been shot, though not killed, as had his assistant.

  That had about wrapped things up for their mother.

  Shawn and Carrie Lynn looked sad and lost for a moment, and I sympathized. Even though my mother had been abusive and neglectful, there is something so innate in all of us that wants to be loved and protected by our mothers.

  “What about…what about…?” Shawn asked, his voice quavering a bit

  We knew who he was talking about.

  “Your mother’s boyfriend is going to jail for a long, long time,” Aunt Lydia said. “You will both be old before he gets out. And by then I’ll have taught both of you how to shoot a rifle!”

  Both children nodded, not speaking.

  “Do you have any other questions?” I asked, hugging them close.

  Neither one moved for a second, then they shook their heads. Carrie Lynn took a second to pull her blanket over her head, but in a few minutes she took it off again, leaning against Aunt Lydia.

  We decided to go out to the garden to pick a few of the last tomatoes, the fall weather getting chillier and chillier.

  Later that evening, Aunt Lydia and I found the kids huddled in Carrie Lynn’s bed, all their new stuffed animals around them, Carrie Lynn’s thumb in her mouth, her eyes staring straight ahead. Shawn had his arm around her and was rocking back and forth. Alphy licked Shawn’s face, then Carrie Lynn’s, then back again, his whine worried and high-pitched.

  I snuggled into bed with the kids and could feel both their little bodies trembling. Stash found us there when he walked in from working all day on his ranch and immediately ordered pizzas. We invited Katie and her kids over for a Bed and Pajamas and Pizza Night. Scrambler came, too.

  After pizza, I brought in my chocolate and watched the love that was surrounding those kids slowly beat back the terror.

  The cancer had been shriveled down. Dr. Ray of Sunshine deemed the radiation a great success.

  Then we were on to the chemotherapy treatments.

  As everyone knows, the intent of chemotherapy is to kill the cancer. The problem is that it kills the good stuff, too. One day in the future I think the chemotherapy treatments we have will be considered barbaric and inhumane, but it’s all we’ve got now, all Aunt Lydia had, and so, under the comforting eye of Dr. Ray of Sunshine, Aunt Lydia agreed to undergo chemotherapy. She named it Crappy Chemo.

  “I’m going to beat cancer, Julia, and I’m not going to let Crappy Chemo get me down. You watch me. You just watch.”

  And so I did.

  On the third day after chemotherapy started, Aunt Lydia couldn’t get out of bed. She was too sick, too tired. “Crappy Chemo has made me tired,” she told me weakly, before I got some juice down her, “but I’m fighting mad now, fighting mad. When I’m up to it, I will whip Crappy Chemo’s butt. It will regret the day it trapped me in my bed, sucking my energy from my bones—oh, how it will regret it!”

  Then she fell back asleep.

  There was no reason for her to get up anyhow. We were bombarded with offers of help from the townspeople. So many people brought us meals, Stash had to buy a new refrigerator for Aunt Lydia’s garage to store them all. The chickens were fed, the house was cleaned, and her car was washed and taken for a lube job in town by one of her ex–poker buddies. Another ex–poker buddy mended her fences. Someone else gave the toilets in the yard a good scrubbing and filled them up with chrysanthemums.

  On the fourth day, when Aunt Lydia was able to walk, she saw seven people in her yard and garden weeding, raking fall leaves, and trimming. She walked out on to the porch and yelled, “You all make the woman in me want to cry!” Then she sat down and did just that. When she was done everyone came in for hot chocolate and cookies—cookies, of course, that someone had brought by the night before.

  Lydia said that Crappy Chemo hated laughter, so she insisted we laugh our way through the afternoon, and that’s what we did. The high-grade Scotch that Stash brought in also helped.

  When she wasn’t feeling sick, Aunt Lydia was up and out the door. She didn’t bother with a hat or wig except on our cooler fall days. “Wigs itch and make me look like I’m wearing a dead gray and white cat on my head, and hats are too hot. I’m bald because I’m fighting cancer and Crappy Chemo, and I’m damn proud of it. No need to hide.”

  In December, on a snowy night when Aunt Lydia went to bed early, Dave and Marie, in whispered voices, reminded me, Stash, Scrambler, Katie, Caroline, and Jerry, who often escaped to our house, that Aunt Lydia’s birthday was coming up. I had thought we would have a small celebration.

  Stash had forgotten all about it, as he was too whacked-out about Lydia having cancer in the first place to plan anything other than to get up in the morning, make sure all day long that Lydia had everything she needed, then to stumble into bed at night, ready to go again if Aunt Lydia needed anything in the wee hours of the morning.

  Dave thought we should have a big surprise party, and the more we all talked about it, the better it sounded. Aunt Lydia loved parties.

  “We’ll have it in the barn,” Stash said, his voice low and raspy. “Hell, that’s the only way we can handle all those people.”

  “I will be pleased to handle the music,” Scrambler said, his voice as well-modulated as usual.

  We all stared at him.

  “You’re going to handle the music? You mean, you got CDs and stuff that we can play?” Stash said.

  “Something like that,” Scrambler answered, leaning back in his chair. “I will have an appropriate selection of music available for Lydia to enjoy. I will begin the preparations now.” And, like the man of few words he was, he smiled at all of us, took time to nod and wink at Katie, and shut the door quietly behind him.

  “Well! Okay!” Stash said looking around at everyone and scratching his beard. He looked so tired. Tired but excited. “Scrambler is doing the music. So, for the food, I’ll get steaks for everyone.”

  I decided, with the number of people coming, that it should be potluck. Everyone would be asked to bring their favorite side dish. I’d make enough chocolate cake for everyone. I made a note to talk to Sylvia at the bakery and ask if I could borrow her kitchen for a while in exchange for some of my chocolates.

  Katie would do the decorations. We were going to have an old-fashioned barn dance, complete with hay bales, a stage that Stash’s farmhands would build for the occasion, and long tables full of food.

  “I’ll do the party favors,” Caroline said.

  I turned to look at her. We were expecting probably five hundred people. “Party favors? That would be really expensive, Caroline.” I thought of her clutching her coupons.

  “Don’t worry. I
’ll take care of it.” She nodded her head, her right eye not blinking much at all, her face at peace. “I’d love to do it.”

  I opened my mouth, shut it again. Frugal Caroline, who had made her living from doing psychic readings and selling breads and vegetables and fruits at the farmer’s market, was going to do party favors?

  So it was.

  We were set.

  Dean was in Portland working, but when I got home, I took a deep breath and called his office in the city. We had not had more passionate interludes when he came to Golden on the weekends. In fact, he hadn’t even tried to kiss me much, and I certainly couldn’t blame him. Being the pathetic emotional wreck I am, it would only be a matter of time before he gave up. The giant manila envelope I received in the mail today filled with about a hundred blank sheets of white paper had only tipped me farther into the pathetic emotional wreck zone.

  Still, this once, I would try to be courageous. I would try not to let the fear that I could feel creeping from my toes up my legs prevent me from doing something I wanted to do.

  “Dean Garrett’s office,” the perky voice at the other end said.

  “Could I speak with Dean Garrett, please?”

  “He’s in a meeting. Can I have him call you back?” Still perky. I pictured someone young and beautiful and sleek and sophisticated. I felt sick. What in the world was I doing calling someone like Dean Garrett? I was insane. I thought about hanging up.

  “I’m sorry. Ma’am? Are you still there?”

  “Yes…uh…could you tell him that Julia Bennett called?”

  There was silence on the other end of the line.

  “Julia Bennett?”

  “Yes, my number is—”

  “One moment, please, Ms. Bennett,” Perky interrupted. “He’s available.”

  And in exactly one moment Dean picked up the phone.

  “Julia,” he said, his voice entering through my ear, then my brain, until it lodged, I’m sure, somewhere in my vagina. Oh, the man was so, so hot.

  “Dean,” I squeaked. “How are you?”

  “I’m better now.” He chuckled. “It’s good to hear your voice. You’ve never called me before.”

  “Yes…I mean, no, I haven’t.”

  “Is something wrong? Is that why you’re calling? How’s Lydia?” I heard the instant concern in his voice.

  “Oh, she’s doing well. Tires more easily, but she’s fine. She told Mrs. Taylor at the bank yesterday that she had always thought the woman was too much of a priss and needed to liven up a bit before she died. Then she dragged her out to Mike’s Saloon, and they both got sloshed. Mrs. Taylor had a great time. She even tried the karaoke machine and sang a love song while Aunt Lydia danced. Apparently Mrs. Taylor got a standing ovation from the other people in the bar.”

  “They didn’t drive, did they?”

  “Oh no. Mike took Aunt Lydia’s keys from her. She didn’t notice. Then he called Stash. Stash came with Dave and Scrambler and Katie, and pretty soon they were all trying out the karaoke machine. And then other people in town heard what was happening, and pretty soon Mike’s is hopping and it’s only about four o’clock in the afternoon. Mike invited them to come back the next day, too.”

  I could hear Dean laughing in the background. “That certainly sounds like a better day than what I’m having here.”

  “What’s going on there?”

  He paused, then told me. He was involved in a trial, the defense attorney was a dick, the media had got wind of it and wouldn’t stop calling him, he couldn’t wait to see the defendant in jail….

  “So, sweet Julia, I know you’ve called for a reason and not just to chat, although I will say right now you are always welcome to call me anytime you want. In fact, if you want to call me again soon and breathe over the phone, I would appreciate that, too, as then I would know you think of me, if only a little, when I’m not in Golden.”

  “No, I…well, I will…What I mean is that I’m not going to call you to breathe over the phone, but maybe we can chat tomorrow…well, not tomorrow.” Oh, I am an idiot. Please stop blabbering, I told myself. I felt sick, scared to death, my throat tightening as if a metal vise were squishing it. I told him about Aunt Lydia’s surprise birthday party. “And, well, we don’t have to…I mean, I don’t want you to feel like you have to say yes…and you probably would rather bring someone else…but, well, I was wondering…if you wanted to…” I was dying.

  “Oh, just say it, Julia.” I could almost see him smiling.

  I took this huge, mongo-sized breath. “Dean…” another breath before my lungs completely collapsed in fear. “Dean, would you go with me to Lydia’s birthday party?”

  I heard nothing but silence.

  “Dean? Are you there still?”

  He sighed. “I’m savoring the moment, darling, just savoring the moment.”

  “What?”

  “I’m imprinting this moment in my head forever.”

  “This moment?”

  “Yes. This moment. I want to remember every little detail about it. Where I’m sitting, what I’m doing, what you said, how you said it.”

  “Why do you have to remember this?” I took a trembling breath. Simply thinking about Dean Garrett made me quiver.

  “Well, I want to get it exactly right.”

  I sighed, then laughed. Felt myself blush. Why the torture?

  “Are you going to say yes or no? Surely you have better things to do than this? You know, people to sue, papers to file, depositions to run, other attorneys to yell at…”

  “When our grandchildren ask, I want to tell them exactly what happened when their grandma asked me out. Down to the littlest, sweetest detail.”

  Our grandchildren. That would imply children first. Children with Dean Garrett. Now, life wouldn’t get sweeter than that.

  But I couldn’t imagine that could ever happen. I’d have to get rid of the Dread Disease. I’d have to learn how to breathe like a normal person. I’d have to make sure my ex-fiancé didn’t fling me into a tree like a dead white wedding dress and leave me to die.

  “They’ll love the story,” Dean continued. “I know it.”

  I would love the story. “But what about the party?”

  “What about it?”

  I took a deep breath, the smile I could never control around Dean finally reaching my lips. “You want me to ask you again, don’t you?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”

  I took another deep breath, but this time I laughed. “Dean Garrett, do you want to go with me to Lydia’s birthday party? Please?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “Good,” I said, very little breath in my body left, but I was so happy I was tingling. “Very good. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. And, Julia? I do, also.”

  “You do?” The man confused me often. In fact, I could often barely think around him.

  “Yes. I do.” He paused. “I’m practicing ahead of time.”

  My ex-white wedding dress fluttered into my mind like a ghost, but I banished it quickly. If I ever did get married again—if—I would wear red. Bright, happy, freeing, bold red.

  It was almost impossible to think that so many people could keep Aunt Lydia’s surprise birthday party a surprise. But miracles do happen, and the town of Golden experienced one that week. Aunt Lydia was clueless about the surprise party.

  Everyone else was in a tizzy, especially about what to give Lydia for a present. Although Stash, Dave, Marie, Scrambler, Katie, Caroline, and I had made it a point to call everyone and invite them, and ask them to bring a side dish to share, we had specified that people were not to bring gifts.

  No one listened to that part.

  When Stash and Dave went to the liquor store to talk to Pat Haines about the beer for the party, they could barely leave. Pat is tall and thin and wears glasses without any rims. He runs a book club here in Golden. The women love him because he acts just like one of them. Although he sells beer and hard liquor, he’
s a major wine connoisseur, and he had decided a special bottle of wine for Lydia would make the perfect gift.

  “I’ve got a Riesling in the back, at least ten years old, and I’ll be bringing that to Lydia as my gift.” Pat then put a hand over his heart, Dave told me later, and said, “No, I’ve changed my mind. Not that one.” His face scrunched in concentration, his glasses lifting a bit off his nose. “I have a pinot noir that’s twelve years old. That one would be much better—the grapes were perfect that year. No! I’ve changed my mind. Not that one.” His face scrunched up again. “I will give her the Riesling from nineteen seventy-two. A splendid wine, the very best. No! That one won’t do, it simply won’t do.” Face scrunched again, he put a hand to the bridge of his nose. “It will be the chardonnay…. No! I have a better one than that, how could I forget?” He moaned.

  Stash told me he and Dave left Pat in an absolute tizzy, anguishing over which wine would be absolutely the best for the best damn poker player in the west.

  When I went to town the next day, I was accosted.

  “Do you think she would like my jams?” asked Becky Pines, a tall, thin woman with three degrees from a top notch university who had decided she preferred farm life to corporate life. “You do? Then what kind? I have strawberry and blueberry and raspberry. Does she have a preference? Two cases of each, then? Three?”

  I told her it wasn’t necessary to bring a gift.

  “Of course it’s necessary!” Becky looked at me as if I’d told her I would be needing her left arm for about three years. “That woman is one of my best friends. So, back to my jams. I thought I’d put them all in a basket with a giant ribbon. Or do you think a silver bucket would be better? More in keeping with the farm theme of the party?”

  I told her I liked the bucket idea to make things easy.

  “I need a word, lickety split with you, Julia!” Geoff Miles interrupted. Becky walked off muttering to herself. Geoff was an expert wood carver. He could make absolutely anything. He could also sing, often bursting into song in the middle of the town’s square. He had a deep baritone, had even spent time on the stage in his younger years, so he always drew a crowd. “I need to talk to you about Lydia’s gift. I was thinking that I would make her a new bench for her porch in the shape of a giant pink pig? What do you think?”