Good Grief (30 page)
Two days before Thanksgiving, Crystal, Marion, and I sit in the living room at Colonel Cranson’s. Crystal paints Marion’s fingernails while I snap green beans.
“Hold
still,
please,” Crystal commands as she anchors Marion’s fidgety hand and dabs her nails with Misty Mauve polish. Crystal’s adopted a chiding but protective attitude toward Marion, as an older sibling might. Marion fidgets, her foot tapping the TV tray. Her fingernails are yellow, hard, and ridged—sort of the way she is. “This color matches your Thanksgiving outfit perfectly,” Crystal tells her. Although she usually favors black nail polish, she spent a long time choosing this pinkish shade for Marion.
“That’s going to look pretty,” I agree, trying to encourage Marion to relax and focus on her hands.
Both Marion and Crystal have moved in with me. They’re sort of like my two kids now. I knew Ethan would be sad to see his mother spend her final years alone in a facility in San Jose, and at the end of her three-week summer visit I invited Marion to live with me. We rented her house back home. I flew down with her and helped her pack. She wanted to bring everything to Ashland, even the food in her refrigerator. This time
I
was the bossy packing coordinator putting my foot down.
“We
have
melon in Oregon,” I told her, wrestling a five-pound bag of frozen cantaloupe balls from the Price Club out of her gnarled hands, the icy wrapper nipping at my fingers.
After Labor Day, Crystal’s mother announced she was moving to Texas with her new boyfriend, an electrician with broad shoulders and blond hair pulled into a rock star ponytail who bought Roxanne a ring with an almond-size ruby. Crystal lobbied to move in with me so she wouldn’t have to switch schools. I reminded her that she tried to
blow up
her school. Still, she insisted she didn’t want to leave Ashland and talked her mother into letting her stay. Apparently Roxanne likes her new boyfriend more than she loathes me.
Some nights, I lie awake worrying about Marion. Will she wander through the car wash or tumble down the stairs? Other nights, I toss and turn fretting about Crystal. Will she revert to cutting herself or get kicked out of school again? Then there’s the bakery to lose sleep over. How far will my sales dip in the slow months of January and February? At least I’m not plagued by the fears I had back in San Jose, where I couldn’t even muster enough courage for the produce section.
Now, Marion gazes up at her burgundy dress, which hangs from the back of the living room door. “I went dancing one time with Anthony in an outfit like that,” she says.
“Who’s Anthony?” Crystal asks.
“Old boyfriend.” A web of thin blue veins pulses along Marion’s temple as she struggles to remember. “In junior high. We won a dance contest.” Her left hand is finished. She blows on her nails, reflecting.
“We’re going to have a great Thanksgiving,” I tell Marion, trying to bring her back to the present. This seems remarkable, given that I’ve always
hated
Thanksgiving. When I was a kid, no relatives lived close enough to come to our house. I longed for bustling gatherings with brothers, sisters, and cousins overflowing onto card tables. Grandparents belting out Broadway tunes around a grand piano. Glamorous aunts whipping cream in the kitchen. After Mother died, it was always just Dad and me, moping over Stove Top stuffing. Ethan never really appreciated the holiday; he always insisted on working.
I still won’t have to put leaves in the dining room table this year, but at least we’ll have a group of nine, including Crystal, Marion, Dad, Jill, Ruth, Simone, me, and Drew. Even without Ethan, this finally seems like the Thanksgiving I’ve always longed for.
The pies are finished, the turkey is soaking in brine, the silver is polished, the tablecloths are pressed, and the house is filled with red roses from Drew. Dad and Jill are flying into Medford tonight. Our ninth guest will be Jasper Jenkins, the inheritor of Ethan’s ski sweater. I’ve treated Jasper to a cup of coffee and blackberry muffin once a week or so since the first morning he and I met. While I work, he sits at the table in the window at the bakery, looking out at the street and harboring conspiracy theories: The moon landing was all plaster of Paris and string; the CIA offed Jim Morrison; drug companies want to clone Elvis with nail clippings. These ideas seem to help Jasper stop thinking about his wife.
Last week I stopped by the post office, where Jasper smokes on the front steps, and asked if he had Thanksgiving plans. He said the boardinghouse was serving dinner, but it was “usually crap.” He picked bits of tobacco from his lips, considering my invitation.
“What are you having?” he finally asked.
When I told him turkey, the usual, he decided that would be acceptable.
Now, Crystal finishes Marion’s last nail, using a wisp of cotton to dab at the polish pooling around her cuticles.
“Just sit for a few minutes,” Crystal tells her.
“But we need to make the yam puff before everyone gets here.” Panic creases Marion’s brow. “Where’s Ethan?” she adds. Marion is convinced Ethan’s coming for Thanksgiving dinner, that he’s somewhere in the house and she just hasn’t run into him yet. She looks wistfully through the living room door toward the stairs. “Is he sleeping in?”
“Sophie!” a man’s voice booms, full of fear.
What? Oh! Fire, earthquake, Crystal, emergency room.
I fly out of bed, only to discover that I’m still in bed, sitting up, a corner of the sheet clenched between my teeth. A tangle of arms, Drew’s arms, circles my waist. We’re in bed. Together. It’s Thanksgiving morning.
“You’re still
here,
” Drew says. He pulls me down, burrows his head into my chest.
“Yes,” I tell him, heaving a sigh of relief. “I don’t leave the house in my pajamas anymore.” The warm sheets feel almost damp against my bare skin. “Or naked.”
There’s a faint knock on the door. “Everything all right?” Jill whispers.
“Fine,” I assure her, embarrassed that Drew’s in my room. I didn’t want him sleeping over during Dad and Jill’s visit. But last night he joined us for pizza, and after dinner, as he played the piano and sang Jill’s favorite Broadway song with her—“If I Were a Rich Man”—his voice grew croaky. He was obviously coming down with a cold.
“You mustn’t go out in this weather,” Jill insisted, heading to the kitchen to fix him a cup of Sleepytime tea. She’s as smitten with Drew as Marion is. “You better stay here and let us take care of you.”
Dad nodded, but I was self-conscious, wondering if everyone knew that this meant Drew would stay in
my
room. I felt as if I were in an ad for the Charming New Boyfriend
(TM)
.
The Charming New Boyfriend
(TM)
loves your parents! He plays the piano and sings!
Now, I hear Jill continue down the hall.
“Just a bad dream,” Drew whispers. He tightens his arms around my waist. His breath is hot against my cheek. “I dreamed that you were
gone.
That I lost you.”
“How? That’s silly.” But I know this anxiety dream by heart. In it the person sleeping beside you suddenly vanishes. I had this nightmare for months. Only when I woke up, it wasn’t just a dream—Ethan was really gone.
“You left,” Drew says.
“I’m not going anywhere.” I hold his face in my hands. His whiskers are rough against my palms. “For starters, I’ve got a year’s supply of cake flour.” The
upper hand
with my boyfriend. Is it all right to be grateful for this on Thanksgiving?
Drew drifts back to sleep, his cold making him snore slightly. His pink lips are parted and squashed against the pillow, his unshaven cheeks bluish with beard. My good-riddance list for him has dwindled to nil. He’s great at keeping Marion company. The two of them sit for hours on the porch, Drew practicing his monologues, while Marion comments on the car wash as though it’s a sporting event. (“A coat hanger! Why can’t they get a real antenna?”) For my birthday, in August, he gave me a pair of antique teardrop diamond earrings. Last week, he bought Crystal the potbellied pig she’s been pining after. “Great! Where is
he
going to live?” I asked. Drew hadn’t thought through the details. But he quickly offered to keep the pig in his yard, which is twice as big as mine, and he even rushed the thing to the vet when it choked on a crab apple.
While Drew had originally planned on going out to New York for the six weeks the festival is closed, he’s decided to stay in Ashland to be with me. According to Ruth, who heard it from a friend who works at the festival, Ginger’s left town for the winter break on a Caribbean cruise with the phantom fiancé. When I heard this news I had a vivid fantasy in which Ginger contracted food poisoning from a sketchy shrimp curry at the cruise buffet, leaned over the edge of the boat to retch, her skinny ass perched in the air, and fell overboard, strands of long red hair floating in the sea like kelp, the body never to be found.
I watch Drew sleep. While today I have the upper hand, it seems it would be easy for him to derail my recently acquired happily-ever-after status. All he would have to do is downgrade me to coffee again or announce that he’s gay or moving to Seattle. He could get hit by a bus or diagnosed with cancer. A pea-size tumor somewhere in his body would be the size of a walnut by the time I let myself fall completely in love with him. It would be the size of a baseball by the time we got married. He’d be a walking tumor by the time we had kids.
I smell toast burning downstairs. At least I hope it’s toast. Last week Marion stuffed a glove in the toaster. I gently lift Drew’s arm from around my waist, slide out from under the covers and into my robe, and head for the kitchen.
Marion sits at the table, wrapped in her pink chenille robe, hugging herself and shaking her head as she reads Miss Manners. “Freeloaders,” she squawks. “They should pay their share!”
I’m always relieved to find that Marion’s in the house when I get up in the morning. Once I awoke to discover that she and the car had vanished. I called the senior center, then the coffee shop downtown, then the police. An hour later, an officer called back to report that Marion had been on her way to the senior center—not wanting to bother me by asking for a ride—got muddled, went to the park instead, drove over the grass, got stuck in the mud, and backed into a fountain. Marion and I had a talk about how she shouldn’t drive anymore. She agreed and gave me a little hug. Since then, I hide the car keys in an empty flour canister.
The doctor in Medford suggested putting Marion in a home. Instead, I’ve convinced Marion to let me use some of her savings to hire a caregiver to come to the house while I’m at work.
“Good morning.” I kiss Marion on the forehead, then turn on the oven.
I hoist the turkey out of its brine bath in the refrigerator and pat it dry with paper towels. It took forever to finish the stuffing yesterday because Marion wanted sausage and Crystal wanted plain white bread without any meat. Drew wanted chestnuts, which Crystal said were for squirrels. I ended up fixing three batches, and now I’m not sure which to stuff the bird with. It never occurred to me that my Thanksgiving fantasy dinner would be complicated by so many culinary demands. I choose Marion’s stuffing to fill the bird, honoring her seniority before realizing that she probably won’t remember that she
likes
sausage. After I shove the roasting pan into the oven, I pour a glass of cranberry juice for Drew.
Back in my room, I push aside the lace curtains and snap open the window shades. In the distance, snow dusts the Siskiyous.
Drew lifts his head from the pillow and blinks at the daylight. “Brrrr,” he says as I push open a window, anxious to rid the room of its sour sick odor. The earthy smells of wood fires and damp leaves outside are a relief.
I turn toward the bed. Drew’s shoulders and chest are smooth and muscular, and I want to touch his skin. I hand him the juice, which he swallows in two gulps.
“Ow!” He clutches his throat. “Feel my forehead.” He reclines on the pillows, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling dramatically. I sit on the edge of the bed and lay a hand across his brow. It’s damp but cool.
“I think you’re fine.” I keep one foot firmly on the floor, resisting the temptation to dive under the covers with him. “Why don’t you get up and take a shower? Split some wood and build a fire?”
“C’mere, Nurse Naughty.” He tugs my arm and I fall onto him, feeling his chest purr. He tightens his hands around my wrists, pinning them behind me. As he burrows his face under my sweater, his whiskers are rough against my belly. “Will you shower with me?” We toss and tumble and giggle, his skin hot and smooth against mine. He tries to pull my sweater over my head, but I tug it back down and free myself, worrying that Dad and Jill might hear us.
Drew sits up and moans. “My throaaaaat! Would you look in there?” He opens his mouth wide and sticks out his tongue. “Ahhhh,” he honks.
His throat is rimmed scarlet, with a few raised white spots in the back. He probably needs a throat culture and antibiotics. I should want to coddle him, but I’m irritated by his illness. I don’t want anyone in my life to ever get sick again. Not even a sniffle or hangnail.
In the bathroom I refill Drew’s glass with water and grab a few Tylenol from the medicine chest.
“I think you’re fine, Falstaff,” I repeat, handing him the pills. I bend over to retie my sneaker.
“I love you,” Drew says.
Panic sears my heart. I retie my other shoe. Now they’re both too tight. “I, uh . . .” I don’t want to stand up. Drew told me he loved me at the bakery party. But he hasn’t said it since. Neither have I. I’ve been resisting loving him the way you’d resist a box of chocolate truffles or a pair of expensive shoes. You can’t get in a train wreck if you don’t board the train. But how can I live happily ever after without loving someone again? How can I love someone again without granting him the power to crush me?
Suddenly I want to see my entire future. I’d like to be able to drop a quarter into one of those viewing machines at a scenic lookout and gaze all the way past the horizon to the rest home and see whose picture is on my bedside table and how many husbands there were and whether there were children.
I figured that if Drew and I ever exchanged the L-word again, it would be in front of a roaring fire or after sex. Not while I’m tying my sneaker. And not until a few months from now. After the holidays, maybe.
“Thanks,” I finally stutter.
A head rush makes the room tilt sideways as I stand up. Drew’s smiling. His face is flushed and his eyes are glassy. He doesn’t seem to mind that I haven’t reciprocated. I sit beside him on the bed, rubbing his neck and shoulders, then pulling the quilt up to his chin.
“Let’s go to New York,” he says. “Next week. I’ll treat you. It’s the best time of year in the city. Let me take you to the Waldorf.”
“I can’t leave work,” I remind him. While it’s the slowest time of year for Ashland, I’ve barely been able to keep up with holiday orders at the bakery. “Maybe in February.” I’m glad I’m unable to bend to Drew’s schedule. When we first started dating, I always seemed to be available.
“I want to help with dinner,” he says huskily, coughing and then blowing his nose.
“Forget it. You’re quarantined. I’m not letting you touch the food.”
“Okay.” He grabs at me again.
I’d like to strip off my clothes and slide back under the covers, to risk ruining the dinner and catching the white spots in Drew’s throat. Instead, I tip my head toward the door. “The turkey,” I tell him.
I’m heading down the hall to the kitchen when I hear Crystal calling me.
“Fannie? Are you there?” At first her voice is quiet, almost a whisper, but then it fills with anxiety.
I freeze, worried that maybe Crystal’s cut herself, overwhelmed by the holidays. I hurry down the hall and peer into her room. Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin peer back at me from posters covering the lilac wallpaper. Red scarves drape the lampshades, giving the room a bordello glow. Instead of stuffed teddy bears, Crystal owns real taxidermist-stuffed animals she bought from a musty antiques store in town—a raccoon rearing on its haunches beside her desk and an opossum crouched on top of her dresser. Crystal’s not in her room. The opossum’s beady eyes make him look guilty, as though he’s stolen something out of her top drawer.
“Sophie? Can you
help
me?” Crystal’s voice, from the bathroom across the hall. I knock, then push the door open a crack and find her sitting doubled over on the toilet, her bare knees pressed together, her pajama bottoms tossed in the corner.
“I got my period.” Her underwear is wadded in her fist.
I assumed Crystal already
had
her period. She turned fourteen last month and she’s so worldly and tough—with the smoking, eyeliner, and cutting. Fourteen going on forty. She never brought it up. She just bemoaned her tiny breasts and boyish waistline, which I tried to make her feel better about, telling her that people do crazy stuff to be thin.
“Oh, okay.” I slide in through the door and close it behind me.
Are you there, God? It’s me, Sophie! What do I tell a teenage girl who just got her period?
I’m not sure, because my mother had already died by the time I got mine, so I never got a proper birds-and-bees, coming-of-age lecture. My father just went to the store and returned with two grocery bags brimming with packages of pads and tampons—probably every variety they sold, unsure of which one I might need. I curled up on the couch with cramps and he fixed me a cup of tea with a tablespoon of whiskey, fetched me the heating pad, and sat with my feet in his lap. He kept opening his mouth as though he were going to say something, but then he’d close it again. Finally we watched
The Gong Show
on TV.
I leave Crystal to fetch her some clean underwear, a tampon, and a sanitary pad. When I return to the bathroom, I close the door and hand her the things, wondering if maybe I should have stayed in the hall. “You just—”
“I
know
how to use them,” she says, irritated. “I just don’t have any.” She chooses the pad and steps into the underwear I brought her. I pretend to be busy refolding the towels as she flushes the toilet and washes her hands. “I’m, like, the last girl in my class, you know.” She rinses out her underwear in the sink.
“Oh, honey, that must have been hard. But now you don’t have to worry about it anymore.” The radiator in the bathroom rattles and clanks. I’d like to make an eloquent “You’re a woman now!” speech. “Want to call your mom?” I finally ask Crystal.
“What
for
?” She loops her underwear over the towel rack to dry, then leans over the sink to look in the mirror. Her cheeks are red and still creased with wrinkles from the sheets. She rubs at a smudge of black eyeliner under her eye.
“Right.” A new wave of worry for Crystal washes over me. Now she can get pregnant! I think of the long list of gynecological troubles outlined in
Our Bodies, Ourselves,
which we all kept tucked under our beds in college. (Not that we were ashamed of the book, but when guys came to your room for a beer, you wanted them to see your Fitzgerald and Hemingway.)
I reach out to hug Crystal, but she dips her head into the sink to wash her face. When she’s finished I hand her a towel. She turns and pulls on her pajama bottoms, then takes a step toward the door.
