Last Last Chance

by Fiona Maazel

  When Mother returns, she seems disappointed to find me still there. Like I’d break ice with Quinty alone.

  “Well, go on,” she says, and holds the door open.

  But if I go first, she’s gonna bolt. And bolt she does. Her heels clatter down the hall like marbles.

  Quinty says, “Welcome, nice to see you again. Wish it were under more pleasant circumstances.”

  Is there a school for this stuff? Or a book of phrases?

  Quinty’s one giant pouch. His cheeks hang from his bones like sacks on a rack. Beneath each eye, tear bags that slosh about with every jerk of his head. He reminds me a bit of No Face minus the big baby muffinhead appeal.

  His chair wheezes. Of the two left, I choose a black task and lower it so I am eye level with a picture of Quinty, Jr., and Jr., Jr., who’s nine.

  “Where is your mother? This won’t take long.”

  We hear her chatting up the secretary. Talk about your wrong tree. She gets out three words before the secretary buzzes her in.

  Quinty kisses her on both cheeks. She settles in a lounge chair and stores her feet under her lap. “Blisters,” she says. I nod. Her shoes narrow in tips sharp as a dart.

  “Cigarette?” Quinty opens a box on his desk. He’s got those colored ones with gold filters, and an electric ashtray to eat up the smoke. Mother produces a silver holder with rhinestone barrel. I don’t think anyone has used one of those since 1950. Mother thinks the farther she holds the cigarette from her lungs, the longer she’ll enjoy it before feeling ill. She’s allergic to tobacco.

  I take note of the bathroom abutting the office, just in case.

  Quinty hands out two copies of Aggie’s will and props his elbows on the desk. “Take your time,” he says. I fold mine and rest it in my lap. Isifrid asks me to hold on to hers, as well.

  Quinty looks surprised. I return the look. We’re supposed to read the will here and make sense of it? I ask if he’ll summarize.

  “Very well. As you probably know, Agneth did not have much by way of possessions. She also did not have a pension or independent funds.”

  Mother is nodding—or rocking, actually—so I suggest she go freshen up. Quinty and I sit in silence, waiting. Unfortunately, he decides to acknowledge her dry heaving whereas I am content to talk sports.

  “Lucy,” he says, “I do not wish to pry, but your mother is not looking well. Not well at all. I trust she’s been to a doctor who’s monitoring the treatment?”

  For a second I think Quinty might suspect Mother has plague. But then this is absurd. There’s no time to look bad with plague; you just get it and die.

  “What do you mean?” I say.

  “Lucy, it’s okay. When did she start chemo?”

  I sit back in my chair. Quinty thinks Mother has cancer?

  I suggest we stick with Agneth.

  He pares dead skin from the cuticle region of his thumb. Whereas death is just part of the job, dying has Quinty upset. “Your father and I were good friends,” he says. “Obviously I can’t do anything about this plague fiasco, but I do know a lot of doctors. And I am owed many favors.”

  What can this mean? Isifrid’s got money. Maybe he knows of drugs as yet unavailable to the public. Or maybe he just gets free scrips. Whoa, free scrips. I love these words, they are like the brakes on a lawless train. I can’t keep a telephone number in my head for three seconds, but I’ve got genius when it comes to the free scrips. Also, it doesn’t take much for the evil in me to well up fast.

  “That’s kind of you,” I say. “The cancer’s pretty advanced, we’re doing all we can.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, but thank you. Actually—no, no that’s all right. Let’s finish up with the will.”

  He leans forward. He’s about to get avuncular, I know it. I think: Please don’t get avuncular, please please please.

  “Listen, Lucy. I know things have been hard on you—”

  Crap.

  “—and that having to take care of your mom can’t be helping. So let me help.”

  Double crap.

  “It’s okay, you know, to ask for help.”

  It turns out the only thing worse than conning a guy is conning a nice guy. Before, when I wanted nothing, he was all pouch and breeze, but now that I’m gunning for the free scrip, he’s Mr. Good-heart. I wish Mother would come out of the bathroom and put an end to this. Because otherwise I will not stop. I will exploit Quinty’s good heart until he cashes in every favor he’s got.

  “Well, there is one thing,” I say.

  And that’s that. Quinty will produce a scrip for Oxy that will last me weeks.

  We agree to keep this between us. Mother returns. Quinty offers her some bottled water, which she waves off in martyr fashion.

  “Okay,” he says. “As I mentioned, Agneth did not have any assets. She’s left her jewelry to Hannah and her private papers to you, Lucy.”

  I flip through the itemized part of the will and see a blurb about an elaborate family tree rendered on posterboard, and a compendium of biographical sketches leather-bound with capeskin and boasting a charcoal frontispiece of the port in Bergen, Norway.

  Mother’s reading over my shoulder and shaking her head. “She left you the tree. Oh, Agneth.”

  If this is loss slamming Isifrid head-on, it’s all about the collateral damage: she’s chuckling about the hoot that was my grandmother while I feel so choked up it’s as if clumps of lung tissue are ramping up my throat.

  “Lastly,” Quinty says, “Agneth made a request. She wished to be cremated. She left no other instructions but one. It’s about you, Lucy.”

  Mother says she needs to go home, so if there’s nothing else—

  I say I’ll be there in a minute. I’m glad for the chance to hammer things out with Quinty, especially now that Aggie’s death has me choking on lung tissue. Whereas the capricious, hand-of-fate death romping through California has the country in an uproar, it’s the natural passing of an old woman that has me wrecked. Never to see this person again? Ever to sorrow the loss? I understand none of it.

  Mercifully, Quinty will have the scrip for me next week. He does not even ask why I can’t get it from Mother’s doctor. If he did, I’d say she’s too proud to ask, that she does not want to appear weak. This wouldn’t hold water with anyone but a good man like Quinty. I sigh and wonder if I can get to the Oxy before self-disgust gets me.

  “Lucy,” he says, “I should add that Agneth requested you, specifically, to release her ashes.”

  I am so giddy about the scrips, I’ve stopped paying attention. “Any place in particular? I can do that, sure.”

  “She didn’t say, only that you do it with a man named Eric, a friend of yours, I gather.”

  Attention restored. I belt out a laugh, it can’t be helped. When that’s over, I think: Huh. And then: No. Because what can this mean? It means that for all her talk of reincarnation, Agneth was not above wanting to live her dreams through me. I think of her sailor and hope she comes back a nurse who pursues love undeterred. But in the meantime, she can pursue vicariously and—but I stop there, as a gathering of real loneliness accosts my heart. A more likely explanation for Aggie’s request? She was not so much trying to live through me as trying to get me to live, period.

  I thank Quinty for his time and also, wink wink. But there’s no joy in it. I have been robbed of the special buoyancy of knowing drugs are in my future. Mother’s in the waiting room, with a National Geographic. A picture of hippos has her rapt. They are splayed in mud, cheek to cheek. The mud pit’s huge, plenty of room, but the hippos like it snug. She is explaining as much to the secretary, who’s actually into it.

  Downstairs, Raymond’s with a cop whose plans to ticket are dashed. He’s an army man, himself. They have an understanding.

  In the car, Isifrid asks what Quinty said. I suspect she will not like it. That she’ll feel slighted.

  “I’m supposed to spread her ashes,” I say. “With Eric.”<
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  She cocks her head. “Who the hell’s Eric?”

  I hate being reminded that my mother knows nothing about me. Equally, I hate knowing it’s my fault.

  “That photographer. Remember? He came with Alfred.”

  “That feminine-looking boy?”

  I beam and say, “That’s the one.”

  “Why? What a strange thing to ask.”

  “I don’t know. She liked him, I guess.”

  Her eyes narrow, which means: uh-oh. She can smell a lie for miles. Not because she’s savvy, but because she’s paranoid. When you think everything’s a lie, you’re bound to hit on a few. Thing is, while she can spot a lie, she’s got no sense for the truth.

  “I don’t think so,” she says. “I think you just don’t want me to come. I think you’re making this up! I can call Quinty, you know. I’m not stupid.”

  Eyes narrowed to eyes darting. Any second, she will fashion out of Aggie’s request a conspiracy to deprive her of crack.

  I decide to shut her down fast, and say, “If you call Quinty, you can forget about your stash at home.”

  Amazing how a face pale as cream can still go snow white. She turns away from me and hugs her knees. Discussion over.

  Twenty-three

  Aggie’s memorial woos a crowd. People I don’t remember, but who remember me. Friends of the family is what I think they’re called.

  I spot two women who were in Mother’s avocation class. One runs a lucrative rice pudding business. She wears a fur muff. Two has yet to get her product off the ground. She has patented a nailpolish jar in which the brush splays when pressed on the bottom, ensuring no polish goes to waste.

  I am to stand at the mouth of the nave and greet. Hannah has been banished to a corner pew for sporting Converse high-tops with white socks that bloom at the ankle. She’s wearing a black skirt, I don’t see what’s the big deal.

  Friends of the Family three, four, and five I recognize from the Kennewick event. Three is a CEO at Maybelline. He’s got a tie clip and cane. Four looks just back from Honolulu. I’d wager his tan lines cut at the groin because it’s always the old guys who insist on swim briefs. As for five, I think he’s a scientist, which makes his show at the Asatru blot a little weird.

  Six, seven, eight, nineteen, forty, forty-five, ninety. Ninety-seven’s in a wheelchair, so I am spared. I am a kissing post. I’m like the girl in the booth with the added grievance of grief.

  Oh, good, here comes Wanda, lips on deck. She takes me by the sleeve and strays us to a corner. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in a dress.

  “I just saw your mother,” she says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  This could mean anything. Best course: silence.

  “How bad is it? It looks bad. Oh, Lucy, you should have told me.

  Is it possible Wanda thinks Mother has cancer, too? Best course: silence.

  “No wonder you and Hannah are in such bad shape. No offense, but come on, you’re almost family. Okay, you don’t want to talk about it. Bad timing, I know. But look, if there’s anything I can do. I suppose I could try talking to her—no, that won’t work. Your mother is a mule. I remember she once wanted these boots—boy were they ugly—but she wanted them and bought them, and then decided to wear them every day for a year, no matter the season or outfit. It’d be ninety degrees out, and she’d be wearing her boots with the sheepskin liner. Most ridiculous thing I ever saw.”

  Wanda’s nearly lost to the memory, which gives me a chance to escape. I begin to inch away, smiling and nodding like I’m back there with her and the clompers, and gosh the fun we had, but no, her hand latches onto me, frog to fly.

  “The point is, I want to help. What with your father’s passing and everything in the news and now Agneth and you taking this big step, going back to rehab, it’s just a lot to deal with.”

  “Wanda, what are you talking about? Speak your mind.”

  “I’m talking about your mother. She’s on drugs.”

  Sweet fancy Moses, someone noticed. I give her a giant hug. Maybe now the burden of helping Isifrid can fall to someone who knows how to do it.

  She says, “It’s all right,” and rubs my back. “We’ll talk later. I know, I know.”

  Postclutch, I am wobbly. One tends to forget how a hug steals your balance. Or that when you hug, it’s like you’ve turned in your balance unwittingly. I lean against whatever’s closest, which happens to be Oliver Lentz. He takes me by the arm. Hard to tell if he’s holding me up or just saying hi. Oliver is a bowling pin, his proportions are sad. Actually, he’s worse than a bowling pin, but why niggle. I can smell Scotch on his breath. And his face, much like the cherry atop a sundae, is all sweat.

  He is just saying how much he admired Agneth when his son, Marcus, shows up. I can hardly believe it. In school, Marcus was Gumby. Shapely and soft. Loafers, argyle, turtlenecks. If not for a manly-man name like Marcus, I would not have pegged him for a guy. But now! Now he’s this lanky homosexual with sparkle lips and enough goop in his hair to grease a trough. I bet his parents are appalled. I bet they stopped sending those family-photo holiday cards. I bet they suffer.

  “Marcus?” He looks right past me.

  When we were kids, we used to kill the lights, hide under a couch, and grab Aggie’s calves as she walked by. Scared the kimono right off her. We used to call her on the phone from my room and say we were friends of mine and did Aggie know I was missing? Then we’d hide under the couch and grab at her ankles. This could go on for hours. I have not seen Marcus since we were thirteen.

  “Lucy?” he says. “I would never have recognized you.”

  “Likewise. You’re so—”

  “Gay?”

  “Hot. I was gonna say hot.”

  “Well, thanks. I’m really sorry about Agneth. We had some good times with her.”

  “That we did. So have I really changed that much?”

  He shrugs. Gay, yes. Smooth, no. He says I’ve matured.

  Well, then. I stand tall and exert my breasts. Comes a time in every girl’s life when she requisitions her honor. Too bad this isn’t it.

  “Good to see you, Marcus. Thanks for coming.”

  He leans forward. Air bisous, on both sides.

  In the presbytery, Mother has arranged a large painting of Aggie composed at one of her parties by a renowned artist whose story—amputee turned pimp turned burn turned religious—hits theaters next month. I try to take in the crowd when a little man catches my eye. He shuffles as he walks, his feet pronate. Knock-knees are his bane. This depresses me no end, largely because the shuffle posits decline, he wasn’t always this way, which thought hastens adjunct ideas that steepen the decline—say, that he was a CFO and dressage champ three years running, and look at him now. I watch him take a seat. An usher hands him a program, which he folds and puts into his breast pocket. His clothes need a wash. I doubt he was invited. Some people feast on death, and I am okay with that. Maybe the little man tramps from one memorial to the next. Maybe the only food he gets is the transubstantiation, which is pretty cool if you’re hungry and a Catholic. I don’t even know whether they do the Eucharist at a memorial. Do the Eucharist? Is that like do the hustle? I am the most contemptuous person ever.

  The little man piles his coat next to him. He retrieves the program and runs his finger along the frame of Aggie’s photo, a candid of her at age thirty. She’s wearing her hair in a bun, except for a rogue lock that hangs off the side of her face, which makes her look significantly more reckless than if she had spikes. Reminds me of this noir movie where the Deadly Female walks into a guy’s room and it’s so pristine that when she rumples the nap of his carpet with her shoe, it portends havoc better than if she’d shot up the place. So that’s Aggie, her rogue lock, and the little man.

  Everyone’s been seated, which means I have a clear view of the door when Eric walks in. I knew he’d be here but still. Just the sight of him reduces me to the basics. I need food, water, shelter, Eric. I’d like to crawl
under his shirt and stay there. I’d like to pitch a cot under his shirt and live there. And this is how I know I’m ruined. Because if I’m fantasizing, anyway, it should be about sex. Or, okay, since I’m a girl, walks on the beach. At the very least, cuddling.

  He says hi.

  I say hi.

  Stalemate.

  We haven’t seen each other since lunch. And I’ve been good. Have not called them at three a.m., have not stalked him at work. Have not obsessed except for your basic obsessing, which is much like your heart at rest. It’s still beating.

  I say, “Thanks for coming.”

  He says, “Of course. Kam couldn’t make it, but sends her condolences.”

  Nods all around, followed by the shoulder squeeze. Most ambiguous gesture ever.

  Stanley has saved me a spot between him and Mother. The effluvium of mourning seems concentrated in her perfume—lilac, gladiolus, honeysuckle. By contrast, I smell like Hubba-Bubba, never mind that I tossed my gum ages ago. Or that I was caught midspit by Colleen Hathaway, who stimulates Mother’s deep tissue twice a week. So embarrassing. The list of people I can never see again grows daily.

  Eric is a few rows back. He’s wearing a suit of pieces filched from other suits—pants, vest, jacket, bow tie. Bow tie!

  Isifrid has asked a number of her friends to speak for the family. Agneth lived with us for years, everyone knew her. There is talk of heroics—she was an autodidact—of fortitude and altruism. There is talk of reincarnation. Sigrid Hoffman reads some Old Icelandic poetry, which I love. The way the stanzas work, they are always dropping the other shoe at the last moment. This simulates a unique sound in nature, which I also love. I guess it’s a thunk. Maybe a thud.

  So I learned when I sat in the reeds,

  Hoping to have my desire:

  Lovely was the flesh of that fair girl,

  But nothing I hoped for happened.

  Thud.