Dying for Chocolate

by Diane Mott Davidson

  I said, “Look, Joan honey, the only thing I need to do right now is get off the telephone.” I slammed the receiver down. Honestly, some people.

  “Don’t tell me,” said Adele. “I’ve just lost Joan Rasmussen as co-chair.”

  “Trust me,” I said, “you’re better off.” I began to search through the refrigerator for the food I’d prepared yesterday for the western barbecue. When I emerged with the last of the platters, Adele was taking another pill. Reluctantly, it seemed to me.

  “Goldy,” she said finally, “I know you have a lot on your mind. But I just feel so frustrated trying to raise funds in this town. In Washington we worked hard on it!” She gestured with her teacup. “There were committees for charity balls, fashion shows, luncheons, everything! Everyone worked! The headmaster said the alums would be supportive. They haven’t been. Neither have the parents. I’m at a loss.”

  I put the platters down and sat next to her. “I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged. “I know you have other things to worry about, dear. I know you’re upset about this Miller fellow, and of course there’s Arch and your business. It’s just that when I set my mind to something, I do it. I know people here have money! But do you think I can get them to work on this committee during June, July, and August? No. The only person who’ll do any work is Joan Rasmussen, and she beats people over the head. It’s the wrong time of year, the headmaster says. It’s hard to get people to work now. But why?” She shook her head and sipped from her cup.

  “Oh, my dear Adele,” I said with a smile. “It’s because the residents have to work on their Colorado Summer Merit Badges.”

  She choked on the tea. “Their what?”

  I got a cup, poured myself some of the pale brown liquid, and settled back beside her. “Here’s how it works. You’ve got money and you live in Colorado. Every summer vacation, you’re duty-bound to work on your badges. Sometimes they come with a star.”

  “I beg your pardon? These are actual things?”

  I shook my head. “Of course not, although sometimes you get a T-shirt.” When she still looked puzzled, I explained: “Coloradans are going to recite their summer achievements to you as soon as they see you in the fall. You say, How was your summer? They roll their eyes. Well! First we hiked ten of the state’s fourteeners. Hiking merit badge. Only earned for hiking repeatedly at fourteen thousand feet above sea level. Then we climbed the Flatirons, about lost two of the kids when we were rap-peling down! Rock-climbing merit badge. Then we back-packed into the most remote area of Rocky Mountain National Park. Camping merit badge. When we got back we ran a 10K road race over by Vail and did the 60K bike race over the Rockies. Running and biking badges, the latter with a star.”

  She grinned. “What about bird-watching? Or . . . or . . . fishing?”

  “Well,” I said huffily, “I haven’t gotten there yet. Of course, the only merit badge you can get in fishing is for fly-fishing. Only a novice uses bait.”

  “So that’s why I can’t get anyone to work on a committee. I thought the parents and alums might be on vacation, but then I see them in town.”

  “Dear Adele. You haven’t asked them about their summer! Just listening to them would make you need a muscle relaxant.”

  Adele smoothed her lips with her finger. Finally she said, “I’ve got it!” She was beaming. “A bird-watching fund-raiser picnic. Catered by guess who. We set it up for this Saturday, say it was an impromptu sort of affair.”

  I groaned. “You’re not serious.”

  “Could you work it into your catering schedule? Figure on tripling the cost of your supplies. Then I’ll double that and give half to the school. Could you?”

  I looked at the yellow kitchen tiles and calculated. I still had to come up with the final payment on my security system. Arch’s summer-school costs had put a painful dent in my budget. And this job would be exceptionally profitable. I said, “Sure.”

  “It’s the perfect thing! You’ll make money, the school will make money, we can invite Julian and Arch and the Harringtons and all kinds of people! It’ll be a smash hit. Oh, Goldy, you’re wonderful! I never would have thought of it if you hadn’t told me about the badges.” She put her finger to her lip again, a bad sign. “And about Joan. She just needs to be coddled.”

  Right. Rasmussen the Egg. More like hard-boiled, I’d say.

  “Brought along, you know.” As usual, I didn’t. “I suppose I should invite her over for lunch today.”

  I had been trying to give her comfort. Be a soul friend, the way I was with her sister, Marla. Suddenly, everything was backfiring.

  Adele continued, “Could you just do a little soup and salad? Please? I know you need to get your van, but Bo and I can get it for you.” Her hazel eyes implored me.

  Okay, I’d screwed up with the Rasmussen woman. Here was Adele, new to the community, walking with a cane, trying to make friends, using her time and money to be helpful when she couldn’t get people to raise money in the summer, and her employee had just blown off the co-chair. Well, I needed to.

  I swallowed and said, “Sure. Lunch is no problem. Rolls and fruit salad with Goldilocks’ Gourmet Spinach Soup?” She nodded. Good, I’d brought a container of frozen soup from my house. “I can have it done before I leave for the picnic.”

  Adele smiled in relief. Then she rose like a queen and picked up the phone to call Joan Rasmussen about lunch and the birding expedition. Rasmussen must have thought it was a good idea, because then Adele called Bo on the intercom and asked him to call his golfing friend whose wife was in the Audubon Society. Then with a wink she took the van keys I gave her and tap-stepped her way out of the kitchen.

  Adele was like and unlike Marla, I reflected as I stirred molasses into the bubbling pot of baked beans. Like Marla in being used to wealth and the power it confers. Unlike Marla in that Adele never discussed her back problems, she just poured the pain into energy for good deeds. If Marla was in pain, she made sure that it was news for the entire county. And to Marla, good deeds were for the Rockefellers.

  Arch reappeared at the kitchen doorway.

  “Mom,” he announced, “I need two hundred dollars for a silk cape and top hat.” He grinned.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I can ask Dad if it’s too much for you.”

  “Arch, don’t. You know he’ll say no, that it should come out of the child-support money. Come on, hon. Can’t you do without it?”

  He looked at me, a child’s freckled face wrinkled in adultlike dismay. “Well, I have to have them for the magic show,” he insisted. “Maybe Dad will get them since I talked him into paying for the other stuff.”

  “What other stuff? Like that newspaper?”

  Arch ducked into his bag and brought out a pair of handcuffs and a set of Chinese manacles. This latter I recognized as his favorite trick from our visits to magic shows when he was little. He couldn’t seem to decide between the two tricks. Finally he held up the handcuffs with his eyebrows raised.

  “Lock these behind me, please.”

  This was turning into a busy morning. But I acquiesced.

  There was a pause as he leaned forward slightly. Then he triumphantly brought up his hands and the cuffs.

  “How did you do that?”

  “A magician never tells, Mom. Anyway, wait until you see me do it under water.”

  “Under water! You can hardly do the doggie paddle. And remember the doctor said you should be extra careful because of that bronchitis and asthma you had in February—”

  GOLDILOCKS’ GOURMET SPINACH SOUP

  5 tablespoons unsalted butter

  ¼ A pound fresh mushrooms, washed, dried, trimmed, and diced

  1 scallion, chopped

  5 tablespoons all-purpose flour

  2 cups chicken broth

  2 cups milk

  ½ teaspoon salt (optional)

  black pepper (preferably freshly ground)

  ground nutmeg (optional)

  ¼ A pound cream che
ese, softened and cut into cubes

  1 cup grated Swiss cheese (recommended: Jarlsberg)

  ¼ pound fresh spinach, washed, trimmed, cooked, and chopped

  Melt the butter in a large saucepan. In it slowly sauté the mushrooms and scallion until tender. Add flour and stir just until flour is cooked, a couple of minutes. Whisk in first chicken broth and then milk, stirring until thickened. Add salt if desired, pepper, nutmeg if desired, cream cheese, and Swiss cheese; stir until melted. Then stir in spinach. Heat and stir very gently. Season to taste. Serve hot.

  Makes 4 to 6 servings

  Arch turned away. When I opened my mouth to say I was sorry, Julian’s honk sounded from outside.

  “Gotta go. Oh,” he said as he ducked to retrieve something else. “One more thing.” It was the tone of voice he used when he knew I wasn’t going to like it. These things he always saved until the last moment before his school bus came, so we wouldn’t have time to argue. Apparently, summer school was no different.

  I said, “I hope this one more thing will mean I can get all my cooking done today.”

  “Here,” he said as he handed me The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe. “All the parents are supposed to read along so you can help with the final project. There’s a note inside,” he indicated a mimeographed sheet, “that explains the project. The teacher’s really nice, she’ll talk to you about the different projects, if you want.”

  Julian honked again and Arch whipped out the front door. Behind them, Adele and the general waved from the back of the Range Rover. I opened the sheet Arch had given me. It detailed all my Poe homework: Read two short stories. Discuss them with your child. Develop ideas for projects. You could make a model of a gold bug. Sure. You could make a tape of the beating of a telltale heart. Uh-huh.

  I wondered if the teacher would like to be a caterer. What was I paying tuition for, anyway? Oh yes. Arch said she was nice.

  The phone was ringing in the kitchen. It was the Audubon Society. Would I please have the general call about an outing? Was it this Saturday, the eleventh, that he wanted? You bet I’d have him call. I wanted to add, You and General Farquhar have nothing in common, but refrained. Instead, I stabbed the block of frozen soup so that it would heat more quickly. I had an hour before I had to rush off to do the barbecue for George Rumslinger’s ranch hands and staff.

  I put the phone recorder on and did a yoga centering exercise. Arch had a girlfriend and wanted two hundred dollars for a magician’s costume. Adele needed lunch for two before I did a picnic for forty. There was going to be another rotten review in the Mountain Journal. I needed to call my lawyer about the name change. I had a birding expedition and picnic to plan, while Edgar Allan Poe homework awaited me. I chewed the inside of my cheek. How much worse could things get?

  The phone rang and I listened to the message as it recorded. It was Marla.

  The funeral for Philip Miller was at two P.M. the next day.

  Somehow, I finished the cooking and set the table on the Farquhars’ covered porch. I banished thoughts about the funeral, went out to the garage and found a small pair of pruning shears next to the camping equipment. The new flowering plants Julian and General Bo had put into the smoothed-over garden crater yielded an acceptable arrangement for the luncheon with the Irascible Rasmussen. Adele and the general arrived in convoy with my van.

  My van! The grille seemed to grin at me like an old friend. I started it up, checked the bungee cords that would hold the food on racks, checked to make sure the glove compartment still held my safety kit, with its bandages, sunscreen, instructions for doing the Heimlich maneuver in case someone choked, and my little bottle of ipecac, in case, God forbid, someone ate something he shouldn’t.

  I tried to think positive thoughts as I drove to the Rumslinger ranch. Sure enough, the barbecue was an enormous success. George Rumslinger was a country-music star who had moved to Aspen Meadow and spent hundreds of thousands of dollars establishing a cattle ranch. The hands loved him not only for the good pay but because they regularly were treated to food and song. They pulled on the pony keg of Coors and dug heartily into the hills of barbecued chicken and ribs, bowls and baskets of salads and rolls, and stacks of Scout’s Brownies. Highlight of the day was when Rumslinger serenaded the crowd with his new hit remake of “I’m Just Roadkill on the Highway of Love.”

  The foreman paid in cash and gave me a fifty-dollar tip. He was feeling so good he even asked if I had a favorite charity. In the spirit of killing two birds with one stone I mentioned the Elk Park Prep Pool project. I pointed out how good the decal would look on the rear window of his pickup truck.

  He said, “Pretty ritzy school for the son of a caterer.”

  I placed the cash in my zip bag and said nothing. If he wanted a decal, he could get it himself.

  The black-capped chickadee’s plaintive song woke me Tuesday, the morning of Philip’s funeral. Adele had given me the day off from cooking and answering the phone. It was wonderful to be free. Part of the message from Marla was that some of us would gather before the service at Elizabeth’s house. When I was there Elizabeth said the two of us must get together soon. I nodded. Then we all took off for the Episcopal church. Even a latter-day hippie could revert to the faith of her childhood when facing the burial of a brother.

  Into your hands, O Lord, we commend our brother, Philip.

  Marla was there; she held my hand. There was a slew of people in country club clothes. The Farquhars came, as did Julian, a very red-eyed Sissy, Weezie Harrington, and Brian Harrington, whose beeper went off during the service.

  Do not let the pains of death turn us away from you at our last hour. . . .

  Elizabeth Miller had convinced the priest to allow friends of Philip to talk briefly about the good work he had done in the community. So many people depended on him—his clients, his friends, his supporters in the Audubon Society and Protect Our Mountains. There were subdued sobs as acquaintances told anecdotes. Still. In all this, and it was indeed lovely, there was no discussion of the strangeness of the way in which he had died.

  Let our faith be our consolation, and eternal life our hope.

  Somehow, I felt Philip’s presence. Maybe hovering somewhere around, I didn’t know. I thought, Did you ever say anything that would help me understand what happened that morning?

  There was no response.

  After a small gathering at Elizabeth’s house I came home and took a long bath. Arch said he was going to work on some of his dives in the pool, and then on some tricks. I asked him about his homework. He said he couldn’t do anything until I had done my reading, and had I decided about money for a cape?

  No, I said sullenly as I trundled on to bed with the Poe under my arm. I was at the high tide of fatigue; there was no way I would read more than a page or two, I said.

  But it was not to be. Splashing, calling, diving sounds from the pool gradually diminished. The floorboards creaked as Arch went to bed. I was glued to the book. The big house became quiet. In a far corner of my brain I could hear the telltale heart, beating its way to discovery. Beating, beating, beat—

  “Agh!” I cried when I thought I heard a splash outside. My windows were closed against the cold night air of the mountains. Slowly, I slid the east-facing window open. There was no sound of arms or legs thrashing down the lap lanes. A neighbor’s dog began to bark, then stopped abruptly. The pool lights were off. I could not see a thing. I peered into the darkness, thought I heard whispers.

  “Who’s there?” I called. My whole body shivered.

  There was sudden quiet.

  14.

  In the relationship with John Richard, I had learned I was a physical coward. There was no way I was going outside. If you weren’t secure, why call it a security system, anyway? The perimeter motion detector would scream if the house was violated. I crept back to bed and turned out the light.

  The next morning, I de-activated the security system and stepped outside to look around and call for Scout t
he cat. Lime-green aspen leaves clicked in the early breeze, like the sound of tiny hands clapping. It did not sound like a splash.

  I had the feeling of being watched. There was no sign of anything or anyone who might have been by the pool after Arch came in. My eye found Scout. He was sitting very still, watching me from inside the French doors leading to the patio.

  “Lot of help you are,” I said. He looked up with reproachful pale cat eyes. He was still too spooked by the dogs he’d encountered during his tenure of homelessness to have been last night’s noisemaker. Don’t venture into the world, his impassive face said. It’s dangerous out there.

  Adele gleefully announced we had a go for the Audubon Society picnic. Wednesday and Thursday I finished planning and ordering the food for that affair and Adele and Bo’s wedding-anniversary party on the fourteenth. Philip’s absence was a hole to be filled with work. Keeping busy helped deal with grief.

  Bo and Adele were also preoccupied—with phone calls, committee meetings, buying and planting flowers for the garden. The general was one of those rare men who love to shop. Late Thursday afternoon he surprised me with a package of fresh sole fillets. He asked if I could do something with them for dinner the next night. He began a long explanation about becoming an Episcopalian when he married Adele. But there really is no such thing as a former Catholic, and could we start having fish on Fridays? In case Vatican II had been wrong.

  We eat for different reasons, I said with great seriousness. Fish was no problem.

  Friday morning I awoke with a heaviness in my chest. It’s not the day of a funeral that’s most difficult, or even the next day or the next. I did my yoga routine, turned off the security system, and made my way to the kitchen. No, the first few days you have the memory of the church service, of the casseroles afterward, of the conversations you had with friends when you remembered the person who died. Within a couple of days, though, the reality of the loss hits. The person is gone. Forever.