by Alex Wellen
I am no comfort to Paige at all. She cries. She is doubled over in pain. Hold her, Sid tells me. Leave her alone, Cookie insists. Love her, says everyone. I try, but nothing works.
The last week has been a blur. Gregory asked to be cremated, and Lara and Paige privately dispersed his ashes in the Pacific. People are always dropping by the house. One thing Crockett does well is death. People die here all the time. Unlike me, everyone seems to know his or her role. They know what to say and they usually say it with chicken—the refrigerator is jam-packed with chicken casseroles, grilled chicken, and chicken Parmesan. The countertops are always crowded with baked goods and bagel spreads.
The pharmacy has remained closed ever since. Every afternoon I try to meet Manny at the pharmacy to sign off on a few deliveries, and forward any outstanding prescriptions to the Walgreens in Benicia.
It’s hard to be in the pharmacy for too long, particularly now that Lara is there all the time. She’s co-opted the space, splitting her day between her accounting responsibilities out of Los Angeles and Gregory’s affairs. To hear Lara describe it, sorting out everything could take months.
Paige hasn’t returned to work and hasn’t decided if she will. Within the last week, I can count on one hand how many times she’s left the house. When her mother passed away, Gregory refused to let anyone go through Lydia’s belongings. That was nearly two years ago. Now Paige talks about the dread of going through two lifetimes’ worth of stuff.
Paige floats around the house, not so much cleaning it, but moving items from one side to the other. She has yet to go into Gregory’s bedroom. Lara sleeps in there; I sleep in Lara’s room; and Paige sleeps in her own room. I keep waiting for something to happen, decisions to be made, but nobody seems to be talking about anything.
When I’m not ineffectively comforting Paige or irritating Lara, I’m bored to tears. I busted my ass for Gregory in those final days. Fifty-to sixty-hour workweeks were typical. I used to complain so much about that job—about how it was distracting me from doing what I really wanted in life—and yet now I don’t find any of the other things I used to do very fulfilling. Yesterday, Sid and I spent a few hours tooling around in his garage, but all of our ideas fell flat. Our hearts aren’t in it. Only now do I realize that, in short, Gregory and that pharmacy came to define who I am.
A few days ago, Paige took off her engagement ring. The next day she caught me eyeing it on the bed stand. We need to get it resized; it keeps slipping off. I don’t want it to get scuffed up when I clean. It doesn’t mean anything. I love you. The lady doth protest too much. That ring represents happiness. Hope. A future with me. I get the impression that Paige is ashamed to feel any of those emotions right now.
Paige is alone in her childhood bedroom lying in a fetal position on top of the covers. She is in jean shorts and a tank top, her hair is in a ponytail, and she’s covered in grime. There are small purple bags under her eyes. Every light in the house is on and the place is empty. She seems to be staring straight across the hall at the door to her parents’ bedroom. I block her view suddenly and she invites me in with her eyes. I can barely spoon her on this single bed.
When the phone rings, neither of us moves.
“Leave it,” Paige says after the second ring. “No more condolences. Plus someone’s been calling here and hanging up. Twice in the last hour.”
After the third ring, the answering machine picks up downstairs. Despite Lara’s pleas, Paige hasn’t had the heart to change the outgoing message. Suddenly Gregory is back—his raspy voice echoing through the hallways.
“Leave the message and we’ll call you,” he says simply.
Leave the message, as if there could only be one, proper way of saying something.
The answering machine beeps and the caller hangs up.
“This sucks,” she says flatly.
“It does.”
“I can’t go in there. It’s too painful.”
“There’s no rush,” I tell her.
“But it might be time.”
“There are no rules,” I say.
What am I, a goddam fortune-cookie dispenser?
“Aren’t we entitled to some privacy even after we die? I’m just going to rifle through their most personal belongings?”
I give her a squeeze around the waist and kiss her thick black ponytail. The sweet scent tickles my nose, causing me to sneeze directly into her lustrous mane.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” she complains, springing to her feet. “Couldn’t you turn away? Right in my hair?” she says, completely grossed out.
There is a familiar look on her face. She wants to laugh, or at least grin.
“It came up on me too quickly,” I joke defensively.
I run to the bathroom, ball up some toilet paper, and hand it to her.
“Your lease, it’s month to month, right?” she asks, patting down her ponytail. “Maybe it’s time to give your landlord notice.”
“Move in together because I sneezed in your hair? If I cough in your face, will you put the engagement ring back on?”
“Don’t be cute.”
“Is that really what you want? For us to live together?” I ask.
Personally I don’t want to start our life together here, amid the musty carpets, dark-wood paneling, minichandeliers, memories, sickness, and sadness.
“I’m just trying to be practical.”
I’m not sure what to make of this. Living together was never an option, but if we’re engaged—assuming we still are—I suppose it’s different.
The screen on the front door slams. It’s Lara.
“Oh, good,” Paige says. “We need to get Lara’s okay before we do anything. I want her to feel comfortable in her own home.”
“I’m sure she’ll be over the moon when she learns that we’ll be bunking together.”
“She’ll be fine with it. I’ll find a way.”
Paige grabs my hand, dragging me down the hall, and then down the steps.
The door slams again, and through the window I see Lara reach into her trunk and dig out a pile of papers.
Out front, a black Lincoln Town Car cruises our house, then speeds away.
“Sis, we’ve got problems,” Lara tells Paige, balancing a tall stack of papers.
I’ve haven’t left Paige’s side since it happened and yet every time Lara sees me, she seems surprised I’m still here.
“Andrew, would you mind giving us some privacy?” Lara asks. “Paige and I have some family matters to attend to.”
“Be civil, Lar,” Paige says. “Andy is family. Just talk.”
Paige takes a seat on the couch. I stand. Lara plops down in Gregory’s olive armchair and a plume of dust kicks up. Paige doesn’t approve of her sister’s choice of seating: Gregory’s chair marks hallowed ground.
Lara starts shuffling through the papers on her lap. She hands Paige a legal-sized document.
“The mortgage on the house,” Paige says, inspecting it. Paige turns to the last page of the packet. “Is this right?”
Lara hands Paige a preeviction letter and then a notice of foreclosure. Standing over Paige’s shoulder I can read it: “Mortgage in Default Due to Nonpayment.” Lara is baffled.
“Dad hasn’t made a house payment in six months. Last year, he took out two lines of credit,” Lara complains. “He has completely sucked the equity out of this house. I did his taxes five years ago; back then, Dad’s mortgage was within striking distance.”
“Five years ago Mom was alive,” Paige says.
Lara doesn’t want to talk about Lydia in front of me.
“Should I go?” I ask Paige.
Paige and Lara say no and yes in unison.
Lara takes a deep breath.
“It gets worse,” Lara says. “Dad used credit cards to pay for everything—pharmacy rent, overhead, prescription drugs. He would go through the burger drive-through and use VISA or MasterCard.”
“Oh, Daddy,” Paige scolds him. “How much d
oes he owe?”
Lara licks her index finger and pages through her pile some more.
“Over six different credit cards? Conservatively?” Lara estimates, “About fifty grand. But the interest and fees constantly add up to a lot more.”
“Seriously?” I blurt out.
“Seriously, Paige, does he have to be here?”
“Sorry,” I say.
Before Paige can respond, Lara hands her a pile of collection bills.
“Didn’t he ever say anything to you?” Lara asks her kid sister. “I’m surprised the phone hasn’t been ringing off the hook with creditors.”
Paige and I share a sheepish grin.
Headlights blast through the living room blinds. Someone is here. I walk over to the window and peek outside. Some guy in an old Chevy Impala is using our driveway to turn around. Gregory’s driveway is a popular turnabout.
“I haven’t the foggiest idea what we could get for the pharmacy,” Lara admits.
The blood drains from Paige’s face. Reality is sinking in.
“Who said anything about selling the pharmacy?” Paige panics. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m kidding?” Lara asks, cocking her head to one side.
No one’s kidding.
“We don’t have to sell the pharmacy,” Paige pleads. “We just need to keep it open long enough to pay down some of these credit card bills.”
“Oh, I see. You get to be the sentimental one and I get to be the ice-queen-bitch-from-hell,” Lara roars back. “That way I’m the one flushing our birthright down the toilet, not you. That’s not fair, Paige, and you know it. Don’t punish me for saying what needs to be said, for doing what needs to be done.
“And, by the way, who’s going to run the pharmacy?” Lara cries. “I certainly can’t.”
“Andy can help. So can I. We’ll find people,” Paige replies.
“This isn’t a charity carwash. We need a pharmacist, a licensed pharmacist, and that certainly isn’t Andrew, unless somehow he secretly reenrolled in pharmacy school and miraculously obtained a degree.”
I refuse to dignify this with a response.
The antique clock on the shelf pounds out the seconds.
“I have a tiny bit of savings. Maybe I can get us back on track with the mortgage payments on the house,” Paige suggests.
“So you have a spare $12,000 lying around?” Lara asks.
Paige nods no. She still owes a fortune on the Vomit Mobile.
I have nothing to offer by way of cash. The engagement ring wiped me out, not to mention I still have plenty of student loans and this wedding to pay for.
“Wait a minute,” I say. “If Gregory is no longer … with us … I’m not sure we’re responsible for paying down his credit cards.”
“Already thought of that. We need to foot the bill if we don’t want the creditors to go after Dad’s assets,” Lara says plainly. “One of Dad’s VISA card companies has already put a lien on the pharmacy.”
Lara waves the letter in my direction.
“How can they put a lien on property you don’t even own? Your father rents that pharmacy space,” I say.
“But the business itself is worth something,” Paige’s sister replies. “And if we don’t pay, first they’ll take the pharmacy and then they’ll take …”
“No way,” Paige cries. “No matter what, we are keeping this house.”
“The creditors will go after the house unless we figure out a way to repay all of Dad’s debts,” Lara says. “It’s that simple.”
Paige and I think, but Lara’s already there.
“I have one idea,” Lara continues, all impressed with herself. “Apparently Dad had a bunch of running tabs with customers. There are at least a hundred patrons with accounts receivable of at least $500 each.”
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen,” I quickly interject.
“Why would you say that?” Lara viciously snaps back.
“First off, those tabs are totally incomplete.” It’s the first time I’ve raised my voice to Lara. “Belinda doesn’t even write half that stuff down. I don’t even want to think about how long it would take for someone to reconstruct exactly who owes what.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing for the last week? Need I remind you that I’m a certified public accountant.”
I know.
“I’ve been comparing the prescriptions filled with the insurance forms, receipts, and deposits. I have a ledger with everything spelled out in painstaking detail. Most of the pieces of the puzzle are right there,” Lara insists.
“You’re going to retroactively bill people for stuff you’re not even sure they did or didn’t pay for?” I cry.
“No. I’m just talking about the deadbeats,” she starts.
“You mean the customers?” I interrupt.
“Customers pay, Andrew. These people hardly qualify as patrons of Day’s Pharmacy. What I’m suggesting is more than fair. Listen, I’m generously writing 50 percent of the tabs right off the top. But the rest is gettable.”
“This is bad news, Lara. You should rethink this plan,” I tell her. “No offense, but your father would never—”
“No offense, but shut the hell up. I’m not about to be lectured on what my father would or wouldn’t do. Especially by you,” Lara yells.
This conversation has the look and feel of a magnitude 4.0.
Paige jumps in. “Yeah, I don’t love the idea of shaking down seniors for cash,” she says softly. “These people are our friends. Our community. We’re eating their chicken!”
“That chicken has cost us nearly six figures!” Lara insists. “All I’m saying is that we get half of that back to cover the credit card bills and mortgage payments. It’s not even our money, Paige. I don’t get it. How do you plan on getting the bank and credit card companies off our backs so we can keep the house? Our neighbors wouldn’t want us to shoulder this burden.”
Paige and I think.
Tick, tock, tick, tock, the clock on the shelf is killing me. If we sell anything, we need to sell that clock.
“You show me your list and I’ll figure out which ones can really afford to pay” I suggest finally. “Just let me do it.”
“Be my guest,” Lara says. “Hit them up the next time they come into the pharmacy for a free refill. Which reminds me, I think we need to reopen for business as soon as possible, even if it’s reduced hours. Overhead alone is killing us. Every day we stay closed we go about $400 deeper in debt.”
“We’ll need to bring Belinda back, on a part-time basis,” I inform her.
“No, we’re not paying anyone, especially Belinda. I used to baby-sit that girl, and she’s got problems,” Lara says. “We’ll be fine without her.”
“Belinda is a conscientious, loyal, and reliable worker, and we need her help,” I demand, looking to Paige to back me up.
“We’ll see,” Lara mutters.
“This is all too much, too quick,” Paige says somberly.
I rub her back softly.
“These problems have been coming for some time, sis,” Lara says.
Lara puts the rest of her papers on the ground. She gets down on her knees and reaches for Paige’s hands, clasping them between hers.
“It’s just stuff, Paige. It’s not Mom. It’s not Dad. For me, all these things are just painful reminders that they’re gone. For you, it’s different; it represents your life. I understand that. I love you. I hate to see you like this. But you have to let some things go. Change is hard,” Lara adds softly.
Paige stares blankly at her sister; both of them have their father’s crystal blue eyes. There is a long pause before anyone speaks next and it’s Paige. She pulls out her hands from in between Lara’s and reverses the configuration.
“Change is hard,” she says. “Which reminds me, Andy’s moving in.”
CHAPTER 15
Slow Down
TONIGHT we’re having fresh crabs at The Dead Fish. Why the finest seafood rest
aurant in all of Crockett thought it would be funny to give its establishment such an unappetizing name is beyond me. But the food is delicious, and The Dead Fish has stunning views of the Carquinez and serves Paige’s favorite—midnight chocolate cake with fresh strawberries, the same as we had for her birthday. It’s hard to believe that was just two weeks ago.
Paige needed to get out. There is nothing to eat in this house. The condolence meal train trailed off days ago. I managed to convince her to leave by systematically eliminating everything in the refrigerator.
“Something reeks,” I declared, handing Paige the kitchen wastebasket like a challenge. Then I got down on my knees and began inspecting the shelves of the fridge for the foul culprit, handing her suspicious items, one by one. There was unanimity on the first three entrées: chicken cacciatore, chicken Parmesan, and deviled eggs—dump, dump, dump. I tossed her a plastic bag of iffy salami. Paige poked her nose inside and handed it back.
“Really?” I asked.
“Cured meat can stay forever,” she insisted.
“But it was sitting out on the counter for like … two hours.”
Paige hasn’t been to pharmacy school. She can’t appreciate the spectrum of chemicals, parasites, fungi, toxins, and viruses that can infiltrate meat.
“There are at least twenty different types of bacteria that cause food poisoning,” I informed her.
“The meat’s fine,” she said, surprised by my squeamishness. “Those deli labels are a scam to make you buy more salami. Put it back.”
“Something doesn’t smell right,” I told her, urgently sniffing the fruit bin.
“Get up,” she commanded, handing me the garbage pail.
We switched positions. She grabbed the half-and-half.
“The expiration date is yesterday,” I piped in.
“That’s the ‘Sell By’ date. You’ve got at least three days after that,” she said authoritatively. “Cream keeps. Smell it. If it smells bad, then we’ll toss it.”
I smelled it. It might have smelled fine. I think it smelled fine.
