by Alex Wellen
“We need to cancel the hall,” Paige admits.
She’s right. We’ll lose the $500 deposit, but it will still save us a fortune, including the penalty fee we’d pay if we used an outside caterer.
“Maybe we can renew our vows there in twenty years,” Paige dreams.
“One wedding at a time,” I beg.
Ruth gives me a look, but it’s of no use, I’m not committing to another wedding, to the same woman, twenty years after we still haven’t had the first one.
“Have you collected on Rhonda Rally’s tab?” Ruth asks.
Rhonda Rally?
“Her sister, Fay, hasn’t got one red cent, but Rhonda’s loaded and she owes you a bundle. And what about that little tart, Lucille Braggs?”
I don’t remember seeing Rhonda Rally or Lucille Braggs on either Gregory’s Co-Pay program or Lara’s hit list.
“Where are you getting these names?” I ask Ruth.
“That young lady and I talk,” Ruth says.
“When did Lara start recruiting?” I wonder to Paige.
“No, no, not her,” Ruth insists. “I know who Lara is. I’ve been chatting with that adorable girl, the one with all the tattoos and the jewelry in her tongue. She knows what’s what.”
CHAPTER 33
Doughnut Bite
MARTINEZ is everything Crockett once hoped to become but never managed to achieve. The county seat of Contra Costa County is about twice the size of Crockett and ten times its population. People know the City of Martinez because it’s the Bocce Ball Capital of the country, the birthplace of Yankee legend Joe DiMaggio, and the home of the original vodka martini. It is in Martinez, not Crockett, where you pick up Amtrak, where you take your driver’s exam, and where Paige and I just finished filing for a marriage license.
It’s also where you buy lingerie.
Paige takes me by the hand into the floozy bordello Frederick’s of Hollywood. She says she needs something for her trousseau, and I have to help. This way I don’t end up buying it back only to burn it later.
Everything about this place makes me uncomfortable. I don’t want to risk overhearing a female customer explain to the sales-clerk why the latest plunge-pushup bra doesn’t accommodate her “ladies” or why she finds certain G-strings more comfortable than others. I don’t need images of what all these couples look like fornicating. Sure, I can appreciate the inventive combination of under-wire, gel packs, cups, pads, straps, spandex, nylon, satin, and silk that go into a Frederick’s design, but I think buying lingerie should be a more private affair. This probably makes me a prude.
The more Paige and I browse the exotic array of underwear and bras, the more I realize that I’m a meat and potatoes guy. I pluck a pair of white cotton “hip-hugger” panties off the “2 for $25” table and dangle them in Paige’s direction for approval.
“Those are so cute!” she says, with a polite but patronizing tone. “Don’t you want something special for our wedding night? Maybe fishnets, or how about a corset!” she says, excitedly.
She holds up a teeny triangle-shaped piece of red silk attached on both sides by tiny strings and asks me what I think. I adamantly shake my head no. It leaves nothing to the imagination. This is that rare case where “more is less.”
A scrawny, conservatively dressed man about my dad’s age with a thick 1970s porn star mustache joins us at the panty table. His “lady friend” cozies up to him. The man picks up a frilly black pair of underwear with ruffles and enthusiastically presents it to his lover. She approves. These two intend to have sex, soon, possibly on this table. I’m ready to go home.
“So first the pharmacy and now the house,” she says. “Tell me your honest opinion, Andy, there’s no way we can save the house, is there?”
There is just no way. The Rite Aid offer came in at less than half of what I estimated we’d get. That alone sealed the house’s fate.
“I don’t think so,” I say, kissing her softly on top of her head.
Paige leans her head on my shoulder.
“I was thinking about how hard you’ve worked to collect all that money,” Paige says, browsing some more.
Paige points to the thigh-high stockings on the long-legged headless mannequin. I approve and she tucks a plastic-wrapped pair under her arm.
“Had we known, had we just sold the pharmacy and the house right from the start, we might have been able to use that money and whatever you collected to pay off some of our own bills and maybe even finance this wedding,” she admits. “But if I had to do it all over, I wouldn’t change a thing. I’ll always love you for trying.”
“There is a silver lining,” I inform her, kissing Paige on the lips. “And you know how I know? Because I have a chart,” I announce, pulling it from my pocket.
Paige shakes her head. “Of course you do,” she laughs.
“But you’ve never seen a chart like this one. It’s called a doughnut diagram,” I explain. “Similar to a pie chart, a doughnut diagram can be used to show how proportions contribute to the whole, but in many ways it’s better than a pie chart because you can compare two different series of data.”
“Boy, you really know how to put a girl in the mood.”
Paige unhooks a silky black number from the half-price rack. She drapes it against her body.
“This is called a teddy. Similar to a bra and panties, a teddy can be worn underneath clothing, but in many ways it’s better than a bra and panties, because it has this little convenient snap on the bottom,” she says.
Paige curtsies all proud of herself.
“Buy that,” I bashfully tell her.
“Yay!” she says excitedly. “Now that’s the honeymoon spirit. You now have permission to tell me about your delicious doughnut diagram.”
“It’s pretty simple, actually. The inner ring represents the money we have. The outer ring represents what we owe. That bite in the top left-hand quadrant of the doughnut represents the difference. Between the bills, collections, sales, and the Rite Aid offer, I estimate Gregory still owes about $30,000. But here’s the silver lining: now that we’re selling the house, we don’t have to pay another dime. All that $30,000 becomes forgiven debt. Lara says there is a lien on the pharmacy and another on the house. We just let the creditors sort out the money from both sales. If any other money trickles in, we should try to keep that for ourselves. If only I could figure out a way to make this doughnut diagram solve our Medicare doughnut hole problems.”
But Paige stopped listening a while ago. Her eyes are fixed on the man tapping on the storefront window. Tyler Rich waves his shopping bags hello, points to the entrance, and lets himself in the store.
“Pay Day!” he yells across the floor room. “Hey, you two!” he says, consolidating his bags in one hand so he can ignore me and give Paige a quick hug and kiss on the cheek.
I should probably be proud of the fact Paige wants to wear thigh-high stockings and a black teddy with me (and not him), but having Tyler Rich here, inspecting Paige’s potential sex purchases, only makes me livid.
“How are you two?” he asks.
My heart is racing. Fists clenched. I’ve never been in a fight before. Paige gently touches my shoulder, but neither of us speaks.
“Well, I don’t want to interrupt whatever you two were doing,” he says finally. “I’ll let you go. I’m sure we’ll talk later, Pay Day.”
Tyler punctuates his last sentence with a wink.
“Stop calling me that,” she says coolly.
Tyler Rich wasn’t expecting that.
“I’m confused,” he whispers loudly. “Now he won’t let you have friends?”
“How many times do we have to go over this, Tyler?” she says. “You and I are not actually friends. I’m not entirely sure we ever were. It’s been ten years since I saw you last, and I think it’s time for you to move on.”
The three of us stare at one another amid the pushup bras.
“Sounds like ‘closure’ to me,” I add.
; Tyler bobs his head and slinks off without saying another word.
Before he’s even out the door, Paige looks at me lovingly. Then she dramatically holds all of her purchases over her head and asks, “Do you think they’ll let me wear these home?”
CHAPTER 34
Belinda’s Bonus
PEOPLE love Paige’s sugar cookies.
The key, she says, is you need to undercook them slightly. This way they’re soft in the middle and crispy on the edges. It also doesn’t hurt to use tons of real butter and loads of C & H white sugar. Lydia also taught her that a dab of cider vinegar cuts down on the sweetness of the frosting.
Paige spent all morning baking. She doesn’t care that it’s the fifth of July. She’s made American stars and flag-shaped cookies, decorating them in painstaking detail. Paige has a definite flair in the kitchen. The baking skills come from Lydia, the creativity from Gregory.
We grab a few fresh batches and make the neighborhood rounds, starting with Belinda’s mother, Marylyn, two blocks away.
I don’t think Marylyn will ever forgive us for standing her up that day. Marylyn offered to cater our wedding for free, and how did we repay her? By not having the decency to drop the woman a quick phone call notifying her that no one would be eating her chocolate raspberry soufflé. It took me two days to work up the courage to leave her a discombobulated phone apology. I learned later that Paige sent Marylyn flowers and a kind note, but by then, it was too late. Marylyn was furious. Belinda delivered the official message to me at work: “The offer to cater your wedding is ‘irrevocably rescinded.’”
Paige and I exchange encouraging looks. We are a united front. Paige holds the ribbon-wrapped plate of cookies up high like a peace offering. Then I take a deep breath and ring the doorbell.
A moment later Marylyn’s daughter answers. Belinda looks healthier than usual, dressed down in jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Belinda’s dyed her hair from pitch-black to a conservative shade of brown. She still has the lip ring and the silver barbell in her tongue, but no dark makeup.
As soon as she recognizes us, she quickly and quietly closes the door behind her.
“That’s a nice gesture,” she says of the sugar cookies, “but I think Mom needs more time. My family is famous for its grudges. Mom and I are still pissed at each other over something that happened three weeks ago. The topic escapes me, but she was wrong.”
“Then you enjoy them,” Paige suggests kindly.
Belinda hesitantly takes the plate.
“I’m glad to see you two kids patched things up,” Belinda says.
“Patch what up?” I pretend, all shocked.
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe it was the toothpaste and deodorant in the pharmacy bathroom or the inner tube and blanket in Aisle Nine. I mastered deductive reasoning in eighth grade, Andy. Which reminds me!” Belinda says, snapping her fingers. “I have a wedding gift for you.”
She quietly slips back in the house with the cookies.
“You slept on the floor in the pharmacy?” Paige whispers, slapping me in the chest with the back of her hand. “You said you stayed on Manny’s couch.”
Thirty seconds later, the front door opens, but this time it’s Marylyn, a vivacious woman, with silky dark skin. For a woman who looks to be in her midthirties, it’s hard to believe she has a nineteen-year-old daughter. Marylyn holds open the screen door but doesn’t invite us inside, preferring to watch us twist in the wind.
“We’re so sorry,” I say immediately.
“Forgive us,” Paige pleads.
“Don’t be mad,” I add.
Arms crossed, Marylyn mulls over our pleas for clemency.
“I forgive you,” Belinda yells on behalf of her mother.
Marylyn purses her lips slightly.
“Thank you for the flowers and these cookies. It really wasn’t necessary. I realize that the two of you are under a lot of pressure and mistakes happen,” Belinda continues from inside the house. “By the way, did I mention how brilliant my daughter is? Sometimes I’m jealous of her because she gets to lead what appears to be a carefree life, and all I do is work. My therapist tells me that I’m apt to express this frustration in counterproductive ways, but enough about me. The two of you should come inside and cool down.”
Marylyn can barely contain a grin.
“Well, you heard me,” Marylyn says, stepping out of the way. “You’re just lucky I was so crazy about your mother,” she tells Paige, kissing her cheek.
Belinda, Paige, and I sit down at the large oak table in the dining room, and I eat the cookies we just gave them. Marylyn brews some iced coffee and adds some homemade cupcakes with vanilla frosting to the batch of sweets. Then she goes back in the kitchen. Cookie is supposed to drop by later this afternoon to sample some of Marylyn’s cooking in anticipation of the Brewsters’ sixtieth wedding anniversary. Paige and I may have lost the most talented, reasonable chef in all of Crockett, but we’re both relieved to hear that Marylyn has moved on.
“I don’t think I ever told you how much I enjoyed working for your father,” Belinda informs Paige, with uncharacteristic tenderness.
Paige thanks her.
Belinda twirls a white business envelope between her fingers as she speaks. “The Days have always taken care of me,” Belinda reminisces.
“I take care of you!” Marylyn reminds her daughter from the other room.
“Yeah, where were you Christmas ’96? Your ‘Latchkey Parent of the Year Award’ is the closet,” Belinda screams back.
“Like a steel trap, that girl’s memory,” Marylyn yells.
“I love your family,” Belinda continues. “Every Memorial Day your mother would set aside one of those Red Rocket candy rings for me. That bossy sister of yours always found the time to babysit me. And your dad was always looking out for me. He gave me a job. He suggested I get tested for anemia, and sure enough, I needed iron supplements. Then he provided me with health insurance when my mother’s business tanked.”
“I sold that business for a profit,” Marylyn insists from the other room.
Belinda rolls her eyes. Marylyn’s said this before. “To your dad.” Belinda raises her glass, and then hands me the business envelope she’s been playing with. I open it, and inside is a single sheet of paper containing a neatly typewritten double-spaced list. In the left column are a dozen names. Down the right side are figures ranging from $500 to $1,000.
“It adds up to about $7,000, give or take a thousand,” Belinda says. “I’ve already made all the phone calls. Each of them will pay.”
“Pay what?” Paige asks.
“What they owe you. Their outstanding tabs,” Belinda explains.
“But didn’t my sister already figure all this out?”
“Your sister based her calculations on existing paperwork—scripts filled, insurance forms filed, transactions recorded. When I started at Day’s two years ago, I used to write everything down, right down to the last gumball. But then Gregory started getting annoyed. He said I was being too nitpicky especially when all he wanted to do was give everything away. Every time one of his ‘special customers’ came up to the register, he’d wildly start waving me off.”
I nod my head. I know this wave all too well.
“So I stopped … but I remembered,” she says slyly. “Ruth Mulrooney that sweetheart, helped me figure out the difference between the ones too poor to pay and the ones taking their piss-poor time. One day, these folks would put mouthwash on their tab, and the next day it was a bottle of aspirin. It added up. I kept notes. The people on this list easily owe you ten times what I have written down there. They’ve always had the money and I have no doubt that many of them eventually planned on paying—they just needed a gentle reminder, which I was only happy to deliver,” she says with a smug look.
Paige and I are touched by the extravagant wedding gift. We both know that seven grand will really help right now, but it also doesn’t change much, either.
“Why didn’t you sa
y something before?” I ask.
“No one asked me,” Belinda says flatly. “You and Lara seemed pretty confident you had it covered with all your computers, charts, graphs, arrows, and whatnot. There were a couple of times I almost said something, but then Lara would talk down to me. It was only after I overhead one of those drug store reps from one of the chains talking to Lara about buying the pharmacy that I realized how bad things had gotten. It would just break my heart to see Day’s close its doors.”
Paige stretches her hand across the table and places it on Belinda’s: “Amen, sister.”
Belinda smiles back warmly, and the three of us sit.
WE HAVE one more delivery. Paige hands me the last of the ribbon-wrapped plates of cookies and our paths diverge. I head for Sid and Cookie’s house, and Paige checks our mailbox for wedding responses. If she gets her wish, there will be at least one more goddamn “accepts with pleasure” waiting to be retrieved.
The only thing more annoying than a yes at this point is a yes accompanied by some sort of cutesy personalized note: “Congrats!”
One guest wrote; “Can’t wait!” printed another; “How fun?” (We suspect the question mark was a mistake). Just once, can’t someone “decline with pleasure” or even “accept with regrets”?
I let myself inside Sid and Cookie’s, this time through the front door. Cookie is in the kitchen. I hand her the plate of treats. Before accepting them, she confirms that Paige made them and not me. Then she points toward the den.
Sid is in tan slacks and a Hawaiian shirt, hunched over his keyboard, hunting and pecking. He hits the Return key and the Web page slowly loads. The Brewsters can’t afford high-speed Internet access. As the words appear, Sid puts his nose right up against the large monitor so he can read.
“I can show you how to increase the text size on the browser,” I tell him.
“Already did that,” he says, not breaking his concentration.
“Have you tried changing the resolution of the screen?”
Sid looks at me. He hasn’t. He turns around and gives me a warm smile. Seeing him safely back home at his personal computer makes me so happy.
