My mother pulls her yellow handbag off the back of the chair, straps it over her shoulder, picks up Bogie, and starts to storm out of the room. "I'm leaving," she announces—as if this isn't obvious.
"Wait," I say. "Don't go."
She pauses without looking back. I glance at Bogie's rump poking out from under her arm.
"There are two more things that I need help with," I say to her.
"You need me?" she asks warily.
"One, I'd really love for you to take over the funeral arrangements with Artie. He and I, well, I can't. We just aren't there yet."
She hesitates, for dramatic effect. "Well, I could do that," she says.
"And, two, I'd love for you to keep the neighbors away—especially the ones who seem like friends."
She turns around and smiles with her eyebrows raised. "I'm fantastic at the polite brush-off."
"Like when you first met me," Eleanor says with a sharp frankness that catches my mother off guard, but only for a moment.
"It's one of the things I do best," my mother says, returning to her seat, watery-eyed Bogie in tow.
"Thank you," I say.
I turn to Elspa. She's been quiet. She's staring at the agenda. Her own eyes are a little watery, but she's smiling broadly.
I think of what Elspa said by the pool, that she wants her daughter back, more than anything. She wants to be a mother again, and I know how wonderful a mother she would be, because of the tender attention she's giving to me, to Artie.
"Mothers are important, too. There's no replacement."
I look at my own mother, still trying to calm her down from her short-lived hissy. "Children have a right to all the love they can get their hands on."
Elspa doesn't say a word. She looks at Eleanor, at my mother, and back at me. I can tell that we've grown to rely on one another in the strange, intimate way that people can—quickly and fully, a reliance born from necessity.
"What do you mean?" my mother asks.
"I want you to get your daughter back," I say to Elspa.
Once upon a time, I opened a window and let loose a bird that had been trapped there. Artie was terrified of the damn bird, which was knocking around. Elspa reminded me of this story. I want to open the right windows again. "I've worked out a plan in which you become the mother you already are."
"What does the plan include exactly?" Eleanor asks.
Elspa looks up at me, wide-eyed.
"The plan is to go to Elspa's parents' house. She needs to get her daughter back. Elspa and Rose can stay here until Elspa gets back on her feet."
"You've thought this through?" Elspa says, with jittery excitement.
"Maybe not completely. I'm sure there are holes. But I know I'll need to baby-proof the house, the pool," I tell her. Unfortunately, I've thought of this house filled with children too many times. My imaginary babies with Artie—the ones we name who will never be. I've imagined where I would set up the nursery. I've imagined the high chair in the kitchen. I've imagined the little playhouse in the yard. I know, deep down, that I'm drawn to Rose, to the idea of mother and daughter, of making that happen, if not for myself, then for Elspa.
"They won't give her up," Elspa says. The agenda is trembling in her hand. "I mean, it's not a legal arrangement. They don't have custody. But they have power. They are, well, they are my parents. They'll tell me they know what's best. And I'll buy it."
"That's why we'll go together. I'm good at presenting what's logical and rational and best for all parties involved. That's what I know how to do."
"You haven't met my parents. They don't operate on what's logical, rational, and best for all parties involved. You'll see."
"You'll see? Does this mean yes?"
Elspa nods. "You want to do this for me. I wouldn't say no to that. It's too important."
"And what about you, Lucy?" my mother asks.
"You're not on the agenda," Eleanor says, scanning it.
I realized this when I was making the agenda, but I was hoping no one would notice. "Something good has to come of all of us getting together," I say, thinking the way a good manager would—catastrophe as opportunity. "But it doesn't have to happen for me, necessarily. Just something good."
"There has to be something good for you," Elspa says, shaking her head. "There has to be."
Eleanor asks, "What would that look like?"
"What would that look like?" I ask.
"Yes, something good, for you. What shape would that take?"
"I don't know," I say. I consider it for a moment. "I wouldn't mind being more like the person I was before I found out about Artie's cheating."
"What were you like?" Elspa asks.
"I wasn't so closed off."
"I think that you should try to find a way to forgive Artie," Elspa says.
"I think that would be good for your soul," my mother adds.
"To hell with forgiveness," Eleanor says.
"I guess I'll have to figure it all out," I say. "Well, I guess my plan will have to be figuring out my plan."
Chapter Sixteen
When at a Loss, It's Sometimes Advisable to Resort to Polite Bribery
As I'm getting ready to leave the house for my first mission, there's a real buzz. Eleanor has been thumbing through Artie's address book, looking at all the red Xed names. She's set up shop at the breakfast nook and is now talking to someone on her cell phone. My mother is on the land line, already in negotiation with three funeral homes. She's started writing out a list of questions for Artie. Elspa is pacing, notebook in hand, on the patio. I've given her the assignment of jotting notes on the inner workings of her parents' psyches. Who are her parents? What motivates them? What makes them tick? Their politics, religion, failures.
Artie is in the bedroom above. Is he aware of the buzz? He must be. He has to feel the energy, the new stirring of air. But he doesn't know what's coming. He doesn't know what Eleanor has in store.
Lindsay's calls have come to punctuate the days like hearing the same pop song over and over on the radio. I never know when they might happen, but when they do, I know I've been expecting them. On the way to Bessom's Bedding Boutique, she rings me. I feel myself floating away from the concerns of work that used to consume me. I'm shocked at how easily I talk Lindsay through things. "Yeah, that will take care of itself," I hear myself saying. "Don't worry so much about that one." I sound like a stranger—my voice even sounds detached, as if I'm not speaking at all; it's really someone behind me, or just off to the side. Work used to consume me, but now, faced with Artie dying, it's a little scary, actually, how little it all fazes me.
"How are you doing?" she asks.
"I have a plan," I say.
"You make great plans," she says. "I miss your plans."
"Well, I don't know about this one. It's a little wobbly. It deals with a lot of variables—like the human heart."
"Oh," she says. "Well. The human heart! What can you do?"
"Exactly."
After Lindsay and I finish up, I try to reach John on the way in. No one has been answering the phone. I call three times from the highway. The ringer lapses over to the machine—John's voice saying, "You've reached Bessom's Bedding Boutique. We are temporarily closed. We hope to resume store hours in the near future to serve your needs. Please leave a message."
The first time I hang up, wondering what's gone wrong. I remember the banker type talking to him in front of the shop when Elspa and I came for the mattress and wonder if John's business has gone belly-up. The second time, I listen to his voice carefully. It sounds a little rougher than I remember, a little more worn down—and then I hang up. The third time, I'm sure I hear a catch in his throat halfway through. The catch is moving, in a way, even though I'm not sure what it signifies, and I leave a message. "I'd like to come by, to talk, about Artie . . . I hope you don't mind. It's just that . . . Well, hopefully I'll talk to you in person." I leave my phone number and then I pause a moment, wondering just how dithering I m
ust sound. "I'm going to say good-bye now before I say anything else." But I don't say good-bye. I just hang up, which is what I meant.
The sign on the door of Bessom's Bedding Boutique reads Closed, but when I push, the door swings open so quickly that I feel like I've been pulled inside. There is no bell. Is it turned off? Broken? The beds, all decked out in their comforters and layers of pillows, look big, fluffy, bright.
This is part of the plan—something good has to come of Artie's impending death, something good for each of these people who've been thrown together. But now that I'm standing here among the beds and staring at the office door in the back of the showroom, I feel completely unsure.
The door is open just a crack. As I walk up to it, I can hear someone inside—a rustling of papers. I feel awkward, and I should. I'm trespassing. I raise my hand to knock but I'm afraid I'll startle him. It dawns on me that I should have at least waited for him to return my call. He needs more warning.
I pull out my cell phone and select the number. His phone starts to ring. He ignores it. The message kicks in— his voice echoing in the small office—the words: ". . . Temporarily closed . . . Please leave a message."
"It's me, Lucy." I can hear my own voice now from inside his office. "I'm here. I mean, I am really right here." I turn away from the door then back again. "I mean I'm on the other side of your office door. I didn't want to scare you."
There's a moment of silence as, I guess, this announcement settles in.
"What are you, the big bad wolf? I've had bigger badder wolves at my door," he calls out jokingly. "What do you want?"
I talk halfway into the phone and halfway into the crack in the door. "To talk."
"You can put the phone down," he says.
I flip it shut.
"And you can open the door."
I do. The door creaks. He looks up from his desk, smiling a little, that crooked grin—and a gentleness around his eyes. His shirt collar is unbuttoned and askew, revealing one of his collarbones.
"You can come in," he says. I step inside. I've given up on the hope of little green plastic army men. John is Artie's son, but he's no kid. But what I'm not prepared for is the fact that it's obvious he lives here. There's a minifridge humming in the corner, a fruit bowl with two green apples and a bruised banana in the middle of the paper piles on his desk, and towels stacked on the filing cabinet. The closet door is open, revealing shirts and pants on hangers, and a tidy grid of shoes below.
"How are you doing?" he asks.
"I've been better." I try to sound light, but I don't pull it off. "I'm sorry about how things turned out the other night. That's not the way I had it planned."
"No, I'm sorry," he says. "I mean, he's your husband and I can't imagine how you must feel, knowing . . ."
I shake my head. "It's okay. I'm not good with the whole death thing. I suppose I'll have a bunch of sympathy cards with lilies on them at home soon enough." There's a lull. He's not sure how to proceed. Neither am I. "I'm here on business, in a way." I look around the small office. "How is business?"
"Not exactly going swimmingly." The phone starts to ring.
"It isn't me, I swear," I say.
He picks up the cordless receiver, without answering, and looks at the incoming caller's name. He hits a talk button once and then again, hanging up. "Wolves at the door," he says. His eyes look tired, his face a little slack. He shrugs a little, a bounce in his collarbone. "That's an accurate description of how business is going, actually. Why do you ask?"
I don't quite know how to put all of this. I fiddle with my phone, opening it, closing it. I talk about money at work all the time. It's never this personally messy. It's never attached to the weight of my own emotions. I decide to fake it, at least for a moment, to revert to my professional self. I square my shoulders. "Artie has a will, and you're in it."
This takes him by surprise. He's intrigued. He flips through a small stack of papers without really looking at them. He leans forward. He's about to say something. He even raises his finger. But then he shakes his head. He pushes the papers around on his desk again. "I don't want any of his money."
"I don't know that it's up to you."
"Who is it up to then?"
I was wondering when we'd get to this part. So soon? I can no longer hold the professional pose of Lucy-as-auditor.
I walk to a small chair and sit down. In fact, I slump. I glance up at him and then away. "Me. Artie wants me to decide what portion of his money will go to you."
"You?"
There's an awkward silence. "It wasn't my choice."
He stands up, as if overcome with a sudden restlessness. He's taller than I remember him, taller and leaner, more handsome, too, and I'd thought he was pretty damn handsome before. "Look, you've heard me say this before and I'll say it again . . ."
"I know—there's nothing between you and Artie now." I'm tired of this take. "Maybe you think of yourself as some immaculate conception, but your mother doesn't have any problems taking Artie's money."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"As far as Artie knows, he has never stopped supporting you. Your mother's been cashing monthly checks all your life."
"She has?" He's stunned. Angry, too. He stares at the papers on his desk—overdue invoices, debt collection notices. He leans on them with both of his fists clenched. And then he starts to laugh. He shakes his head.
"What's so funny?"
"Rita Bessom," he says. "I've been giving her monthly checks, too. That's my mother!"
"Her checks from Artie are ending," I tell him. "That's up to me, too."
"It's about time," he says, and then he sits down again. "Listen, I don't want any part of it. Let's just move on. I, for one, have a lot going on here. I'm in over my head and . . ."
I'm here for a reason and it really doesn't have anything to do with Rita Bessom, or even that much about money. "Don't you want to know something about your father? Aren't you curious?"
He rubs his forehead. "I understand where you're coming from, but it's not exactly like that . . ."
I want him to love some part of Artie Shoreman, and I want him to know some of Artie's failings, too. I want him to understand his father. "I didn't get much of a chance with my father," I say. "He left when I was young and then he died before I was old enough to have a real relationship with him. I have stories about him—good and bad—and they help. What I'm saying is that this is important. I don't want you to miss out on getting to know Artie, even if just a little bit. This is your only shot at that. If you don't do it, you might end up regretting it."
He stares at me like I'm some exotic bird that's come into his office to squawk. I can tell he isn't quite sure what to say. He tilts his head to one side. We stare at each other for a moment—a long moment. It makes me blush, but I refuse to glance away.
"Look," he says, and I know that he's going to try to go back to his old stance.
I interrupt. "Let me get to the point. I want to make you a proposition."
"You're propositioning me? It's not every day a woman walks in to proposition me."
I ignore the comment. "Artie wants to leave you some money. He left the amount up to me. You can use that money to help your business or give it to blind children or strippers. I don't care. All I'm asking is that, in return, you meet the man and try to get to know him a little. I want you to hear his stories—from his own mouth—and, just so you don't get a lopsided impression, I'll be giving my version, too. A short guided tour of his life."
"A guided tour of Artie Shoreman's life?"
"Yes."
"Complete with a PowerPoint presentation? And you would be the guide?" he asks.
"It may not be state of the art, but I'll be the guide. I'll do my best." I cross my arms and then uncross them. I can't remember the last time I've felt this unnerved.
The phone starts to ring again. He ignores it.
"And then you'll decide how much money to give me?" He squints at me, th
en leans back in his chair. "Are you bribing me?"
I let my eyes wander around the room—the ceiling, the microwave that I missed earlier, the green carpeting. That's when I notice he's barefoot. The tan feet, the frayed cuffs of his jeans—I feel like I'm gazing at something intimate. I look up at him, and only barely recall the question. Am I bribing him to know his father? "Yes," I tell him. "If that's what you want to call it."
He smiles again and I'm staring at him—looking for some remnant of Artie. I can only see the thinnest fraction of some vague relation. But there's some other beauty there—something more serious, more sincere. "Fair enough. I'll do it. I'm in," he says. "Resorting to bribery. You're quite a mobster."
Without thinking, the words fly out of my mouth: "Next time I might have to rough you up." And as soon as I say the words, they're on reverb in my head: Next time I might have to rough you up? I think about trying to take them back, stammering out some: I didn't mean that the way it sounded—but I decide that will only make things worse. I want to tell him that I'm not attracted to him, that I would never say anything like this to Artie's son. What kind of a creep would say something like that?
John is clearly enjoying this. He's trying to rein in a smile. "I'll keep that in mind," he says.
I simply back out of the office, shut the door, and jog to the exit. One chorus going through my head: Next time I might have to rough you up. Next time I might have to rough you up?
Chapter Seventeen
The Past Is Best Relived in Half-Hour Time Slots
When I get home, it's evening. Dusk is collecting at the edges of the yard. A few ragged fireflies are blinking and batting up into the trees.
I find Eleanor and my mother sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. Eleanor proudly shows me her chart—I'm not the only one with organizational compulsions. The chart is a plan for the next three days, organized into half-hour time slots with built-in breaks for meals and rest. Half of the time slots are already filled in with women's names.
"How did you get them to commit?" I ask, pulling up a chair.
"Well, it wasn't that hard. I just modified your method. I called sober before midnight. Oh, and I appealed to their vanity."
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