“Our customers won’t like the coffee stains. They want to buy paper in perfect condition.”
“Who cares about them?”
I gave up. I came up with a new task for her, dividing beads into Ziploc bags. The beads came in large containers of one thousand, but scrapbookers never needed that many, so we parcel the beads into lots of twenty. At least Mom couldn’t ruin the beads.
Margit showed up a few minutes before nine. “I brought strudel. Plum kuchen. I cut a big piece of the strudel and gave it to your mother.”
“That’s very kind of you. Thanks so much. I couldn’t get her to eat any breakfast, although she did have coffee. Well, a little coffee at least.”
“You are a lucky girl to have her with you.”
I wanted to feel lucky. But I didn’t.
“She and I will be going to Edwina Fitzgerald’s funeral today. I’ll need to leave at two-thirty. Clancy is coming in at noon to take my place.”
“Good. My schedule is unangetastet.”
“Right.” I had no idea what she was saying. I believe she was telling me that she was inflexible. Sure looked that way to me. Nothing in her stance said, “Hey, let’s roll with it.”
“Um, we had a small accident this morning. My mother spilled her coffee on a pile of paper.”
Margit pushed her glasses up on her nose. Today she wore a lilac polyester pantsuit with a cream blouse underneath. Although neat as a pin—and I’ve never understood how pins can be tidy or messy—she seemed frozen in time, as though she once had a vibrant life and it had since passed her by, leaving her with a dated haircut and a closet full of polyester. Sad to think how the polyester—in all its ugliness—would outlast all of us. That didn’t seem fair.
“Accidents happen. Your mother helps out, ja? So this is not important.”
“No, it’s not. However, you might want to deduct those from our inventory and reorder. I might be able to put it in the blender and use it for our handmade paper class. I’m not sure, but I’ll try.”
Margit appraised me thoughtfully. “That is smart. Very smart.”
I handed her a sheet of charges for the Fitzgerald photos. “I’ve divided the charges two ways. One set is for the album that CALA commissioned, so CALA would pay for those as part of the total cost of the album. The other set covers the enlargements for the funeral. We should charge the family for the enlargements, as per Deanna, the daughter-in-law.”
“You are very thorough. Good. I see you also included the addresses for billing. Very good.”
I handed her another sheet. “Here are the supply costs for both sets. You’ll notice that I mounted the enlargements on foam core board and added easel backs so they would stand up. I can’t quite figure out how much glue I used, but I’ve included a mention of that since it is a supply that we provided. This way we can track our exact costs versus the income made from these special projects.”
“Ja,” Margit adjusted her spectacles to peer through the bifocal lenses. “Is that important?”
“If we aren’t making a profit on these special jobs either we need to charge more or quit doing them. It’s easy to have the cost of supplies sneak up on us.”
Margit studied me over the frame of her glasses. “That is right. It is good you thought of that. You can really use the paper to make that other thing?”
“I don’t see why not. All you do is take paper and fabric and blend it, pour the mix through a screen and dry it. I’ve been dying to offer a class in papermaking, and this might give me a good excuse.”
That’s what I said, but I really felt like saying, “Hello! I’m not as dumb or worthless as you thought. I’m actually very responsible and resourceful.” But I didn’t. I didn’t need to prove myself to Margit. Dodie was the person who couldn’t see how much I cared about this business. And I was tired of trying to prove myself to her.
Forty
The hours trudged by. If everything went as planned, this evening I would pick a fight with my best friend’s brother.
I tried hard not to think about it.
Instead, I kept my hands busy. In a weird way, Mom helped because she needed constant attention. First she spilled two baggies of beads on the floor. I crawled around on my hands and knees trying to recover them, worrying that a customer would slip and fall. Next she locked herself in the bathroom. While she carried on, yelling and banging on the door, Margit handed me a paper clip to open the lock. Last, but not least, I caught Mom feeding Gracie big hunks of strudel.
“Mom, Great Danes have very, very delicate digestive systems. She can’t have that.”
“She likes it!”
“Yes, she does. But she’ll get sick.”
“Phooey.” Mom waved a dismissive hand at me.
I tried another tack. “Mom, here’s the real reason: I want to eat more of the strudel. Don’t give it to the dog!”
That worked. I made Mom another cup of coffee. She, Margit, and I took a long break and finished most of the plum kuchen. (I put aside a piece for Clancy.) Before Margit left, I extracted a promise from her to bring me a copy of the recipe. “My friend Bridget from Tai Chi shared it with me,” explained Margit. “Because her kuchen is the best.”
“Tai Chi?” I said. “You do Tai Chi?”
“Yes,” Margit smiled. “Is very good for the mind and the body. You must come try it some time with me.”
I promised I would. Once again, at the stroke of noon, Margit hurried out of the store. That left Mom and me. I found a lot of small jobs to keep Mom busy. She continued to have one problem after another that kept me hopping.
Between crises, I dialed Amanda’s number. Clancy clocked in and saw what I was doing. “Why don’t you text-message your sister?”
Duh. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
I text-messaged Amanda about Mom putting Seymour in the microwave and added: “I think we need a medical opinion of her mental state. Please advise who her local doctor is. I need Mom’s records.”
A few minutes later, my phone vibrated in my pocket. The screen said: “Will call you later.”
Progress!
Bridget’s german plum kuchen with streusel
Plum Kuchen
1½ C. flour
1 tsp. baking powder
¾ stick butter
¾ C. sugar
1 egg
2–3 lb. Italian plums, halved
Sugar and cinnamon to taste
(1 T. sugar and ½ tsp. cinnamon)
Grease a springform pan and heat oven to 350° F. Sift flour and baking powder, set aside.
Cream butter and sugar, add egg and mix. Add the sifted flour with baking powder and mix until well combined.
Pour into greased pan and top with plums. Sprinkle with combined sugar/cinnamon, top everything with streusel.
Bake at 350° F for 1–1½ hours.
Streusel
½ stick butter
¼ C. sugar
½ C. flour
Mix together till crumbly.
Note: If plums are omitted, add cinnamon to streusel.
Forty-one
I introduced myself and my mother to Mr. Berry, the funeral director at Killian and Berry. He led us to the viewing area, a large room set up with rows and rows of chairs.
“An open casket,” said Mom loudly. “That’s positively barbaric.”
“Shhh,” I warned her.
A walnut coffin with shining brass handles took pride of place on a raised platform. Floral tributes covered most of the stage, forcing me to rearrange the sprays carefully so the photos would show.
Mom walked right up to the casket where Edwina’s craggy profile rose from the snow white fabric like Mount Rushmore. I moved quickly, swallowing hard because the scent of lilies nearly overpowered me. Or maybe it was the sickening sweet fragrance of formaldehyde.
I struggled not to retch.
My mother viewed the body in the casket and offered a steady stream of yakking. “Look at her lying there! She’s just a big
piece of dead meat.”
“Please keep your voice down,” I cautioned Mom, tugging at her arm. “That’s not nice.”
A couple dressed in black took their seats. Another woman in navy wandered along the aisles, searching for the perfect spot.
“When I’m dead, I want you to be absolutely positive I’m dead and then close the coffin lid tight. I don’t want people parading around and staring at me. Making comments on how I look. When I can’t defend myself. That’s awful.”
“Mom, shhhhh. Someone might overhear.” Outside the door footsteps echoed and a murmur of voices began to swell. The door opened and a clutch of folks dressed like blackbirds straggled in.
“Was she that ugly in real life?” Mom asked Mr. Berry.
“Ma’am,” said the unamused funeral director. “You don’t know what we had to work with.”
“This is how she looked in real life.” I pointed to the enlarged photo of Edwina.
“Not much to recommend her. Was she rich? Must have been, because she sure wasn’t much to look at.”
“Um, have you seen a woman named Lane Carlée?” I asked Mr. Berry.
“No, why?”
“I have this album that she wanted to display,” I said as I held up the Edwina Fitzgerald memorial book. I really needed to do more work on it, but since I’d promised Lane I’d bring it, I’d kept my word. It didn’t have nearly enough pages to suit me, but at least it was a start.
“I strongly discourage that,” said Mr. Berry. “As you can see, we have a plethora of floral tributes. We’re expecting a large crowd. If mourners congregate up front, it would be problematic.”
Not for Edwina, I thought. She’s past all this.
“If Ms. Carlée has a problem with me because the book isn’t on display, will you tell her what you just told me?” I asked.
“Of course,” said Mr. Berry.
I tucked the album into a large shoulder bag and ushered Mom to a seat at the rear of the room as more and more mourners trickled in. The crowd grew, the doors opened, and in came Derrick Roper pushing Peter in a wheelchair. Deanna walked behind them, holding tightly to the arm of a young woman I recognized from the photos as Peyton, their daughter.
“Why didn’t that dead woman get a facelift? That’s what I want to know,” Mom’s whisper carried. “She’s got more skin than one of those Shar Pei dogs.”
People turned to stare.
“Let’s go outside. I bet they have refreshments in the hall.” I tugged Mom by the arm.
“I’m fine. In fact, all that strudel is giving me gas.”
I could tell. So could the people near us. I noticed a few of them fanning themselves frantically.
“Mom, let’s go outside and mingle.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
Forty-two
“Of course, everyone noticed my talent. And my good looks. People assumed I was a beauty pageant winner.” Mom backed two unsuspecting mourners into a corner. Both women were either (a) fascinated or (b) too stunned to walk away. As she talked, Mom waved a half-eaten cookie she’d swiped from the next funeral over. Masticated crumbs fell out of her mouth and rolled down the front of her blouse. I closed my eyes. I couldn’t bear to watch any more of this. But I couldn’t stick my fingers in my ears, so I heard her say, “As you might guess, I had more than my share of admirers.”
The service wasn’t supposed to start for another fifteen minutes. Folks paying their respects continued to arrive. I looked around for Lane Carlée but didn’t see her. While Mom prattled, I eavesdropped on other conversations.
“We’re flat out of options. We should have made the change while we still could,” said a man in a pin-striped suit as he rubbed the back of his neck. “This couldn’t have happened at a worse time.”
“She didn’t plan to die,” said a nervous-looking man wearing a blue tie.
“None of us do,” said Pin-Striped Suit.
Isn’t that the truth? I thought to myself. A one-way ticket with no ETA.
“See these legs?” I glanced over in time to see my mother hiking her skirt. Quick as a snap, she grabbed the hand of an elderly man and guided his palm to her upper thigh. “Feel this! Hard as a rock! That’s all those years of dancing!”
“My, my,” he said.
“Mom!” I hissed. “What are you doing?”
I yanked her hem down to a modest level. “It’s almost curtain time. Let’s move along.”
“I was a chorus girl!” she trilled over her shoulder to the stunned onlookers. “And I still have gorgeous legs! Want to see them?”
“Not now.” I took her by the arm. She smacked at me, but I dodged her slap and slipped my arm around her waist. I wanted to wait for Lane, but my mother was quickly getting out of control. I had one option and one option only: “Come on, Mom.”
“I want Claudia!” wailed my mother. “I miss her!”
“Time to go, Mom.” I steered her toward the blinking red EXIT sign.
“Claudia? Where is Claudia?” howled my mother.
Who the heck is Claudia?
And where the heck was Lane Carlée?
Forty-three
It was tough to tear Mom away from her awestruck audience. Finally, one of the funeral assistants must have noticed my distress because he sent Mr. Killian my way.
“I don’t believe I’ve met this charming young lady,” Mr. Killian crooned to my mother. “Are you new in town?”
Mom responded with a girlish giggle.
Mr. William Killian was smooth, very smooth. Cary Grant had nothing on him. He pulled Mom’s hand through his arm, patted it gently, and led her toward the parking lot. They chatted merrily the whole time. Actually the sight of the two white heads tipped toward each other tickled me.
After he helped her buckle herself in, he gently closed the passenger side door. “Adieu, dear lady! Until we meet again.”
He straightened, tucked in his tie, and smiled at me.
“Your mother must have been a great beauty … once. We are all of us fading, not so much dying as simply evaporating into the greater cosmos. Our bodies are betraying us.”
I thanked him for his help.
“Any time. Although this is my business, I am not immune to grief. I pray I never shall be, either.”
“But my mom didn’t know Mrs. Fitzgerald.”
“No, but your mother realizes what is ahead. That’s the difference between us old farts and the teenagers. They think they’ll never die, and we know death is just around the corner. Their lack of knowledge leaves them giddy. Our surfeit of knowledge makes us sad.” With a courtly salute, he bid me farewell.
Mom fell asleep on the ride back from the funeral home. I cranked back the passenger seat, and she continued to snore loudly. When I pulled up at CALA, I cracked the windows, parked in the shade, locked the doors, and left Mom to her slumber while I ran inside.
Okay. I confess: I’d had about all of my mother that I could take. I secretly hoped someone would steal the car with her in it, but that was unlikely. CALA’s parking lot is full of new BMWs, Land Rovers, Mercedes coupes, Escalades, and Mazda Miatas. And those are the kids’ cars. No one at CALA would be caught dead in my old beater.
Teachers had their own parents to deal with, presumably. They would have noticed my snoring mother and thought, “I’ve got one just like that at home.”
“Excuse me,” I said to the receptionist at the main desk. “I was supposed to meet Lane Carlée at Edwina Fitzgerald’s funeral. But I didn’t see her.”
“She called in sick this morning. Lane gets nasty migraines. You can’t imagine how sick they make her,” said the receptionist.
I decided since I was there, I’d return the alumnae materials to Ruth Glazer. I ran back out to the car, checked to see that Mom was still asleep and comfortable, grabbed the materials, and ran back into the building and down the hall to the Alumni Office.
“What happened to Elsa?” I asked.
“Elsa? Elsa who?” Ruth looked c
onfused.
“Peter Fitzgerald’s younger sister. The one with Down Syndrome. She appeared in a few early pictures, but that was all.”
“Goodness, I’d forgotten all about her. Mind you, this was very hush-hush. I never knew he had a sister until one day when poor Peter started crying in class. They were reading Where the Red Fern Grows, I think. Miss Mitchell took him out in the hall. That’s where I saw him. I was an English teacher then, so my classroom was nearby. He told Sandra Mitchell how just that morning at breakfast two men showed up and took Elsa away. He was sure he would never see her again.”
“Doctors?”
“Two men in white coats. Probably they were orderlies. All I know is that he was terrified. Absolutely beside himself. The poor boy was a nervous wreck.”
“How frightening it must have been, to see your sister taken away!”
Ruth nodded. “He was shivering and crying, poor boy. His mother told him to finish his oatmeal. His father had already gone to work. Neither of the orderlies would answer any of his questions and his sister was shrieking with fear.”
“I realize they used to advise families to send children away, but still, it must have been heartbreaking for him to lose his little sister!”
Ruth nodded and played with her tea bag, mashing it with her spoon. “Until the mid-1960s, experts counseled parents to institutionalize their Down Syndrome children before they bonded with them. It was Gergen who wanted to bring Elsa home. He had hired a special nurse to care for her. But Edwina was embarrassed. She viewed their daughter as a personal failure, I guess. I never heard her speak of the child. Not once.”
“Is it Down Syndrome or Down’s Syndrome?”
“In the ’60s, it became properly known as Down Syndrome since the possessive implied ownership by Dr. John Langdon Haydon Down.”
“So did Elsa ever come home?”
Ruth shook her head sadly and coughed a little, the way you do when you can’t find your voice. “A fire swept through the institution, and Elsa and twelve other children perished. Neither Gergen nor Peter ever forgave Edwina. Later it came out that one of the boys in the home was a firebug. He loved playing with matches, and he set the fire accidently. They were all improperly supervised. The boy perished, too, of course. This was before sprinkler systems.”
Ready, Scrap, Shoot (A Kiki Lowenstein Scrap-N-Craft Mystery) Page 11
