When Patty Sue was occupied in the living room opening bottles of wine, Arch said to me, “You know Dad has a new girlfriend.”
I said, “I know.”
I was looking through Laura’s pantry for extra sugar in case we needed additional lemonade. I had brought the rest of the new bag, but the warmth of the day made me worry about the possibility of needing more. The only thing I found was some flour she had put in a canister sporting, naturally enough, a painted flower. Since I knew no homonym for sugar, I gave up.
“Maybe she’ll be here,” said Arch.
“Right,” I said. I turned to him. “The girlfriend. Do you care?”
He stared down at the lemons and I was immediately sorry. I knew his warning was meant to prepare me for not caring, not him.
“Sorry, hon,” I said. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”
“Will Vonette be here?” he asked. “I wanted to talk to her yesterday but Fritz said she was sick again.”
Arch did not use words like grammy or grandpa because John Richard and I had never taught him to. He had a child’s devotion to his grandmother, who doted on him. Fritz had always been too involved in his practice to pay any more attention to Arch than recognizing him. But Vonette’s “being sick” was the euphemism the adults in Arch’s life used to refer to her cocktail hour beginning at eleven in the morning. I often wondered if Arch knew, or suspected, the truth.
“Sick again,” I repeated as I scanned the kitchen. “Yes, Marla told me that.”
“They’re coming,” called Patty Sue from the other room.
“Quick, slip on your apron, kiddo,” I told Arch. “Then go to the front door and greet people. Tell them to leave coats, if they have any, in Laura’s bedroom, which is on the other side of the living room.” I hesitated. Then I said, “And show them where the bathroom is.”
His apron was in place; he raised fearful brown eyes to mine at the word bathroom.
I put my hands on his shoulders. “I checked it, and it’s all clean.”
He said, “I really don’t like this. I’m afraid.”
And so, for different reasons, was I.
CHAPTER 3
Parsley tendrils brushed the sides of the salmon and the exposed pink backmeat when I set the silver platter down on the long main-course table. I ladled the mayonnaise into a crystal bowl and placed it next to the salmon. Then I carried out the asparagus and the rest, including a packet with the mushrooms I had minced to replace the Jerk’s tomatoes. Arch had ushered the first group into Laura’s bedroom to leave their coats. The murmur of voices and click of heels on the brick walkway filtered through the air.
Backing up to the kitchen, I gave the room a quick scan before putting on my apron. Catering a reception was much like directing a play: the props and actors all had to be in place before the entertainment could begin.
My hands were shaking, my ears burning. Inexplicably, my right shoulder began to hurt. I had to take mental stock. Pull yourself together, I told myself. But the old fears welled up.
Toward the end of my marriage to John Richard, we had a fight in which I fell backward into an open dishwasher. My right shoulder was slit open by a protruding knife, necessitating stitches and a sling. While I was recovering, but before I could consciously acknowledge how bad things had become, I had a recurrent nightmare of being raped. The man in the nightmare was a famous regional tennis player named John. When the rape was over, a voice would say, “Call the plumber.” Then with great clarity one morning I realized that John in the dream was John my spouse, and that it was my life which was draining away.
I filed for divorce, then threw myself into the catering work with the zeal of a lover. Though I’d finally gone back to school when Arch was in first grade to finish a degree in psychology, the food service offered the most immediate potential for financial security. The child support payments, when they came, took care of about a third of the house payment. New recipes, new bookings, keeping accounts, working in the kitchen, and most important, being financially independent of John Richard, all these I relished. My shoulder healed; my work was my love. My nightmare now, when I had one, was that the business would be taken away as my dream of a family life had been.
I took a deep breath. My heart beat in its cavity. John Richard was going to be here and I understood why Marla was staying away. He would act charming, do his handsome guy routine with the women. Then in a few moments he would come up and make some cutting remark. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt me, in any event not physically, not here in front of all these people. I pressed my lips together. Go greet the guests, I told myself, but could not.
I looked through the kitchen drawers and found a pack of Kools, lit one, and inhaled deeply. Heavenly. I pondered the walls of the kitchen, which Laura had papered in a pattern of ice cream cones in Neopolitan colors. Just right for a teacher. But at least she smoked. Smoking is self-destructive. Laura Smiley was self-destructive, remember?
But she hadn’t had an ex-husband showing up to taunt her, I reminded my inner voice.
How do you know what taunted her? asked the voice.
I put out the cigarette and slipped into the living room. Maybe I would just take a look at that wall of photos during my break, see who had been the people in Ms. Smiley’s life. But I couldn’t take a break if I never started working.
“Trixie,” I said to the backside of a tall, muscled woman.
Trixie Jackson finished shaking off her coat and turned around. She was one of the aerobics instructors at Aspen Meadow’s athletic club, although I had not seen her for about a year and had put it down to a class-schedule change. She narrowed her eyes at me. I thought, She can smell the cigarette.
“Good to see you,” I said. “How was the funeral?”
“Depressing,” she replied. She raised an eyebrow at me. “Your ex-husband was there. John Richard.”
I resisted asking her if that was what made it depressing and motioned Arch over to take her coat. More people shuffled through the door and their low voices gurgled through the room like water melting a lake of ice. Trixie headed off toward the as-yet unmanned beverage table.
Vonette Korman’s shrill voice carried over from outside. “It just makes me so sad,” she was saying, “and she was so young and all. Course maybe not that young. Still, though. She was a caring person. And it is sad.”
I was caught in a dark bustle of coats, unneeded on this warm day but for the chilling effects of a funeral. Vonette’s highly made-up face and brilliant orange-red hair emerged by Trixie and the glasses of white wine. Threading my way back toward the food, I kept an eye on my ex-mother-in-law by pretending to examine the straightness of the tablecloths. And there it was, just as Marla had observed. As quickly and stealthily as any magician, Vonette drew a small leather-covered flask out of her purse and poured a clear liquid into her wineglass. It must have been vodka or gin. Unlike a magician’s, her glass contents did not change color, although I imagined it had changed into a martini.
“Mom,” came Arch’s shrill whisper from nearby. “Now what do you want me to do?”
“Go tend the drinks,” I whispered back. “Let them pour their own wine. You just do lemonade and coffee.” I looked back at the table. “And tea. That other pot has hot water in it and the Lipton bags are next to it. Sugar and cream are on the table. All you need to do is keep everything going.”
He nodded and turned away.
“Please come and have something to eat,” I said to a desultory group. And with that the show had begun. When their stomachs were full, the entertainment would be complete. I hoped.
“Well, if it isn’t the little food lady,” came the all-too-familiar voice. How he had found me so quickly I did not know. “I may not miss much,” John Richard said with a laugh, more like a snort, “but sometimes I miss your cooking.”
“Really?” I replied. “Funny, I don’t miss anything.”
I looked up at my ex-husband. Although I had not cared what clothes
he’d worn when we were married—he looked like a male model in everything—I had a compulsive interest in assessing his current wardrobe. Perhaps it was the new ostentation. He wants to look younger. Or the leather, wool, occasional silk: he’s making lots of money. If I thought it was polyester, I savored an inner victory: the practice is failing. I now glanced from the hand-tooled cowboy boots past the charcoal-colored wool pants to the silk cowboy shirt and Navajo bolo tie. The bolo was held with a silver ring sporting a hunk of turquoise that matched his eyes. John Richard was tall and blond, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. He had more the build of a prizefighter than a doctor. Which, I reflected, was probably appropriate.
He straightened his tie.
He said, “Outfit okay?”
I took a deep breath. I was too angry to admit he looked fabulous. I closed my eyes and feigned boredom.
“Remember,” I said, “I’m from New Jersey. There, people wear cowboy clothes up to fourth grade. But suit yourself.”
He was walking away. He held his hand up in mock salute. “I’ll do that.”
I looked at the food spread out on the table, then scanned the room for Patty Sue. She was talking to Pomeroy the beekeeper. At least someone was having a decent conversation with a man. Fritz Korman was sidling up to Patty Sue himself. Didn’t he see her enough with the twice-weekly visits? I also noticed Vonette watching Fritz.
Not a student of social interaction, I put myself to work. Besides, I didn’t want to seem to be looking for John Richard.
“Come and eat,” I invited a new gaggle of people eyeing the salmon. “C’mon, Trix,” I said because she was once more near me.
Trixie’s right arm—ripped, shredded, cut, as they say in the body business—reached for a plate. I lifted salmon flesh from the carcass.
“Asparagus?” I asked her.
“Of course,” she said. “But no bread.”
“Were you a friend of Laura’s?” I asked.
“I knew her,” she said vaguely, as I topped her coral-colored mound of fish with a dollop of mayonnaise. Trixie looked at me, dark brown eyes in a face framed with streaked blond hair. She said, “Not too much mayo.” She thought for a minute. “Laura used to come to class. Sometimes we talked afterward. She was funny, a little wacko, I thought, but not … She never came to the club’s parties. She was like you, didn’t really go out with men.”
I mm-hmmed and averted my eyes to end the conversation. This was not the assessment of my current social life that I wanted John Richard to overhear.
The aunt came up and asked how everything was going, then complimented us on the food, which she had yet to taste. She was a short woman with pale makeup and too-black hair cut severely short around her face.
“Thank you,” I said. “Will you be around long?”
She shook her head. “I’m flying back to Chicago tonight. The house is going up for sale Monday. She left her goods to me, but I certainly don’t know what to do with them. I’ll be back in November to finish things up.” She gave me an ingratiating smile. “Your son is just a little darling. And how nice of him to help you with the business.”
I nodded and fixed her a plate, then glanced in the direction of Arch, who was talking to John Richard, or rather, being talked to. Arch was nodding, his face full of pain. I could imagine the questions. Did you try out for soccer? Are you going to play football? Have you thought about basketball? Why not? The Jerk had never accepted the fact that his son was not destined for the NFL.
I reassured the moneyed aunt that the catering business was very important to me, as well as to Arch. She gave me a sympathetic look and slid away.
Now I could sense John Richard, hear him, see him shuffling along in what had become a fairly long food line, maybe ten people. With that kind of backup I was now preparing the plates in advance, whether the guests wanted asparagus or not. I heard him again and looked up. He was talking to Fritz. A medical conversation, no doubt. Beside the Jerk was the new girlfriend, a nondescript brunette whom my memory could only vaguely identify as a teacher.
I counted out the plates to John Richard’s. Eight. I drew out the mushroom packet. No sense in making him sick with tomatoes, thus risking more wrath, although the thought made me giggle. I sprinkled the mushroom bits on top of John Richard’s asparagus vinaigrette and kept going with plate preparation. I looked back at the line. For heaven’s sake. The girlfriend had stepped in front of the Jerk, so now she would get the mushrooms and he would still get tomatoes. I clanked the plates into their proper order, and that was my mistake.
John Richard sidled up to the front of the line and again straightened the bolo as he peered at the dishes. Then he raised a thick wrist to dramatically count the number of people in line.
“Okay, Goldy,” he said with a deep sigh, as he picked up the plate with the mushrooms. “What are you trying to feed me?”
“It’s not for you. It’s for your girlfriend. An aphrodisiac. She may need it.”
He said, “Then you won’t mind if I send this down to a lab and have it analyzed.”
“Don’t be so paranoid.” I grabbed the edge of the plate. “It’s just mushrooms instead of tomatoes, because I didn’t want you to get sick.”
He pulled the plate toward him. The salmon made a precarious slide toward the silk cowboy shirt.
“Will you stop?” I said through clenched teeth. “Just let me get you a new one.”
“Like hell,” he said. He pulled the plate as I let go. The vinaigrette splashed down the silk.
John Richard cursed.
I met his withering look and said, “Send me the cleaning bill.”
He muttered something and moved off.
I wasn’t having a very good day.
Patty Sue appeared next to me and complained that no one was ready for dessert yet.
“Take over the food line,” I commanded. “I need a break. Funerals for the wrong people depress me.”
Once she had taken my place, I stared at the wall of photos. When it was my turn at the coffeepot I let the dark liquid gush into two of the deep Styrofoam cups with my logo on them. One was for me and one was for Vonette, who probably would be needing caffeine about now. But before I could deliver it I saw Fritz Korman chatting with Patty Sue again. This meant Patty Sue had slowed down in serving the food. I strolled back.
“Well hello, Goldy,” said my ex-father-in-law with his patented toothy grin. The light shone off strands of white hair carefully combed across his bald pate. His teeth gleamed as he directed his smile back to Patty Sue, the wolf welcoming Red Riding Hood. John Richard had inherited his hulking build from Fritz, which was shown off to good advantage in yet another silk shirt with fringed vest and pants.
I said, “Fritz, you look like you just stepped off the set of ‘Bonanza.’ ”
He chucked me under the chin, unruffled. Fritz was like a man who was perpetually running for office, and he always treated me as if we were old friends or lovers or both.
“Has Patty Sue told you,” I began as I set down the cups, “that her father is a doctor, too?”
“Why no,” said Fritz, startled.
“But he isn’t,” said Patty Sue.
“Oh yes,” I continued as I again began to flick out creamy glops of mayonnaise onto piles of salmon. “Patty Sue’s father, the doctor, works in Washington, D.C. Very important fellow. Proctologist, to be exact.”
“What?” said Patty Sue and Fritz in unison.
“The Pentagon proctologist,” I rolled on, “who also gives political advice. He tells the generals working on Iran policy, Shove it up there where it hurts.”
Success. A confused look passed over Fritz’s face before he walked away. After a minute, Patty Sue started serving again.
“You need to get more mayonnaise from the kitchen,” I advised as I handed her the bowl. “Quickly.” When she returned I took the lukewarm coffee over to Vonette, who was bending Pomeroy Locraft’s ear.
“It just makes me so sad,” Von
ette was saying, true to form. The sorrier and sadder she felt, the more she drank.
I said, “What makes you so sad?”
“Oh hi, Goldy,” she replied. Pomeroy, tall, dark, thirty-ish, and flannel shirted, nodded at me.
Vonette went on. “Did I hear you talking to Fritz about Iran over there? Honey, Fritz doesn’t care about foreign policy.” A swig. “He didn’t even vote for Bush last time.” Another swig. “Hell, he’s still mad about Nixon going to China.”
“What?” said Pomeroy.
“Why?” I asked.
“Oh, you know how mad he gets,” she said with a roll of her eyes, “and those Red Chinese, I mean in addition to being Commies”—another swig—“have this forced abortion policy.”
Pomeroy shook his head, stood up, and walked away.
“I’m still out of honey,” I called after him. He turned. I handed Vonette her coffee and walked over.
Pomeroy was and always had been an enigma to me. Apparently he also gave that impression to the other women in town, who had given him the moniker Ice Man. He had none of the flirtatious mock shyness that John Richard used to such advantage with women.
Arch, on the other hand, adored Pomeroy. Something about his aura of quiet, his life in a remote cabin, his way with the bees, had magnetized my son. Through a whole year of teaching Sunday school I had only rare clues that Arch was absorbing any of the study-of-saints curriculum. Nevertheless, after his spring project working out at the hives, Arch had said Pomeroy was like Saint Francis. He loves all the animals, Arch had said; he understands nature.
So I was interested in Pomeroy in a way that was more than curiosity. I had been unwilling to discuss my interest with Alicia, as I didn’t know what kind of chance I had with an icy-tempered beekeeper.
“You walked away from that conversation awful fast,” I said to him.
He shook his head. “I don’t have to listen to her when she’s like that, or when she’s talking about that … subject. No one has to.”
Catering to Nobody (Goldy Schulz Series) Page 4
