Our first glimpse of Avalon was amazing. The town was almost ramshackle, miraculously undone, The Land That Time Forgot. Simple wooden cottages as random as shipwrecks tumbled down the dry hills to a pristine crescent-shaped beach, at the end of which stood the great circular ballroom, as natural there as the dot on a question mark. There were dozens of sails on the harbor. And dipping gulls. And chimes, so help me, as if to welcome us, ringing from a distant hillside. Neil and I both wore expressions of wordless wonder. Blink once, I remember thinking, and the whole damned thing disappears.
Up close, of course, it was easier to detect the chinks in the fantasy. The eroding crag above the boat landing had been repaired with sprayed-on concrete, and there were far too many lard-assed tourists like me (well, almost like me) slouching along the promenade in search of diversion. Even worse, some of the more recent architecture (a sort of faux-Spanish postmodern) had lost touch with the charming artlessness of the rest of the town. Still, I liked the place a lot, and Neil did too. We felt unreasonably proud of ourselves, as if we were the first people ever to discover it.
We had an hour or so before the funeral, so we camped out on a waterfront bench and let the motley parade of humanity pass us by. The people who weren’t on foot were in goofy little white golf carts, since cars are verboten on major portions of the island. I couldn’t help grinning at the sight of these Toontown vehicles. Here was one place, at least, where life seemed a little closer to my own scale.
Neil pored over a street map he’d bought at the landing.
“How far are we from the church?” I asked.
“Not far.”
“Let’s see.”
He pointed to it on the map.
“That’s far,” I said.
“Is it?”
I nodded. “Unless you’ve got time for two funerals.”
He chuckled. “We’ll rent a golf cart, then.”
I made a face at him. “You can’t go to a funeral in a golf cart.”
“Who can’t? That’s what they do here.”
So that’s what we did. We procured a racy little number with a striped canopy at a rental agency right there on the main drag and tooled up a leafy street called Metropole in search of the church. The suspension on the cart wasn’t for shit, but Neil had strapped me in snugly, so my squeals whenever we hit a bump were more of exhilaration than of terror. Neil would glance at me each time with a look of real concern until I succeeded in reassuring him with a smile. It was the strangest sensation, riding along like that. I felt utterly ridiculous and utterly contented, all at the same time.
The church was a plain white frame structure hung with scarlet bougainvillea. An assortment of golf carts was parked in front, most of them fancier than ours and missing the telltale rental number painted on the side. These were locals, obviously, friends of the family. As we made our way to the door, I wondered if Neil and I were the only mourners from the mainland. Besides the dreaded Linda, that is.
Our progress was observed by a tall, gray-haired man in a navy suit standing guard just inside the door. When we finally reached him, he gave us a dubious once-over and uttered Janet’s name softly, as a question. Neil nodded, following the man into the church. I came after them at my own pace, trying to look devout—or at least concerned—and acutely aware of all the eyes on me. Neil lifted me onto a pew and handed me a printed program bearing Janet’s name, the minister’s name, and the high points of the service. That piece of paper and the less-than-fascinating grain of the pew in front of us was all that occupied me for the next half hour; I couldn’t see for shit.
The service was your basic Protestant understatement, so devoid of specifics that the honoree might just as easily have died from natural causes at eighty. We sang a few tired hymns and received a few tired words of comfort from the reverend. At one point, about halfway through, Neil glanced at someone across the room, acknowledging her presence (I was sure it was Linda) with a thin smile. I couldn’t help wondering if the deceased was there, too, but decided not to put the question to Neil. My voice has a way of carrying sometimes.
To avoid the rush, we left before the last hymn was finished, then waited outside on the lawn for Linda. When she emerged from the crowd she gave Neil a chaste peck on the cheek and, without waiting for an introduction, extended a long, dry hand down to me. “Hello, Cady. It was sweet of you to come.”
“Hey,” I said stupidly. “No problem.”
The ex-Mrs. Riccarton was tall, lean, and oval-faced, several shades lighter than Neil. Not exactly pretty, but elegant, and enormously self-possessed. She wore a chic-looking gray silk suit, and her hair was pulled back in a modified Wilma Flintstone. Neil had never painted her as a monster, and she certainly didn’t seem to be one. What was it he had said? Unsentimental? Too organized?
“Have you met the Gliddens yet?” she asked.
I told her I hadn’t.
“I think they’re…” She craned her graceful neck. “Yes…over there.”
The Gliddens stood together on the sidewalk, receiving the consolation of friends, so identically pear-shaped and shaggy-headed that they might have been salt and pepper shakers. Both of their plain, open faces wore the same expression of wistful stoicism, and you could tell at a glance they were one of those couples who do everything together. I just knew they owned matching nylon wind-breakers.
“Maybe we should wait,” I said. “There’s sort of a crowd.”
Linda nodded, then looked at Neil. “I know a shortcut to the house, if you feel like a little walk.”
Neil looked confused. “Isn’t there going to be…?”
His ex finished the thought for him and shook her head. “The ashes are at the house.”
Neil glanced to me for guidance. “How do you feel about a walk?”
“Fine,” I said, sounding as casual about it as possible. I was determined not to look like a pussy in front of Linda.
So we followed those long, efficient legs through the dusty shrubbery to the Gliddens’ house, about three backyards away. It was part of a row of houses, cottages really, each the same, yet each in some way different, facing another such row across a palm-lined walkway. They reminded me of the company houses that mill owners once built for their workers, only nicer, with tile-studded bird- baths and rose trellises and perfect little postage-stamp lawns. To my surprise, there was already a small group of people assembled in the Gliddens’ backyard.
“Is this where Janet grew up?” I asked Linda, after Neil had gone off to get us punch.
“I believe so,” she said. “She was third generation, Mary says.”
“And Mary is…?”
“Her mother.”
“Ah.” I tried in vain to picture Janet here, she of the acrylic-look hair and artsy ways, living in this simple house with these simple salt-shaker people, this matched set that couldn’t be broken. Maybe that had been the problem, come to think of it. Maybe Janet couldn’t picture it, either. Even as a kid.
“Her grandfather worked down at Catalina Pottery,” Linda continued. “He was one of Wrigley’s original employees.”
I had no idea who she meant.
“The chewing gum guy. The big millionaire from Chicago. He sort of invented Avalon. Half the people in town worked for him.”
I nodded.
“Neil says he really likes working with you.”
I was rattled for a moment by the abrupt change of subject. “Well,” I said eventually, “I’m flattered.”
“You should be. He doesn’t make friends all that easily.”
This was so out of left field that all I could say was: “Doesn’t he?”
“No.” She offered me a tiny, sisterly smile as if to say: it’s the truth.
I was so flummoxed that I glanced around me in search of distraction, which came in the form of Neil himself, returning with two cups of punch. The stuff was lime green, with vanilla ice cream floating in it. I’d seen nothing like it since junior high school. “Festive,” I de
adpanned. Then I hoisted my cup in a silent salute to Neil, which he returned with a flicker of a smile. I just wanted us to be alone again. His ex had already struck me as the sort of woman who could say something incredibly mean in the name of just-us-girls intimacy.
“I met the Gliddens,” Neil said. “They’re nice.”
“Aren’t they?” said Linda.
“They’re coming over, Cady. They really want to meet you.”
“Well…good.”
Even as we spoke, I could see them approaching. I could feel myself wobbling a little too, so I moved my legs apart slightly to gain a steadier stance. Moments later, the ever-attentive Linda spotted the Gliddens herself and moved in swiftly to take charge of things. “Mary, Walter…”
The couple greeted her in unison.
“Such a sweet service,” Linda said.
“Wasn’t it? We were just saying that to Bud Larkin—the reverend.” Mrs. Glidden was smiling graciously, but her eyes were swollen from crying. It was touching to see her make such a valiant effort to be social in the midst of her pain.
“I think you’ve met Neil,” said Linda.
“Yes.” Mary nodded. “And this must be…”
“Cadence Roth.” I held up my hand before Linda could usurp the introduction. I didn’t want to risk how she might define me to the Gliddens.
“And what a pleasure this is,” said Walter.
I thanked him.
“It certainly is,” Mary put in.
Looping his arm through hers, Walter drew his wife closer. “You know, Mary here reviewed you.”
Mary looked instantly embarrassed. “Oh, Walter, for Pete’s sake!”
I had no idea what they were talking about, but my guilty heart was lodged firmly in my throat again.
Walter patted his wife’s hand. “Don’t be so modest, Mary. I’m entitled to brag about you.”
Mary gave her husband an affectionately reproving look, then turned back to me. “I used to write a little column here. Just chitchat, really. For our local paper. I thought Mr. Woods was delightful, so…I said so in the column.”
“It was a rave review,” Walter declared.
“It wasn’t actually a review as such.” Mary addressed me sheepishly, clearly embarrassed by her husband’s hyperbole.
“Must have sold a few tickets, though.”
This time Mary was firmer. “Walter, please. I don’t think they needed my help. It was the top-grossing movie of all time.”
I was beginning to like this lady a lot, so I sent her a faint, private smile, just for the two of us. “Second, I believe.”
“Really? What was first?”
“Star Wars.”
“Oh, well. I liked you much better.”
I thanked her as earnestly as I knew how.
“Janet was just thrilled to be working with you.”
“That’s so nice.”
“It’s not nice,” she insisted, “it’s the truth.”
“Well, it was mutual,” I said, biting the bullet. “I thought your daughter was a supremely gifted artist.”
The Gliddens were far more touched by this monumental lie than I’d expected them to be. Almost instantly, they tightened their grip on each other, like riders on a roller coaster bracing for another heart-stopping dip. Mary’s lower lip began to quiver slightly, but she managed to retain her composure. Her husband staved off the tears by gazing woodenly at the ground. I didn’t record Neil’s response, or Linda’s, for that matter, because I couldn’t bring myself to look at them.
Walter was the one who finally spoke, his voice cracking pitifully. “We’re…awfully proud of her.”
“You should be,” I said.
An excruciating silence followed. I waited for Neil to fill the void, but he just left me there, the sorry bastard, flailing in the quicksand of my own hypocrisy.
Finally, Mary said: “We looked for that film, you know. We couldn’t find it anywhere.”
“What film?”
“Of you. Janet’s film.”
“Oh, really?” I squeaked.
“Isn’t that odd? As much as she talked about it.”
“It is.”
She destroyed it, I told myself. Burned the sonofabitch. Tossed it off a cliff. Right after I told her what a loser she was.
“Did she give you a copy, by any chance?” Walter asked.
“Not really.”
“What a shame,” said Linda.
I shot a quick glance at her to see if she meant this maliciously, but I found her face utterly unreadable. Turning back to the Gliddens, I said: “It wasn’t really finished, you know.”
“Still,” said Walter pleasantly, “you’d think there’d be something.”
“You would.” A clammy trickle of sweat had begun to work its way down the inside of my crepe de chine.
“What did you sing?” asked Mary.
“‘If,’” I told her.
“I don’t believe I know that.”
Linda’s face became animated for the first time that day. “The old David Gates song? You’re kidding? Janet didn’t tell me you were doing that.”
I sincerely hoped that wasn’t all Janet hadn’t told her, like what a roaring bitch I’d been when I quit. I didn’t particularly want Linda for a friend, but I didn’t want her for an enemy, either.
“Why didn’t you tell me she was doing that?” This time Linda was addressing her ex-husband, and he, in turn, was looking awkward beyond belief. I wondered suddenly if the song had once meant something to them. If, perish the thought, it had been their song. It was Neil, after all, who’d suggested that number, who’d included it in our repertoire in the first place. It gave me the willies to think that all this time I might have been acting out some sort of postmarital delusion for him.
Walter spoke up before the question could be resolved. “Say, I don’t suppose you’d mind…?”
“Walter…” This was Mary, admonishing her husband with a stern glance, having read his mind. “I’m sure Miss Roth didn’t come prepared to sing today.”
I was struck dumb for a moment.
“You’re right,” said Walter. “We wouldn’t dream of asking you that.”
“We certainly wouldn’t.”
Linda was giving me a plaintive, cow-eyed look that said: Think how much it would mean to them.
Neil was studying his shoes, no help at all.
“The thing is,” I said, “I’m used to working with accompaniment.”
“They’ve got a piano,” Linda burbled. “Neil, you could play.”
At this new development, Walter gazed hopefully at Mary, Neil gazed at me, and I gazed into another dimension, where I was just tall enough to reach out and throttle Linda’s scrawny neck.
“It isn’t as strange as you might think,” Mary informed me, clearly beginning to warm to the idea. “We have a little program planned. Janet’s grandmother is singing a few of her favorite hymns.” She smiled at me sweetly. “Funerals are really for the living, aren’t they?”
Lucky Janet, I thought, to be missing all this.
“Well,” I said finally, “if you don’t mind a few rough edges.”
“Of course not!” The Gliddens spoke in unison, united in their joy.
Linda was positively ecstatic at the prospect of something new to organize. She offered her services to Walter and Mary on the spot, then engaged them in a brief discussion about folding chairs and placement of the piano. Charged with purpose, the three of them scuttled off toward the house, leaving me and Neil alone on the lawn.
“You’re dead meat,” I said.
Neil chuckled.
“I mean it.”
“Well…it’s the least we can do.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“For such a supremely gifted artist.”
I gave him the evilest eye I could muster.
“I think you’re wonderful,” he said.
There must have been thirty people crammed into that tiny living room—including Ja
net, who now resided on the mantel, I was told, in a piece of vintage Catalina crockery. My opening act, as promised, was Janet’s grandmother, who did a creditable job with those hymns of hers, despite a brief dental mishap. The audience rewarded her with polite applause and several dutiful pecks on the cheek.
Then Walter took the floor.
“And now it’s a great honor for me to introduce a special guest, a person our Janet was working with when—uh—this year. Some of you know this young lady starred in Mr. Woods, the—uh—second, I believe, most popular movie of all time, and went on to star in Janet’s most recent movie…film; excuse me.” He displayed a tepid smile. “Janet preferred the term ‘film.’ Anyway, before I mess this up…Cadence Ross.”
He made an ineffectual flourish toward the ancestral upright, where Neil and I were both seated—him on the stool; me, rather precariously, on top. Feeling oddly like a saloon girl, I explained to the audience that I had sung this song in Janet’s brilliant but sadly unfinished film, that it had always been a personal favorite of mine, that I hoped it would mean something special to each and every one of them.
I was surprised by how well it worked. I was in decent voice—thanks to all that fresh air, no doubt—and Neil played with a tenderness that seemed perfectly tailored for the occasion. It was easily our best performance, far better than anything we’d ever done for that stupid video. Something just clicked that had never clicked before. And the music seemed uncannily appropriate. Especially the soaring part at the end that sounds like an ascent into heaven.
As that last wistful note lingered in the balmy air, I closed my eyes and let my head drop humbly to my chest. There was a moment of total silence before the audience could convert its raw-edged emotion into thunderous and sustained applause. I basked in it at my leisure, soaking it up like sunshine after too many weeks of rain. When I finally opened my eyes again, Neil was beaming up at me, every bit as stunned as I was.
Maybe the Moon Page 15
