“You already know that I am an attorney,” I say.
“Have you worked for my dad since you finished law school?” she asks while chopping vegetables.
“Yes. And every summer before that, as far back as I can remember.”
“So you worked for him and grew up in his house, too? You must’ve known him really well then, huh?”
She looks up at me expectantly, with her knife poised above the cutting board. Merry asks open-ended questions constantly, as if they are as acceptable as comments about the weather. She should have learned by now that it won’t get her far with me—I prefer not to be an open book.
“He must’ve been like a father to you,” she says.
I sigh heavily and respond in a manner designed to shut her up. “I was the son of his maid. That’s all.”
She starts chopping again, since I’ve made it clear that I won’t elaborate. I regret the fact that she often brings out my prickly side. I generally consider myself to be quite congenial, but Merry’s incessant questions seem to be forever touching raw nerves. Then she acts shocked and hurt when I let her know she’s gone too far, and I end up feeling a bit like an ass.
I suspect that she wants me to say that I loved Mr. Pershing and always wished he were my father. Well, I won’t give her—his actual child—the satisfaction.
It is true that I wanted Mr. Pershing to be my father. Despite his fits of bad temper, his propensity toward using me as an accomplice in his white lies, his excesses with food and drink, and all his other faults. And perhaps a trifle because of them. From the beginning, from my earliest memories, I loved him like a father.
This is just the sort of embarrassing-to-admit tidbit that I know Merry is fishing for when she asks questions: There was a period of time, just prior to adolescence, when I watched the Parent Trap film over and over again and imagined ways in which I might successfully throw my mum and Mr. Pershing together. I even kept a secret notebook of plans.
Looking back, I can see that it was a ridiculous idea. Then, I didn’t realize my mother was too matronly, and not intelligent enough in the ways he preferred, to ever attract Mr. Pershing’s attention as a love interest. I thought everyone must see her as the generous, kind soul that I saw; I was blind to how anyone else might view my mother. Perhaps she doted on me too much, but I wasn’t one of those boys who wanted to wriggle free and escape to play in the streets. I rather liked being coddled.
In that regard, I believe that Mr. Pershing and I were of the same mind. My mother treated us both like her sons in many respects. Though the man of the house complained about most things, I never once heard him complain that she was too solicitous for his comfort.
In short, she babied him. When she died, having made me promise that I would take care of Mr. Pershing in her absence, I knew it was too late to retrain him. He was already too ill; I couldn’t attempt any sort of reprogramming. So I had no choice but to baby him, too.
“Do you think you can tell me some more about my dad later, Fritz? I love the way you tell the stories.” Merry laughs a little. Sometimes, like now, she reminds me of Mr. Pershing at his most amiable, at his finest.
“You want to hear more nonsense about your illustrious parent, do you?” I ask, rolling my eyes like she’s asking for the moon. But the truth is, I don’t mind telling stories about him.
“Yes, sir, I do,” she says.
She has still not gotten out of the habit of calling me sir. Like so many of Merry’s little idiosyncrasies, it used to make me cringe. But lately there have been times—few and far between, of course—that I have actually found it a touch endearing.
“I want to know everything. Since I can’t ever meet him, you’re as close as I can get to my dad.”
She has already finished her salad and packed up her cooler.
“By the way, I saw Jack Morningstar on his deck yesterday and was surprised he hadn’t already gained twenty pounds from your cooking,” I say.
“You saw him? I haven’t seen him in days,” she says, like the fact makes her sad.
“Oh, you’ve developed a bit of a crush, have you?” I ask.
“No, sir.” Merry blushes. She looks quite sweet, hardly at all like the Dollywood hillbilly I brought here a month ago. “I have a boyfriend,” she adds.
I scoff. “Phil the Neanderthal? Right, I forgot his romantic parting words. Something like: ‘Go put on your uniform and get right back here, or else.’”
“He’s gotten nicer since then. Even if I wasn’t involved, it wouldn’t make sense for me to have a crush on Jack Morningstar anyway.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I never even get to step inside when I bring his food.”
“Really?” I am surprised by this. Merry has been delivering delicious fare to Jack daily; I would have thought they’d have become friends, or started flirting, or something.
“Really. I thought maybe it was a good sign that he liked my cooking because you know the old saying.”
“The one about the size of his feet?” I ask helpfully.
She laughs. “Shut up.”
“Well, you’re not asking for much. Not only was he your first, and continues to be your most consistent and easy customer—I mean, truly, what could be simpler than making extra when you cook for us and then running it next door?—but I take it that you would also like him to fall in love with you?”
“I don’t have time for your nonsense,” she says, lifting the heavy cooler with ease.
Now that it’s evening and Merry has finished washing the dishes, we sit in the horrible living room. It looks somewhat less awful in lamplight, though the parrots in the upholstery will stare when I accidentally catch one’s eye.
If I were alone, I would loosen my belt. Merry feeds us in a style that requires a great deal of restraint on my part. I was formerly in the habit of taking a morning jog on the sidewalk three days a week, but I’ve had to add an extra day due to Merry’s meals.
On the positive side, I have picked up a bit of kitchen knowledge by observing her. Merry is a superb cook—a real artist, as Victor might say with reverence. Neither V nor I have ever willingly worn the apron in our relationship, and since I am in the doghouse for being here and not there, learning a few good recipes seems to me a wise course of action.
Tonight’s mushroom lasagna took Merry so long to prepare and required so many steps, though, that it made my head ache. I assumed that it could never be worth all the fuss.
But it was.
Merry has taken up residence in the ugly pink recliner next to the old man’s matching chair: two peas in a pod, as Merry might say.
He reaches for his cigarette pack, and she shakes her head no.
He grumbles and creaks and heads out to the deck for a smoke.
“I have some good news,” Merry says.
She has chattered on at times about Phil’s recent turnaround, how he has somehow seen the light and become a nice guy. I am more than a bit skeptical, believing if he has undergone a conversion, that it was surely of the television healer variety—all for show, which is to say very temporary indeed.
Merry has also mentioned, more than once, that he has asked to marry her. I dismissed the notion, of course, because the very idea of her cheerful smile and his angry red glower officially uniting is nothing short of absurd. I have come to think of Merry as a rather smart girl over the weeks that I have known her, so I haven’t worried that she might actually accept him.
“What news is that?” I ask.
“It’s time for you to check off my first task,” she announces happily.
I exhale in relief before flatly telling her, “No.”
“Why not? I have a few regular clients already. My marketing efforts seem to be panning out pretty well, and I’m going to run an ad in the paper next week.”
“That’s nice, but the answer is still no.”
“But I’m in the black!”
“No.”
“Yes, sir, I am!
” She furrows her eyebrows and pouts like I popped her birthday balloon. “I’ll show you my spreadsheet.”
“Don’t bother,” I tell her.
“Why not? You don’t want to admit that I’m right?”
“I’d have no trouble admitting it, if it were indeed the case.”
“But it is! I’ve been tracking all my expenses against what I’ve earned, and, as of today, the second number is bigger than the first.”
“What expenses are you tracking?”
“Ingredients, supplies, printing costs, gas money, and all that.”
“Does the ‘all that’ include the rental cost of the SUV? The market cost of renting a kitchen, or, if you prefer, the prorated cost of renting this one? Heat? Electricity?” I stop there because Merry’s somewhat crumpled posture tells me that she gets the point.
“I hadn’t thought about those other things,” she says. “But I guess you’re right.”
“I told you before, I usually am.”
“Nice,” she says, “that’s really helpful.”
“What’s the name of your business again, Merry? It’s called Help Yourself, and that’s rather the point of all this. I suppose you thought I’d let you off easy.”
“Easy?” she asks, looking at me with big, angry eyes. “Like your life has been? Growing up in my father’s fancy house and going to expensive schools? I have never had it easy, and I haven’t asked for anything to be easy, so don’t act like I did!”
I wondered when little miss Pollyanna would show her jealousy of my relationship with her father. Of course, I knew it had to be in there somewhere, because I admit to some small moments of jealousy that she really is a Pershing and I’m not.
Our wayward smoker returns with impeccable timing. “What’s going on here, children? You look like you’ve been squabbling,” he says.
I sniff and turn away. Merry wipes her babyish tears with the back of her hand.
The old man squirms uncomfortably in his seat and motions for me to do something. I ignore him as long as I can.
“Didn’t you mention to me that you were going to give Merry her third task today, Fritz?”
She looks up at him. “He won’t check off my second one.”
“No, I won’t. But, in the interest of time, while we’re waiting for you to build up your business into a truly solvent enterprise, you can get started on the next task.” I take a folded piece of paper from my pocket and throw it at her. Toward her, rather.
I don’t want to sit here while she reads it, but I don’t have any choice in the matter, which is the bloody story of my life right now. It doesn’t help my mood that I am exceedingly mortified about this task. It is written in the silliest manner possible.
“Though it pains me, I suppose I must congratulate you on your success so far, Merry,” the old man says, settling back into his horrendous pink chair. “It really has been lovely to see you cooking in this kitchen all day, and to be fed so well as a result, and to see your fledgling business start to fly, as it were.”
She smiles at him in her ingratiating way, which I find quite annoying at the moment.
“On the other hand, of course,” he says, clearing his throat, “it would be a bitter disappointment to me if you inherited this house. I’ve grown quite comfortable here.”
She reaches out and pats his hand so earnestly that I could throw up. “If I get the house and decide to keep it,” she tells him, “y’all can stay on as long as you want.”
Y’all can stay as long as you want, I mock under my breath.
The old man shoots me a scolding glance, and I am tempted to say a few choice words.
“Read it out loud, Merry,” he says quickly.
She reminds me of a politician running for office, the way she constantly smiles and so obviously wants everyone to like her. Of course she complies right away.
“Hello, Merry my dear,” she reads. “I must congratulate you on making it thus far. The Pershing blood is a formidable substance, and I trust that being endowed with it will go a long way toward helping you achieve your goals.”
I snort. Though I know it’s immature of me, I frankly don’t care. Merry skips the next line, which I remember refers to the infamous Pershing hemorrhoids, and despite my general annoyance with the entire situation, I admit that I am grateful for that omission.
“If you have inherited anything of my personality,” she continues reading aloud, “I trust that you enjoy watching the ocean, spotting the dolphins, and perhaps walking along the beach. I hope so. It would help me rest easier somehow, in my present unpresent capacity, if you shared that affinity with me.”
Merry pauses, sniffles, and wipes her eyes. The old man pats her shoulder.
I fold my arms. “Oh, get on with it,” I say in a tone I’d rather not describe further.
Merry reads the next few lines in silence. They consist of juvenile insults about how difficult she must find it to put up with me, et cetera, followed by more mind-numbing ridiculousness about the magic of the sea, et cetera, which she also keeps to herself, thank God.
“Moving forward, then,” she reads aloud, finally getting to the point. “Task number three: Find someone lonelier than you and befriend him. Look left. Look for a banana.”
Merry giggles.
“What?” the old man asks.
“Well, it’s a little strange, isn’t it? I mean, do you suppose my dad was in his right mind?” She looks from the old man to me and back again.
He coughs, but soon regains the use of his black-lunged breath.
“All the Pershings have always been in their right minds,” he asserts. “I think it’s rather rude to suggest otherwise. That task makes perfect sense to me. In fact, it strikes me as quite cagey.”
“Can you explain it then?” Merry asks. She reaches over and touches his hand again, apparently by way of apology for offending his—their, rather—bloodline.
“Perhaps it occurred to your father that you might benefit from a bit of innocent matchmaking?” He looks to me, and I get the impression that he would rather have me take over the explanation.
I don’t.
“Matchmaking from the grave?” Merry says, shaking her head like she’s finally gotten angry at something and forgotten to be Pollyanna-perfect. “I didn’t mind coming here for the chance to know more about my father and to try and earn this house and help my family. I didn’t mind getting a makeover. I didn’t mind being challenged to try and make a career for myself. But being pushed away from Phil and toward someone else because some man who’s never met me but happened to be my biological father thought it was a good idea? I mean, who the hell did my dad think he was?” She looks incredulously from me to the old man, who suddenly appears quite stricken.
“And Phil can be a nice guy when he wants to be. He’s been visiting my relatives and bringing them over treats, which in my book is a very sweet thing to do!” Merry says.
Everyone is quiet for a minute.
“Who do you suppose he meant, anyway?” Merry asks.
“I believe it said to look left. Isn’t that so? And to look for a banana,” I helpfully remind them.
The old man shrugs his shoulders like he hasn’t got a clue.
“Jack Morningstar lives to the left,” I point out, to speed things up.
“Jack Morningstar? My father wanted me to befriend Jack…because he liked him so well, I suppose. And the part about a banana?”
“What color is Jack’s surfboard, Merry? Isn’t it yellow?” the old man asks.
Merry nods thoughtfully. “Then I think this means Fritz can already check off task number three. I’m already as much of a friend to Jack as he’ll let me be.”
The old man laughs heartily. “You may be right! What do you think, Fritz? What do you think Claude would say to Merry’s point? You’re his barrister; this is your show. What say you?”
I reply, again in a tone that wouldn’t flatter me to elaborate upon, “If it were entirely up to me, we could c
heck off all the tasks right now, Merry could take the deed to the house, and I could catch the next flight back to London.”
The old man shoots me a look. “Well, that seems rather drastic, and I would be left without any chance to gain this house. No, I think you had better stick to the plan you and your employer worked out. It wouldn’t be very sporting to do otherwise. So I suggest you should simply check off task number three and continue on with the next one.”
“Do you want it now?” I ask Merry, thinking how I might wrap it around a brick before gently tossing it in their general direction.
“Let’s wait. I’ll be fresher in the morning, I think, and more ready to tackle it. Would either of you like to go for a beach walk with me before the lasagna settles on our hips?”
“Perhaps tomorrow, my dear,” the old man says.
I haven’t seen him walk down to the beach a single time since he came here.
“Come on, Fritz. Come for a walk with me,” she says, reaching out her hand and smiling in a placating sort of way.
“I truly despise the beach,” I say, frankly not caring for the moment that neither this ludicrous situation nor my resultant foul mood is technically Merry’s fault. “You ask me every single day, and I invariably say no. So let’s spare ourselves this ritual going forward, shall we? I will never go down to the beach voluntarily. If the house caught fire and the street out front was likewise engulfed, then perhaps I might venture out to your beloved sand pit. But only then. Is that clear enough?”
Merry’s short hair blows in the wind when she opens the door.
Chapter Thirteen
IN WHICH CHASER BRINGS HOME A FRIEND
As told by our Jack, who has very mixed feelings
I have gotten used to letting Chaser run down to the beach to do her business because afterward she always comes right back up. But today she turns away from her potty spot and races toward the only person walking along the beach in either direction, as far as I can see.
“Chaser!” I call.
Help Yourself Page 13
