Deadly Anniversaries

by Marcia Muller

  Grace smiled a little. She could smile. A little. She said, “All right. I want ham and turkey and you’ll use my stuffing recipe.”

  “Of course. You bet.”

  “Mashed potatoes, brown gravy, green beans and creamed corn. Corn muffins.”

  “Way ahead of you.”

  Grace raised a finger. “But one thing—I’ll do the cake. It’s my specialty. It’s what I’m known for. I’ll have it ready before I turn this torture chamber over to you girls. Understood?”

  Beth was smiling, nodding. “Understood.”

  * * *

  Grace cleaned the old house, every nook, every cranny. No one was staying with them—all her children with their families either went to a motel or bunked in with Beth, who had a big, nice house in Des Moines. After all, the old homestead was terribly run-down, Grace knew—nothing she could do about it. But just the same, every bedroom would be spick-and-span.

  For the three days before the 50th celebration, she cleaned like a woman possessed, washing windows, mopping floors, bending here, on tippy toes there, as graceful as the young woman she’d been, dancing. She hadn’t been this happy in years. She barely noticed that Lem hadn’t been around for three days. Not that such a thing was unusual. Benders, he called them. And he was taking penicillin, so that meant the houses of ill repute again.

  Eighty years old and still a rounder.

  She didn’t get worried till the afternoon before the Big Day. She had spent all morning working on the cake, and it was a masterpiece—towering, tall, white with frosting filigree, guarding the secret of the moist, yellow cake within. Five tiers! The top tier a small cake for her and Lem to share.

  She called every saloon she knew of, starting with the one where he sometimes worked. Then the pool halls. Finally her children. Jenny and her husband and kids were already in Des Moines, with Beth. Nobody had seen Lem, but Jenny and Beth said they’d be over.

  Beth, in a navy blue suit with white trim, and Jenny, in a more colorful yellow-and-green frock, did not mention their father at first. Instead they gaped at the magnificent cake and clapped and laughed and sang their mother’s praises. They were sincere enough, but still, she thought, trying too hard.

  The cake was on the table like a confectionary centerpiece, her well-honed cake knife at the ready; but her girls would have to settle for cookies and tea. The women sat at one end of the kitchen table, chattering about who was coming—everyone!—and how wonderful tomorrow would be.

  Grace said, “I want to ask you something.”

  “Sure,” Jenny said.

  “Of course,” Beth said.

  Her face went to one daughter, then the other. “Why do you love your father more?”

  “What?” they both said, smiling in horror.

  Both her girls leaned forward and put their hands on hers and looked at her intently, searching for tears that weren’t there.

  “Oh, Mother, don’t be silly,” Jenny said. “We love you equally.”

  Beth said nothing.

  “It never felt that way,” Grace said.

  Silence took the room, leaving nothing but the fragrance left over from baking that cake.

  Finally Beth sighed. “We did love him more.”

  Jenny frowned at her sister.

  “When we were children,” Beth added.

  Jenny said nothing.

  “He was easy to love,” Beth went on, sighing, shaking her head. “He was a big ole teddy bear. He gave us nickels and candy and hugs. He took us to the movies while you were slaving over a hot stove. He was a wonderful father when we were six or eight or even eleven. You were the disciplinarian. Of course we loved him more.”

  Jenny, understanding, said, “When we got older, we knew who to love. We knew who was worthy. Mom, we’ll always love Daddy. He’s a great big kid. But you were everything to us...even when we...even when we didn’t know it.”

  Their mother smiled a little. Yes she did. Nodded.

  Then Grace said, “The grandkids love him, too. I think I just scare them.”

  Beth smirked. “Why wouldn’t they love him? He’s one of them.”

  The girls laughed. Grace kept the smile going.

  “Mom,” Jenny said, clutching Grace’s hand, “it’s been a long haul, but you made it. Don’t spoil your day by thinking about the, uh...well, the bad things. The hard parts. No marriage is perfect. Think about the houseful of kids of all ages who will be here to celebrate you and everything you’ve done for us.”

  They talked about other things for a while. Jenny’s boy Jimmy, 11, watched too much TV (Maverick was his favorite), and her older girl, Kathy, 16, wore too much makeup and hair spray (a Breck girl). Beth’s grandkids, Sam and Lucy—seven and five respectively—were a pistol and a little lady, respectively.

  At the door, Beth said, “He’ll show up. He won’t miss this.”

  “He wouldn’t do that to you,” Jenny said.

  But they all knew he might. Maybe not intentionally, but a drunk out on a drunk? Who knew what he might do?

  * * *

  Her husband stumbled in before midnight, barely able to walk. His clothes were a mess, an unmade bed with a souse in it. His lips were thick and loose. Always seemed liver-lipped when he got really drunk.

  Somehow she walked him in and got him to the downstairs bathroom with its shower fixture. Helping him out of his shoes to step into the tub, fully clothed, was tricky. She got the spray going in his face and he drowned standing up for a while, but came around somewhat. Enough to strip himself out of his clothes with only a little assistance.

  Naked, he was an even bigger baby. Not much hair on him, except that white butch on his skull. Pink like the pigs Papa used to slaughter. She had a bathrobe for him. Got him into it. Walked him up the stairs and into his bedroom. They hadn’t slept in the same room for years.

  “Sweet thing,” he said, and plopped on top of the bedcovers. Clumsily he got his dentures out and dropped them into the waiting glass on the bed stand, plink plink. “Sweet thing...”

  Then he was snoring.

  That was when she decided.

  When the whole family was gathered, and all the well wishes and speeches were over, she would tell them. She would tell him.

  “I want a divorce,” she would say. Then she would stand and point at him like God Almighty at the world’s worst sinner and say, “And I want you out of this house, Lemuel Richard Rushmore, right this minute.”

  She looked down at the big pink baby in the bathrobe, snoring, his lips flapping over the toothlessness, and clenched her fists and promised herself she would tell him.

  Tell them all.

  * * *

  And then the day was everything Grace had dreamed it would be.

  After all these years, finally her day.

  Her girls and the wives of her boys indeed cooked a wonderful dinner, after which Grace’s cake was the sensation of the entire event. She served it up herself, and Beth spirited away the top little tier for the hostess and host to share later. Lem had two big pieces but Grace held back, making sure everyone else got however much of the sweet wonderful stuff as they wanted. Then it was gone.

  The younger kiddies were running around, having fun exploring the big old house, while the older ones were bored, Grace knew. She showed them to the den where the small black-and-white TV would have to do. The grown-ups danced to some old 78s and even she and Lem cut a rug to “By the Light of the Silvery Moon.” Everyone’s eyes were big and some teared up when they saw how light on their feet the old couple was.

  That was when she softened. She might still throw the old scallywag out, but not today. That would be cruel. That might ruin everyone else’s good time.

  But she did harden again some, when she saw Lem pouring liquid from a flask into his cup of punch. Five times, she saw that. Still, it only seemed to
make Lem more jovial. He had never been a really nasty drunk. That much you could say for him.

  And it was fun to watch him caper with the children. The kiddies squealed with laughter, just loving the attention of the big white-haired teddy bear.

  Finally, the husband and wife, the Golden Anniversary couple, sat in high-backed chairs with windows behind them streaming sunshine while everybody brought them presents and said kind words. Almost everything Grace received was a kitchen item, green bean slicer, a handheld ice crusher, pots, pans, and a dishwasher that everybody had pitched in on, rolled out by the boys with a big golden ribbon around it (it would be installed later). This got applause. As for Lem, he got tobacco for his pipe, a fancy pool cue, a sweater, a joke book, a few other things. Not as much as Grace. He was half recipient of the dishwasher, after all.

  A day that had begun around eleven o’clock was over by sundown, and everyone took their leave. Lem disappeared off somewhere and Grace went to the door and saw everyone out. Thanked each one, squeezed their hands, giving all of them smiles wider than they’d ever seen from her.

  She stood on the front stoop and waved and smiled some more as each vehicle drove off, hands big and small waving back at her from car windows, smiles everywhere, then fading with what was left of the sun.

  A more perfect day she could not imagine.

  All that remained was to have a piece of her white-frosted masterpiece.

  In the kitchen, Lem was sitting in his undershirt and suspenders having one last bite of the small final tier of the Golden Anniversary cake. He had eaten every bit. Every morsel.

  She sat beside him and he looked at her with frosting and crumbs on his thick smiling lips and she picked up the cake knife and thrust it into his eye.

  He sat there with his mouth open, some semimasticated cake within, the handle of the knife sticking straight out, then toppled to the floor. She looked over at the sink, where her children had piled the dirty dishes that would not wait for the installation of the new dishwasher.

  But she would clean up later. In the morning.

  For now she stepped over her husband and went upstairs to her bed and Bible.

  * * *

  LEMON LAYER CAKE

  (FAMILY SIZE)

  CAKE:

  3 cups sifted all-purpose flour

  1 tbs baking powder

  1/2 tsp salt

  1 cup butter, softened

  1 and 3/4 cups sugar

  4 large eggs

  2 tsp vanilla extract

  1 cup buttermilk

  1 tbs lemon zest, heaping

  1/3 cup lemon juice

  FROSTING:

  1 cup butter, softened

  8 ounces cream cheese, brick-style and softened

  5 cups powdered sugar

  2 tbs lemon juice

  1 tsp vanilla extract

  pinch of salt

  CAKE DIRECTIONS:

  With an electric mixer, cream the butter and sugar together in a large bowl until smooth.

  Add the eggs and vanilla and beat until smooth. In a separate bowl, combine the flour, baking powder, and salt.

  Add the dry ingredients into the wet mixture.

  Add the buttermilk, lemon zest, and lemon juice and mix on low until there are no lumps. The batter will be a little thick. Pour batter evenly into three round greased 9-inch pans.

  Bake at 350 degrees for 20 to 25 minutes depending upon your oven.

  When done, let cool completely.

  FROSTING DIRECTIONS:

  In a large bowl, beat the butter until creamy.

  Add the cream cheese and beat until smooth.

  Add the powdered sugar, lemon juice, vanilla, and pinch of salt and continue mixing until creamy.

  If frosting is too thin, add more powdered sugar; if too thick, add more lemon juice.

  ASSEMBLY:

  Using a sharp knife, slice a thin layer off the top of each cake to make a flat surface.

  Place one cake on a cake stand, and evenly cover the top with about 1 cup of the frosting.

  Place second cake on top of the first, and cover with another cup of frosting. Repeat for the third cake, this time covering all sides of the cake.

  Refrigerate for half an hour before slicing.

  Bon appetit!

  TEN YEARS, TWO DAYS, SIX HOURS

  BY WENDY HORNSBY

  Before I stood up in front of witnesses and vowed to cherish Herbert Garfield Hardy for better or worse, you’d think that someone, one of his ex-wives maybe, would have clued me in about just how bad the worse parts might get. No one did, but with me, a vow is a vow, so I stuck it out with Herbie for ten years, two days, and six hours before the escape clause, the one about till death do us part, kicked in.

  Even after he was gone, Herbie managed to turn what could have been a nice straightforward leave-taking into a grand and complicated cock-up. On his very last day, he was lying in a hospital bed with an IV in one hand and a final directive in the other when I said to him, “Herbie, why don’t you buy the cremation package? Think about it. When the time comes I can tuck you into a carry-on, fly you home to Omaha, and put you into the ground, no muss, no fuss.”

  But Herbie, ever the contrarian, countered with, “Nope. Button me into a good three-piece suit and lay me out in the biggest mahogany coffin my money can buy. Honey, if questions ever come up I want there to be a corpse to dig up.” As if anyone would ever question how Herbie Hardy’s antique carcass finally came to be inside a box. But it was his own damn corpse to dispose of, so I just held fire one last time and gave him the last word.

  Knowing when to hold fire was how I got by with Herbie for ten years, two days, and six damn hours. We met on a firing range, so he always knew I was a better shot than he was. In any ugly situation he could gin up (and there were plenty of those) he always knew there was a line he couldn’t cross with me. That, and I cooked for him whatever he wanted just the way he wanted it.

  Because of Herbie’s need to complicate my life even posthumously, I was out in the middle of the desert somewhere northeast of Las Vegas when Mr. Peters from the mortuary called. After six hours driving Herbie’s giant Lincoln Navigator with nothing for company except country classics on the CD and radio preachers promising to save my eternal soul, I confess that a two-way conversation of any kind with a living being, even if it was with Mr. Peters from the mortuary, was a welcome diversion.

  “Mrs. Hardy,” Mr. Peters said in his silky mortician’s voice. “We at the Peters Family Funeral Home want to apologize to you for any inconvenience the failure of our transport equipment caused you and your loved ones this morning. You know that we strive to provide the very best in care and service to families during their time of sorrow.”

  I rolled my eyes, knowing the reason for his call had nothing to do with any concern for me or my loved ones. Before he could offer some version of circumstances beyond our control, I said, “Inconvenience may be the understatement of the week, don’t you think, Mr. Peters?”

  “We are deeply chagrined, Mrs. Hardy. Deeply. The transport vehicle was in perfect running order this morning.”

  “Until the engine blew,” I said. “Explain to me why you couldn’t send another hearse to transport Herbie to the airport after the first one crapped out? We missed our flight.”

  “I am, dear lady, profoundly sorry.” Then he said it: “But circumstances beyond our control—”

  “Mr. Peters, have you any idea what it cost me to rebook flights at the last minute? As I’m sure you heard, I couldn’t get tickets for the two of us on the same flight. Did you think it was okay for my Herbie to fly all by himself?”

  “I—I—I...” he stammered, followed by a long pause that I was happy to wait out. After a count of seven and a deep breath he said, “I do apologize again, Mrs. Hardy. You’ve no idea how sorry
I am.”

  I was trying to dredge up the energy to fake cry a little until he said, “I hate to even bring up the reason for my call, but do you have any idea where our casket buddy might have got to?”

  “‘Casket buddy’? You mean Ernie, your crack driver? The guy who was supposed to drive me and Herbie to the airport in time to catch our plane to Omaha, which he did not manage to do?”

  “Uh, no, ma’am. And I am truly regretful that you missed your first flight. Unfortunate, and of course totally unforeseeable. But I am referring to the wheeled apparatus used to convey your loved one’s casket at the church.”

  “The wheelie thing under Herbie’s casket?”

  “Yes, ma’am, the wheelie thing under your husband’s casket.”

  “Why on this green earth would you think I know anything about your damn buddy gizmo?”

  “A lovely woman at the church told me that the last time she saw it was while you were waiting for transport.”

  “That lovely woman at the church was probably the old girl who wheeled Herbie out the back door and threw a tablecloth over him because seeing the coffin upset the ladies who were coming in to set up for a wedding. A pink flowered tablecloth, Mr. Peters. Dignified handling, my ass. I promise that I will forget you ever made this highly inappropriate call if you promise me that you finally managed to get my Herbie onto his plane on time.”

  “Uh,” was his answer. I heard some side conversation but hung up and turned off my phone’s ringer before he figured out what to say next. I was fairly certain by the number of times Peters called back after that and the length of the messages he left that he had come to understand that the Peters Family Funeral Home had lost track of the dearly departed Herbert Garfield Hardy, Senior.

  What is it with mortuaries that everything involved with preparing a body for burial gets renamed? Flowers are tributes, the dead guy is the loved one, and all his friends and relatives become the bereaved. Casket buddy? The thing certainly is helpful, like a good buddy should be, so okay, a buddy. It folds up like a beach chair. Doesn’t weigh much, either.