“I think you need to get your head examined.”
“You’re probably right. By the way, the lasagna smells really good, doesn’t it?”
“Thanks. You know, sometimes I wonder if women ever do anything else besides grocery-shop, cook, eat, and clean up the kitchen. I swear it seems to take up way too much time.”
John arrived at six with a cooler of ice and all the makings of a little bit of wickedness, including a manila envelope for me.
“Your homework’s in there,” he said.
“Ah! When’s it due?”
“ASAP. There’s a deadline for submissions. Thirty days.”
“Yikes.”
“Just write and don’t worry about deadlines. It’s content that matters.”
“Right. Okay.”
In his cooler, resting on plenty of ice, were several brands of vodka, two kinds of olives, olive juice for those who liked it dirty, and a shaker that looked like a penguin.
“Aunt Daisy has the same shaker!” I said. “What is it with this penguin?”
“I brought this for you,” he said. “It belongs in the Porgy House.”
“Thanks, it’s adorable!”
The evening began with necessary and serious discussions about Heather Parke and Lisa. He assured me that he didn’t think Heather had a leg to stand on in any court in the land. And that if I called Jennet Alterman, all my fears would be put to rest. And of course, Patti echoed his sentiments.
Patti and I reassured him that it was normal and perfectly all right to be saddened to hear about his long-estranged wife’s impending death, because she was someone he once loved enough to marry and because her story was so very heart-rending. There were few illnesses more misunderstood and debilitating than mental disease. I promised him that I would go with him or help him plan some kind of ceremony for her, even if we were the only two people in attendance. Then we talked about Aunt Daisy, her endless stamina and how grateful we were that she would be home by tomorrow night.
“I just want to be like her when I’m her age,” Patti said.
“I’d like to be her now,” I said. “To the irrepressible Daisy McInerny, Iron Woman 2010!”
“To her good health!” John said and we all took a sip of a martini from the tiny glasses I lifted from the display case, ones actually used by Dorothy, DuBose, and George.
With so many serious issues scratching at our doors, and ignoring the fact that it was a weeknight, we threw caution and prudence to the wind and let the evening have its way with us. Maybe because we drained a full penguin, dinner was especially delicious. And of course all of it was enhanced by my salad in a bag and the frozen garlic bread I baked, fresh from the Pig’s freezer to mine. We told one another the red wine we drank was a health food and refilled our glasses as we saw fit.
We had so much fun, singing “Summertime” at the top of our lungs and “Bess, You Is My Woman Now,” and “I Got Plenty o’ Nuttin’,” and all the songs I could limp through. But no one seemed to care that I had not played the piano in ages or that we sang off-key more than half the time. We giggled, ate cake with our fingers, and told each other we still had it going on, wondering why Broadway had yet to call. I can’t remember who it was that first noticed we were standing in a puddle, but I stopped playing and turned on all the lights. It was still too dim to see very well. Patti went to get paper towels to soak up the water.
“It’s that window,” John said, pointing to the window behind the piano. He put his hand back there and then ran it around. Then he got up close to the piano and pulled it away from the wall a little. “You’re not going to like this.”
“What?” I said, handing him eight or so paper towels to wipe up the windowsill.
“The whole back of your piano is warped,” he said.
“Oh no! I just had it refinished!”
“I know. Tomorrow morning when the light’s better, I’ll pull this out and have a good look at it.”
“Cate? You know what?” Patti called out from the kitchen where she went to throw the sopping paper towels away. “Maybe you can just pull the back off. You don’t need it and it’s not original to the instrument anyway.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Bummer.”
“It’s nothing that can’t be fixed,” John said. “Don’t worry. This is no big deal.”
“Cunningham? You’re ruining my night,” I said, and John gave me a hug.
As we all made our way upstairs to sleep, it struck me that we seemed to belong together, a small tribe of merrymakers. John was staying the night, because we agreed that his blood alcohol level might land him in the Big House if he got pulled over. I took some bedding and made up one of the daybeds in the living room for him while he looked on.
“DuBose slept here, you know,” I said.
“Like George Washington?”
“Yep. We should put a plaque on the door. You know, if you’re miserable out here all alone you can climb in the sack with me,” I said, feeling silly and light-headed from the wine.
“Temptress that you are, I don’t want Patti to be uncomfortable,” he said. “When’s she going home?”
“Day after tomorrow,” I said. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m a slut.”
“Don’t you go calling my woman names,” he said, grinning at me. He sat on the side of the bed and pulled off his shoes.
“God, you are so gorgeous,” I said, “move over.”
“Go to bed, you bad girl. I’ll have my way with you all weekend.”
He stood up, pulled me to my feet, pushed my hair away from my face, and laid one on me.
I opened my eyes. “Okay, ’night!” I said, surrendering, and went to brush my teeth. If he had said go sleep in the yard, I might have thought about it. Good grief.
Patti was in the bathroom, drying her face.
“God, Cate,” Patti said, “it’s like I’ve known John forever. It’s so funny.”
“Yeah, we all just fit. It’s just right. It’s as right as old Addison was wrong.”
“God rest his evil soul; I didn’t say it. You did.”
“That son of a bitch,” I said, “but I mean that in the nicest possible way.”
“Amen.”
Maybe because of the wine or because I knew that John was under the same roof, in fact just in the next room, I slept more soundly than normal. I got up as soon as I stirred instead of indulging my usual slugabed rolling around and trying to recapture the fragments of that last dream. It looked cold outside but at least it wasn’t raining. We could use a nice day.
I slipped into the bathroom, not wanting to wake him or Patti and went about the usual business of my morning toilette. I left a new toothbrush and a razor on the counter for John. Then I tiptoed downstairs to get the coffee going. The kitchen was clean. I could not remember doing the dishes and I wondered if Patti and John had done them without me. Hmmm, I thought, maybe all this conversation about Dorothy and DuBose is bringing them back from the dead? With sponges? Nah, too far-fetched, even for me. But how wonderful would it be to have a housekeeper who you never had to talk to, deal with, or pay? It was a nice idea that could only happen in the movies, like that old film with Cary Grant, Topper. Maybe it was something I could use in a play. Like my daughter, I always woke up with one foot left in fantasyland.
Ah well, they’d be downstairs soon and all I had to offer them was coffee and the remains of Ella’s coffee cake. And then I thought of Aunt Daisy and hoped she was coming home that very day.
Before John left, he pulled the piano out and had a good look at the back. The towel on the sill was soaked through.
“That’s a pretty impressive leak in that window,” he said. “Better get that fixed right away.”
“Aw, shoot!” I said. “Look at the back! It’s shot!”
“Yeah, but wait, look at this. The way it’s attached is from under the top piece. I can probably lift this whole panel off with a flat-top screwdriver, fill in the holes with wood fill, let it dry, give it s
ome shoe polish, and you’d never know it was there to begin with.”
“Oh, John! I’d be so happy!”
“Making you happy is what I want to do,” he said and I sighed and thought, when was the last time somebody said things like that to me? High school, Tommy Brolling, backseat of a car, mission impossible . . . sorry Tommy, wherever you are.
Patti cut him a big slice of her pound cake and another for Ella.
“I loved meeting you, Patti,” he said.
“I think we’ll probably see each other again,” she said and hugged him.
“I sure hope so,” he said, “and thanks for a wonderful night.”
We watched him drive away then Patti turned to me.
“You sly dog,” she said.
“Woof,” I said.
We got dressed, went to pick up Ella, and let ourselves into the house.
“Ella? Good morning! We’re here!”
“I’m in here!” she called out.
Ella was in the kitchen, as always it seemed, watching Good Morning America, emptying the dishwasher and putting dishes away, giving them a swipe with a dish towel first.
“Does Willard Scott know you’re cheating on him?” I said.
“No, and don’t tell him but isn’t that George Stephanopoulos the cutest thing?” Ella said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Yeah, he’s a honey,” Patti said. “I brought you some of my cake . . .”
“Thanks, Patti!” Ella said.
“Which is like bringing coals to Manchester,” I said.
“Newcastle,” Patti said.
“Whatever,” I said.
“Y’all eat?”
“Yeah, we’re good. You ready to go see the queen?”
“Yep, time to go check on the old cabbage,” Ella said.
“Yep, and Mr. Stephanopoulos will have to find a new love,” Patti said. “He’ll live.”
When we got to the hospital we found Aunt Daisy sitting in a chair in her room, dressed and ready to go. She was wearing a pair of maroon-colored sweats Ella brought her the day before, running shoes, a black wool beret, and black round reading glasses, doing the puzzle from the News and Courier. No cast on the foot.
“Looks like they’re cutting you loose,” Ella said, handing her the New York Times arts section, already folded into quarters.
“Get me out of here,” Aunt Daisy said, “hospitals are for sick people.”
“How about your bootie for your foot?” I said.
“I threw it out of the window,” she said.
We looked at each other and knew she’d done no such thing but what she meant was, forget the cast. She wasn’t wearing it and she didn’t care. I got her a wheelchair for the ride to the car. She sat down like the queen of Mardi Gras and if she’d had strings of beads or hard candy, she would’ve tossed them to everyone. I had no doubt of that at all.
On the way out, we all hugged Nurse Rosol, who had been so wonderful to Aunt Daisy and nice to all of us, too.
“Thank you for everything,” I said to her.
“I had to make sure Ms. McInerny got better quick or I’d weigh a million pounds! That was still the best pecan pie I ever tasted,” she said.
“I’ll send you the recipe,” Ella said. She was so pleased.
“It’s on the back of the Karo syrup bottle,” Patti whispered.
“Hush!” Ella said. “She’s giving away all my secrets.”
When we got Aunt Daisy home, she was exhausted. We walked her slowly to her room upstairs. I knew she was tired because she was unusually quiet. I closed the curtains and Patti turned down her bed. Ella was with her in the bathroom, helping her put on a nightgown. The plan was that she would nap for a while and we would wake her up for lunch.
“I’m so happy to be home and in my own bed,” she said, as I covered her up.
“I’ll bet so,” I said.
She put her hand over mine and held it. “Tell me,” she said. “How’s John?”
“John’s great, Aunt Daisy, he really is.”
“I told you so,” she said and yawned.
We left her room quietly and went downstairs to the kitchen. The old cabbage was on the mend.
“Who wants coffee?” Ella said.
“I think I’ll make us some iced tea, if that’s okay?” I said, and filled the kettle with fresh water and put it on the stove.
“Humph,” Ella said. “If you remember how. You been up there in that terrible New Jersey for too long!”
“Ella? New Jersey isn’t terrible. It’s gorgeous! Where’re the tea bags? Still in here?”
She nodded. “What are you saying? You think I don’t watch television?”
“Don’t believe it. Those trashy television programs are how they control the population,” Patti said.
“Really?” Ella said. “But isn’t it too cold?”
Patti and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“You have no idea!” we said in stereo.
“Oh, Lordy!” Ella said and sat at the table. Actually, it was more like she collapsed onto a chair. “What are we going to make for supper?”
Patti and I looked at each other and said telepathically, Ella’s pooped, too. And we decided we would cook.
“Ella? Why don’t you go put your feet up? Patti and I got the rest of the meals today covered.”
“You know what? I just might do that.” A second or two later, she raised herself by leaning on the table with the heel of her hand and stood. “I’m gonna go shut my eyes for a few minutes. Y’all don’t need my supervision.”
“No worries,” we said. “Get a good nap!”
Ella took the stairs and I looked at Patti when Ella was out of earshot and said quietly, “Holy hell. She gave us free reign in her kitchen. You know, they’re starting to show some signs of aging.”
“That’s another reason I want to move back. They need us, Cate.”
“I think you’re right. And what the hell is the point of living someplace where nobody really loves you?”
“Well, I’ve got Mark, of course, but after this winter? I think he’d be thrilled to be here.”
“You know what? I’m thrilled to be here, even if I don’t have my life all worked out yet.”
“You mean like having a shower?”
“Precisely. Anyway, let’s go to that big Whole Foods and see what they’ve got.”
After scouring and foraging like picky little animals in the woods for the best this and that we could find, we settled on a menu that did a fair job of showcasing our individual skills. Patti was going to prepare a risotto with a mélange of mushrooms—oyster, shiitake, and the hen o’ the woods, finished with a truffle-perfumed olive oil and shavings of aged Parmigiano Reggiano. Her entrée was glazed, double-cut, organically raised pork chops, grilled with fresh rosemary and finished with a twenty-five-year-old balsamic vinegar. I was in charge of salad and dessert. I stood there in the produce aisle with a peach pie in my arms, trying to make a decision about the salad.
“What’s the matter?” she said.
“I can’t decide. Are two bags too little or are three bags too much?”
“We’re not buying prunes here, you know.” She grabbed two bags of prewashed mixed spring greens, threw them in the cart, and said, “Okay, we’re going to make you the president of the slice-and-dice club. And I’m going to teach you how to make chops that will have John on his knees.”
“I am your humble slave.”
We brought home sandwiches and soup for lunch, which Ella and Aunt Daisy gobbled up. By five thirty, Aunt Daisy’s and Ella’s kitchen was crackling with warmth and delicious smells and Ella was shaking cosmos in the penguin. Aunt Daisy, still wearing a beret, was seated at the table chatting away. She was in fine spirits. Of course, Brian Williams would be on television any minute to tell us if the world was falling apart.
“Just a little one for me,” I said.
“Why? Got a big head from last night?” Aunt Daisy sai
d.
“No, I do not.”
“Should I turn off the television and put on some music?” Ella asked.
“Do you have any Gershwin?” Patti asked.
“Have you lost your marbles?” Aunt Daisy said. “I have everything he ever recorded. Ella? Put on Rhapsody in Blue. I love that.”
“Oh, Aunt Daisy, speaking of Gershwin, there’s a leak in the Porgy House window. All that rain we had? It trashed the back of my piano and well, I guess we need a carpenter.”
“Bring me my red leather address book from my desk and I’ll give you his number,” she said.
I got the book and handed it to her.
“Sit down,” she said. “I want to talk to you.”
I sat.
“I’m gonna talk and you’re gonna listen.”
“Okay,” I thought, what have I done wrong?
“Ella and I have been doing a lot of thinking and talking about our future and we’ve made some decisions. You know that you and Patti are my only heirs so everything I have is going to y’all, split equally right down the middle. But here’s the thing. I’m not dead yet. But I could’ve been if you and John hadn’t been here.”
“Oh, Aunt Daisy . . .”
“Hush, before I lose my train of thought.”
“Sorry.”
“Anyway, I want to retire. There are things in this world I want to see that I have never had the time to see. I want to see the pyramids and take a sail on the Nile. I want to go to Paris and learn the cancan. I want to see the Great Wall of China and go see every play on Broadway. I can’t do those things and run my business. So if you’re going to inherit it, you may as well learn about it now. I want you to take over as of today.”
“Today?”
“Yes. And here’s the rest of the deal. As of today, whatever the net earnings of the business are, you get half. If I die first, Ella stays here until she goes and whatever the business earns, Ella gets my half. When she dies, you and Patti own all the properties jointly but the earnings are yours because you’re running the business. It’s all spelled out in my will.”
So there was a will. Patti and I were worried for no reason.
“I have retirement money and Social Security, too,” Ella said and handed each one of us a cosmopolitan in a martini glass. “And I have excellent health care policies from the state.”
Folly Beach Page 31
