Icing Allison

by Pamela Burford

  The date stamp on this video was December 17. In nine days the beautiful, composed young woman staring back through my computer screen would be dead. The realization sent a shiver through me. She wore the same pale blue bathrobe I’d seen several times previously. Apparently she made most of these videos late at night when Nick was asleep.

  “I’ve been thinking about you a lot, Jim,” she said. “Maybe it’s because of what’s happening to my marriage, how it’s all gone to hell. But really, it goes further back to when Mitchell died. That’s when I began to kind of... sense you. I’ve been feeling your presence, especially when I’m really blue. My guardian angel.” A small smile.

  “I know it doesn’t make sense to still feel this close to you. I know I’ll never set eyes on you again. But it helps to imagine you beside me, quietly supporting me. Sometimes I even sense your touch, your hand on my back.” The smile turned crooked. “That’s how far gone I am. Pretty pitiful, huh?”

  Emotion constricted my throat. It didn’t sound pitiful to me, it sounded touching, and all too similar to what I myself had experienced following my divorce from Dom. Not for the first time, I wondered about Allison’s relationship with Jim, and how long ago he’d died.

  “Do you remember how dorky I was when we first met?” Allison grimaced at the memory. “Fourteen years old, starting school in the middle of the year, a shy, awkward kid fresh from Superior, Texas, population three hundred seventeen. Okay, let’s be honest. ‘Awkward’ doesn’t come close. I was downright ugly. The acne, the dumb haircut, and my clothes! No wonder the popular girls all made fun of me.”

  She laughed at the memory and ratcheted up her mild accent. “Oh, and let’s not forget that West Texas twang! The icing on the cake. Teenage girls can be so cruel, and the boys aren’t much better. Except for you, Jim. If it hadn’t been for you befriending me those first few months, protecting me, I don’t know if I would’ve made it.”

  Allison had had her share of misery during her short life. Being uprooted and moved across country at an awkward age, leaving her at the mercy of her new school’s mean girls. Then came the losses. First Jim, who’d obviously meant a great deal to her, then Mitchell, whom she’d called the love of her life. Then Nick’s betrayal with a woman who was supposed to be Allison’s friend. And if that wasn’t enough, there was the horrible accident that had taken her life—horrible and ironic considering her love of the outdoors.

  I tried not to think of how it had been for Allison at the end, struggling in vain in the freezing water, trying to scramble onto solid ice and feeling it give way beneath her, feeling hypothermia encroach and finally knowing there was nothing she could do, that she would die alone in that lake.

  I gave my head a vigorous shake, trying to shed the unwelcome thoughts, the picture of Allison lying under the ice as if placed there as part of some grotesque museum display.

  Now she was half rising from her seat and reaching for something offscreen. She settled back down and examined it in her lap. It was a small framed picture, no doubt one of the cluster of family photos that sat on her desk. She wore a sweet, enigmatic smile.

  Finally she said, “Nick wanted to know who was in this picture with me. I told him you’re my cousin. He’s not the kind of guy that can handle looking at a picture of his wife’s old boyfriend every day. Mitchell, on the other hand, was mature enough, self-confident enough, to get it. He didn’t feel threatened by my memories of you.”

  Allison kissed her fingertips and tenderly pressed them to the picture. “Do you remember when this was taken? That time we went to that little amusement park with the other theater-club kids? Nunley’s—it’s still there. We’d been building sets and we were filthy, covered in paint.”

  She got up and brought the photo closer to the camera lens. A color snapshot filled the screen. Two teenagers on side-by-side wooden carousel horses, laughing as they tried to push each other off their mounts. Allison was easy to recognize, with her dark ponytail and violet eyes. The boy had medium brown hair that brushed his collar. His eyes appeared hazel or green. His face was distinctive if not particularly handsome.

  I found myself leaning forward at my computer, eyes glued to the screen. When Allison pulled back and started to sit down again, I fumbled with the mouse and reversed the video a few seconds so I could freeze it on the photo.

  I recognized this boy. But from where? The name Jim didn’t help. The only Jim I knew was a pal of my dad’s.

  The thing is, this memory didn’t feel old. It felt pretty darn fresh. I peered closely at the young man’s eyes, his mouth, the shape of his face. I sat back, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. Where do I know you from, Jim?

  I opened my eyes and settled my gaze on his. “Oh.” And I knew.

  8

  Shrooms Will Get You In

  I’M NOT A social media type of person, by which I mean I don’t live for social media. I do have a Facebook account because that’s the only way some of my actual friends communicate, but I don’t post much. I’m of the opinion that no one needs or wants constant hourly updates regarding my political views, snack status, or the weather outside my front door.

  I don’t go on Facebook every day, but I was on it now, searching for Skye’s profile. It wasn’t hard to find. She’d recently changed her cover photo to a selfie showing her glum face with Allison’s casket in the background. I recalled watching Skye take this shot because she was the only one doing it. This wasn’t Wondrous Wendell’s wake, bizarre enough to justify a sea of clicking cell-phone cameras. This was the wake of a young woman whom Skye had claimed as a best friend. Which should have meant that Allison’s wake was about, well, Allison.

  But Skye hadn’t restricted her photography to the wake. As I’d told Maia, she’d taken pictures at the cemetery too. Some of the shots were directed at the graveside service, but most were of herself, looking morose and missing her bestie. As it turned out, Skye had not locked down her Facebook profile, which meant all her status updates, all her pictures, her friends list, everything was open to public viewing. I’d been afraid I’d have to friend her and hope she accepted, but it was all right there, a click away, including the picture album she’d created just for the funeral.

  When I’d finally recognized Jim in that picture from Allison’s video, when the memory had clicked in, I’d known precisely where I’d seen that face. Attendance had been heavy at Allison’s graveside service, not surprising considering her young age. One man had stood apart, some distance from the rest. Joleen and Doug’s backs were to him, which I now suspected was deliberate, an effort to avoid being recognized by them. He hadn’t stayed long.

  Was it Jim? Was he alive? Or was I imagining things that weren’t there, grasping at straws? At this point I gave it fifty-fifty odds.

  The thing is, the man who looked like Jim had been standing behind Skye when she’d taken all those selfies. Was it possible she’d inadvertently recorded his image along with her own?

  Skye appeared fond of Facebook’s optional Check In feature, which uses GPS to stamp your precise location when posting an update from a cell phone. On the day of Allison’s funeral she’d “checked in” at the Leonard T. Ahearn and Sons Funeral Home at 12:17 p.m., the Whispering Willows Cemetery at 1:52 p.m., and Allison’s home at 3:22 p.m.

  I scrolled through her cemetery pictures. She’d taken selfie after selfie, altering her expression slightly in each one, as if trying to achieve the ideal pretty, pouting mourning face. She’d shifted her phone this way and that, adjusting the angle.

  I spotted him at last. He stood several yards behind Skye, his hands shoved into the pockets of his charcoal-gray overcoat, looking sober and sad and indisputably alive.

  I stared at his image a long time. I’d been wondering what to do with Allison’s flash drive, who should get it. Her video diary entries had been addressed directly to this man. It was as if she’d been whispering into his ear.

  I knew what I had to do.

  “HOW DID YOU KNO
W I’m a vegetarian?” Jim Manning asked. We’d just introduced ourselves and claimed a blond-wood bistro table near the big picture windows of Janey’s Place. It was two in the afternoon on Tuesday. The lunch rush was over and the after-school crowd had yet to descend. At the moment all the other tables were vacant.

  This café was a pleasant refuge any time of year, but especially in winter, when it was like walking into your grandma’s warm kitchen, perfumed with soups, stews, and various sweet concoctions. Okay, maybe your grandma never made vegetarian chili or tofu scramble wraps. She probably didn’t whip up green smoothies in her blender or serve a thousand and one varieties of herbal tea. And I’m not saying I actually like this stuff—being your basic junk-food junkie, I usually stick to a single reliable menu item here—but it does smell awfully good and feel awfully comforting when it’s close to freezing outside.

  “I had no idea you’re a vegetarian. I’m definitely not,” I admitted, “but I like this place.”

  He didn’t ask whether Jane Delaney had any connection to Janey’s Place, which was just as well. I didn’t want to get into it. When people find out my ex-husband (who is a vegetarian) owns the successful Janey’s Place chain of restaurants, they generally assume I’m rolling in dough from the divorce settlement.

  Oh, Nice Guy Dom had offered me half of the business I’d helped to build when we’d split up all those years ago. At that time it had consisted of this one location and was still in the red. I’d opted instead to hang on to an adorable antique student desk we’d found at a flea market. I still have it. Meanwhile Janey’s Place has made Dom a millionaire many times over. Yeah, that’s me, Jane Delaney, negotiator extraordinaire.

  I know you’re dying to find out how I’d managed to locate Jim. I hate technology, except when it works. Did you know that nowadays many high schools are putting their yearbooks online? Neither did I, but I discovered it soon enough once I started looking for information about Allison’s high school. I knew her family had moved to Massapequa from Texas when she was fourteen. She’d mentioned going to school with Jim.

  I correctly surmised that Allison had graduated thirteen years earlier. It turned out she and Jim were in the same class. Their portraits had appeared in alphabetical order along with those of their fellow seniors. When I’d worked my way to the M’s, there he was, the same smiling youth I’d seen in the picture taken with Allison at Nunley’s.

  Contacting him had taken a little more effort, but eventually LinkedIn had come through. Turns out Jim is a civil engineer working in the nonprofit sector. I’d told him an abbreviated version of who I was and how I’d known Allison, and that she’d left something that should probably go to him. I’d told him that I didn’t want to trust the item to the mail, which was true, but mainly I’d wanted to meet him, look him in the eye and talk with him, and then decide whether handing over Allison’s video diary to a stranger was the responsible thing to do. I owed it to her not to get this wrong.

  I’d brought along the little mushroom-shaped salt shaker, something of Allison’s to give him if I decided not to hand over the flash drive. Yeah, it would be weird, but considering what I do for a living, it’s not as if weird and I are strangers.

  Cheyenne O’Rourke tottered over on her four-inch platform boots to take our order. Cheyenne was a local youth who’d had run-ins with the law, thanks to some astoundingly poor decision making. I’d call her disaffected, but that would imply an attitude of rebellion and grievance against authority figures, which in turn would imply that she believed in something outside of herself. Cheyenne believed in whatever would make her happy at the moment. This generally involved questionable associates, expensive toys, and glitter nail polish.

  Today’s manicure, sparkly black and yellow stripes, nearly caused me to leap out of my seat. Enjoy your amuse-bouche of killer bees. I’ll be back shortly with your scorpions en brochette.

  Cheyenne had paired the stratospheric platform boots with skull-printed leggings through which her thong panties were clearly visible. Her apple-green Janey’s Place tee-shirt was knotted over a stretchy purple athletic shirt. It was as if she’d woken up that morning and asked herself, What can I wear that will display my prodigious behind and bulging muffin top to full advantage? Got it!

  Jim said, “I’ll have the quinoa protein bowl.”

  “What do you want on it? There’s, like, choices.” Cheyenne scratched absentmindedly at a brand-new, raw tattoo on the side of her neck: the name Brian, inexpertly executed in script. The boyfriend du jour, obviously.

  Yeah, more brilliant decision making. What can I tell you?

  Jim peered at the wall menu behind the service counter. “Let’s do hummus, almonds, kale, tomatoes, and olives. Cilantro-lime dressing.”

  That was sounding almost decent until I heard “kale.”

  “I haven’t had lunch,” Jim told me.

  “No problem.” I turned to Cheyenne. “I’ll have my usual.”

  The girl just stared at me, scratching that red-rimmed tattoo. Okay, she was going to use gloves for the food prep, right? I mean, it’s the law, right?

  Apparently my use of the term “my usual” failed to trigger an association within her brain, despite my having ordered the same darn thing—and only that thing—approximately twenty million times.

  “Papaya-ginger smoothie,” I said, “large.” I watched her wobble off in those preposterous boots, her long fingernails busy as bees. Scritch, scritch, scritch.

  The day was clear and cold. Jim Manning sat next to the huge window in a patch of dazzling sunlight, as if inviting scrutiny. He was of average height and build, having filled out a bit since his lean teenage years. He was no Adonis, as I’ve said, but there was something compelling about his looks. Dark, peaked eyebrows and a dusting of old acne scars emphasized the strong lines of his face. His hazel gaze was direct and self-assured, putting me at ease.

  He must have been comfortable with me, as well, to have ordered a whole meal rather than, say, a mug of peppermint tea. He could have simply asked me to hand over whatever I had to give him and hightailed it out of there.

  The directness didn’t stop at his gaze. “I checked you out online, Jane.”

  I smirked. “And you still agreed to meet me?”

  “Are you kidding?” His smile was wide and appealing. “How could I resist?”

  I keep track of what’s said about me on assorted blogs and boards, although I’ve been known to regret it. Considering the unique services I provide and that I’d long ago been saddled with the nickname Death Diva, I tend to attract more than my share of wackos and Internet trolls. Chalk it up to the price of doing business.

  His bluntness was contagious. I said, “So you were Allison’s high school sweetheart.”

  “High school and throughout college. I went to Cornell. She was at Binghamton. We got together as often as we could.”

  “So this was a long-term relationship,” I said.

  He nodded, then turned to stare out the window for a moment at the pedestrian traffic a few feet away on Main Street’s sidewalk. Finally he said, “My family didn’t approve.”

  “Of Allison?”

  “It was a simple case of snobbery,” he said evenly. “A difference in socioeconomic status.”

  There was that word again, the one Allison had used in one of her last videos. How had she put it? The last thing I wanted was to make my second marriage about who had less and who had more, the difference in socioeconomic status and all that.

  “My family is well off,” he said. “Hers isn’t.”

  I happened to know that “well off” was quite the understatement. I’d done my own Internet research before arranging to meet Jim. The Mannings’ wealth went back generations. Jim didn’t have to work if he didn’t want to. I admired not only that he wanted to but that he used his skills as a civil engineer to help people in underdeveloped areas of the world gain access to clean water and sanitation.

  I said, “She was from a small town in W
est Texas. Superior, I think it’s called. Population three hundred something.”

  Those dark eyebrows rose. “You must have known her better than you say if she told you that much. Allie was pretty private.”

  “It’s... complicated,” I said. “So your family didn’t want you two to be together?”

  “My parents never understood how I could be attracted to, much less in love with, a girl from such a different background,” he said. “I knew it was sheer elitism. I resisted it for a long time.”

  “All through high school and college,” I said. “I’d call that a long time. And then?”

  “And then—” He was interrupted by the return of Cheyenne, who clop-clopped back over with our food. She set the creamy, orange-colored smoothie in front of Jim, and the quinoa concoction in front of me. I managed not to recoil from it. He slid them into correct position and requested a fork.

  “And a straw,” I said.

  Cheyenne sighed—Will these oppressive demands never cease?—and went off in search of eating implements.

  “And then,” he continued, “Allie and I made plans to get married right after college.”

  “Your parents must not have been happy about that,” I said.

  “They never let up. To them it was like end of the world. And you have to understand.” He shook his head sadly. “I was close with my parents, still am. They aren’t bad people. They have their faults, sure, but don’t we all?”

  I sensed where this was going. “So you listened to them.”

  “I held out as long as I could. They—”

  Cheyenne returned, with her impeccable timing, to slap our utensils on the table and stomp away.

  Jim sighed. “They kept up the pressure. Threatened to disown me. To end all contact with me.”

  “So you called off the wedding?”

  “No. Allie and I were very much in love. She didn’t care about my family’s money, she just wanted to be with me, and I with her. We decided to elope. Somehow my parents got wind of it. Later I learned they’d hired a private investigator.”