Minus Me

by Mameve Medwed

  Ralphie holds up his hands, traffic-cop-style. He steps back. “Relax, Annie. What’s going on? A touch of the old PMS?”

  “I’m warning you,” Annie snarls.

  “Okay. Okay. I can take a hint.” He turns to Megan. “See you later, kid.”

  Kid—the only word out of his mouth that isn’t a lie. Annie grabs Ralphie’s elbow, drags him across the kitchen and through the back door to the patch of gravel where the suppliers make their deliveries.

  “What the hell …” he says.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “It’s the goddamn North Pole out here.”

  She hasn’t noticed. “What I have to say will take only a minute.”

  “Long enough for me to get pneumonia.”

  Though she is the likelier candidate for that disease, she doesn’t respond. She thrusts her face a foot away from Ralphie’s, so close she can smell the beer and tobacco on his sour breath. In the icy, subzero air, they both puff out cartoon clouds of condensation. How could she have shared some weed with him? “Stay away from Megan,” she orders.

  “Who are you to tell me what to do?”

  “I’m her godmother.”

  “Like it matters?”

  “Let me remind you, you are twenty years older.”

  “Big fucking deal.”

  “She’s underage. I could call the police. And also inform them about your drug stash. Illegal. And your sexual assault.”

  “Bullshit. No one forced you to drop by to visit me.”

  “And not only the police, but I could enlighten Megan about what happened in that back room. Also her mother. Not to mention your father.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Just try me.”

  “You do that and I’ll tell Sam.” He smirks.

  She’s sure he’s bluffing. “Tell him what? That you lured me into your back room? That you gave me drugs and tried to thrust your tongue down my throat?”

  “You set yourself up.”

  “Who will believe you? My word against yours?”

  He blows into his hands and rubs them together. “And to think I once liked you … to think that in high school I even thought of getting Annie tattooed on my arm.”

  “Do I have your word?”

  “Only because I’m freezing my ass off out here. With a crazy woman.”

  “Your word?”

  “Only because, to be honest, Megan isn’t all that hot.” He shakes his head. “And has”—he sneers—“a godmother who is one total bitch.”

  “No car rides, no chats, no coffee, no drinks, no flirting, no dates … nada, rien, nyet.”

  “Okay.” He pulls his collar up. “You win. Now can we go inside?”

  “Not on your life. Just slink around the shop to your car.”

  He looks down at the ground. “There’s ice on the path. If I slip, I’ll sue you.”

  “Be my guest. I’ll make your excuses to Megan.”

  He gives her the finger. “To think I wasted some of my best weed on you.”

  * * *

  Inside the kitchen, Megan is scrubbing out the coffee urn. “Where’s Ralphie?” she asks.

  “He had to leave. He remembered he has”—she picks up a sponge, squeezes it out in the sink—“a date.”

  “A date?” Megan dumps the grounds in the trash and rinses the strainer. “He said he was going to meet me after work.”

  “He forgot he promised to take his girlfriend to the casino in Bangor.”

  “He has a girlfriend?”

  “He didn’t tell you? I think they’re almost engaged.”

  “Hmmm,” she says, sounding like her mother. “Interesting. I mean, go figure. He offered to make me dinner at his father’s place. He invited me to hear Nat Rathbone and His Blue Oxen play down by the river.” She bangs a spoon against the counter. “What a creep.”

  “You’ve hit that nail on the head, that creep on his noggin.”

  “I suppose he is a little bit too old for me,” she allows.

  “Not a little. He’s your mother’s age. My age.”

  Tears start to fall down Megan’s cheeks. She wipes them away with the corner of the apron.

  Annie takes her in her arms. “You’re not crying over Ralphie Michaud, I hope?” she asks.

  “No way. Not that jerk. My boyfriend dumped me today.”

  “The nerve. David should be ashamed of himself.”

  “Not David. Ben.”

  Annie sits her down. She makes Megan a mug of tea, stirring in two spoonfuls of honey. She promises there will be many boys to follow the Davids and the Bens. She holds Megan’s hand and lets her cry until the gush of tears trickles to a drip. “Did your mother ever tell you about the time she was dumped by Tykie Frye?” she asks.

  At this, Megan perks up. “No,” she says.

  “Well,” Annie begins. “This will make you laugh …”

  Chapter Eleven

  Annie sits at her desk, a hot fudge sundae melting next to her. She has the house to herself. Sam’s checking out Home Depot with Rachel, helping her to decide on a new refrigerator. “You’re the appliance guru; go with her,” Annie ordered.

  “You come too. We’ll all get a burger afterward.”

  Annie had pled chores and going-to-waste leftovers in her own refrigerator. “I couldn’t care less about refrigerators,” Annie explained. “And Rachel could use the company. Megan’s been moping about, lovelorn. While Rachel’s love life is zilch.”

  Her own love life, on the other hand, is the opposite of zilch. Ever since her night on the sofa, she and Sam have turned into honeymooners all over again. These days, sex with her husband seems, like a near-extinct bird, all the more precious for its future vanishing. Why is such a big deal always made about the first tooth, first step, first kiss, first love? From her perspective, it’s the last of everything that holds more meaning, more power, more poignancy.

  How can she be dying when she felt so alive last night, when her supposedly deteriorating body parts resumed their old, instinctive, reliable motions? She clung to Sam while her mind kept telling her to push him away. Helping Sam to let go is your mission for the time you have left, her inner voice chimed. This is your plan, the purpose of all your work on this manual. But her body disconnected, seeking the one sensation that eclipsed all others.

  Now she slurps a blob of ice cream with a flurry of impolite lip smacking. Considering her recurrent sundae-centric visits to his drugstore, Mr. Miller was surprised to see her order “the works” to go. “It’ll turn into soup by the time you get home,” he warned. “Besides, I’m so used to you perching on your usual seat that I’m thinking of getting a plaque to attach to it.” He laughed. “The Annie Stevens-Strauss Memorial Stool.”

  Memorial, Annie reflected. She managed a thin smile. He didn’t realize how unworthy of laughter such a plaque was. Or how quickly he should commission it.

  She dangles the cherry by its stem, then plops it into her mouth. She isn’t sure that’s the way she wants to be remembered, as a four-times-a-week soda fountain customer, as the person who made her mark on a vinyl-covered stool. The list of sundaes she’s consumed will be registered in the buy-five-get-the-sixth-free frequent-flier program, adding a few more coils to her spiral of shame. Better not to know the exact number.

  There’s a lot she doesn’t want to know.

  And one thing Sam needs to know.

  * * *

  She finishes the ice cream. She dumps the Styrofoam cup and plastic spoon into the wastebasket instead of bringing it downstairs to the blue recycling bin in the backyard. Ordinarily she and Sam are careful ecologists, worried about waste and the planet and dwindling resources. They even won, two weeks in a row, a best-recyclers commendation posted on church bulletin boards and the city hall honors list.

  On the basis of past good behavior and present dying, she deserves some leeway in the upright-citizen department.

  She pictures Rachel and Sam tucked into a booth at the
burger joint. She hopes they’re managing to find topics of conversation other than refrigerators. They’d be perfect together. What’s more, Rachel comes with a built-in child—well, teenager—who despite lousy taste in men nevertheless shows interest in a future in the food industry.

  Here’s the equation: Rachel has always been the prettier and wiser member of their twosome, while Sam is a hunk in the best possible way, totally unaware of his charms. The opposite of those jerks Rachel has been meeting online. While Sam can be a little clueless socially, Rachel oozes emotional intelligence. Talk about the perfect solution. For Rachel, Sam is the treasure right in her backyard, all wrapped up and tied with a bow and presented with the blessing of the dearly departed. No need to travel to Portland or Boston to meet a date whose photo was taken twenty years ago and who “forgets” his credit card. For Sam, Rachel is the obvious next step. Besides, wasn’t it an ancient tradition for widowers to marry their late wife’s sister? If so, a best friend can certainly stand in for a siblingless wife. What could offer a stronger validation than near-Biblical backup?

  Annie will have to find more reasons to throw them together and absent herself. In the subtlest manner possible. Without Rachel catching on. Under normal circumstances, Rachel would never consider setting her sights on Sam. And when she’s devastated by the loss of her closest friend in these not-so-normal circumstances, she’ll balk at taking her place. Annie will have to wage the here-is-your-next-wife ad campaign in the manual. She opens her laptop and starts to type.

  After a few halting paragraphs, she stops. She blows her nose on the drugstore napkins, fishes the empty sundae container out of the wastebasket and carries it downstairs to the recycling bin. Though she’s not sure she’s a believer, it couldn’t hurt to strike a contract with God: if she recycles, if she’s a responsible member of society and a worthy person, can she buy some extra time? She brushes a dusting of snow off the back porch. In the kitchen, she refolds dish towels and nests the teaspoons in the silverware drawer. Spooning, she thinks, picturing her and Sam curled into each other smack in the middle of the mattress, yards of blankets on either side of them.

  Back upstairs, she swaps her turquoise earrings for pearl studs. When she checks the mirror, she can almost see Rachel’s face morph into her own, like those actresses in the Ingmar Bergman film. Was that the one about death? Perhaps most Swedish films are about death, considering the climate and the dark Scandinavian soul. She shudders. What does Dr. Buckley know about the best way to give bad news? Well, probably a lot; the role of grim messenger is part of his job. Though clearly not part of hers. She is not trained for this. She can’t do it. Doesn’t want to. Ursula’s disappointing daughter is suffering stage fright, acute and incurable.

  Chapter Twelve

  In her bedroom, Annie sticks her underwear back on top of the manual. She should replenish her supply of stretched-out underpants and camisoles. Then again, new bras are as impractical as green bananas to someone who won’t get full value for such an expenditure.

  Okay, she’s had enough, done enough tonight. Sam should be back soon from his excursion with Rachel. She checks her watch. It’s after nine. What time does Home Depot close?

  She sits on the bed. She picks up Sam’s pillow. She smells the lemony scent of his shampoo, the mint of his shaving cream. If only she could hold on to all of this, the smells and touches and sounds; the small things she has always taken for granted now loom so large.

  She hears the key turn in the lock. “Annie,” Sam calls from the front hall. “I’m home.”

  She hurries downstairs. He hands her a bunch of daffodils, wrapped in silver tissue paper, price tag ($8.99) still attached. “We went to Lowe’s after Best Buy and Home Depot. They carry flowers along with refrigerators and gas grills. Who would have thought?”

  The flowers—the first of the season perhaps—aren’t the slightest bit funereal. He pulls her into a hug. She smells onions and beer. “Did you have a good time?” she asks.

  “Fine,” he says, “though Rachel couldn’t decide about the refrigerator. We may check out a few more brands.” He shrugs out of his coat. “We missed you,” he adds. “We both agreed it would have been more fun with you along.”

  An observation that pleases her, however much it defeats her plan. “A drink?” she asks.

  “Why not?”

  In the cabinet where they keep the liquor, she half expects to see the expensive bottle of cognac she just finished writing about. Art imitating life? Or the other way around? Alas, no Hennessy VSOP straddles the shelf, only the usual low-end brands of gin and Scotch and a dusty, unopened wild-blackberry liqueur named after a Brontë sister, a bargain-bin, spur-of-the-moment, literary-impulse buy.

  She pours them each a finger of Scotch. She fills a bowl with salted almonds. At the kitchen table, they take their customary seats.

  “How was your day?” he asks.

  “The usual. Errands, paperwork.”

  “Ah,” he says. He grabs a handful of nuts and tosses them into his mouth.

  “And you,” she asks. “Besides the refrigerator?”

  “That was the highlight. I could write a dissertation on the differences between Amana and Thermador.” He grins. “Just kidding.” He sips the Scotch. “Though I did find out something interesting at work this morning.”

  She leans forward.

  “Old Mr. Aherne reports he’s ready to sell. At least according to the guys homesteading our best table. Who, I must say, are an awesome fount of local information.”

  “Pretty soon you’ll join a bowling league.” She smiles, remembering their candlepin dates as teenagers, those clodhopper shoes, the greasy snacks, the giant sheets of scoring paper, how cute Sam’s butt looked as he started to swing the ball. “We’ve heard this before, Sam. He’ll never leave. And he’ll outlive us all.” Especially me, she does not add.

  “This time I believe him. He’s hired a service to clear out the property. I saw the truck—”

  “There can’t be one big enough.”

  He nods. “Wait till you catch the parade of tractors and backhoes following it. He’s got to have a hundred years of accumulated crap in there. But I managed to corner him in the front yard and asked him outright if he’d sell to me.”

  “You what?” She stares at Sam in astonishment. “You asked him without checking with me first?”

  “Just testing the waters. But he said maybe, with that nearly toothless grin of his.”

  “That doesn’t mean …”

  “I already started running the numbers. And I made a few rough drawings of how we’d expand, connect the two structures, renovate …” Sam’s eyes scan an imaginary horizon. If he’s not counting gold in them thar hills, he’s tallying up increased Paul Bunyan sales.

  She drops her voice to its throwing-cold-water depth. “Nevertheless,” she warns.

  He doesn’t seem to notice. “And there’d be room for a real cappuccino machine and a space for poetry readings and music nights. Maybe clear a few tables for dancing. We could enlarge the kitchen, improve the menu …”

  Wait, Annie wants to shout, this is supposed to happen after I’m gone. On my instructions. Post-deathbed instructions. Instead, ever Eeyore, she grumbles, “What about the money? Sounds really expensive. We can’t afford it, Sam.” She hesitates. “At least at this time,” she clarifies.

  “We can’t afford not to, Annie, now that he’s ready to sell. Remember when I was the one you had to convince when we first thought of buying out the Doughboys? Now the tables are turned. What if Robineau’s or Pappy Rappy’s gets hold of the property? Or even”—he shudders—“Wang’s?”

  Annie winces in solidarity. Wang’s Chinese restaurant, run by a family of Greeks, is a place where even the famine-stricken would reject Wang’s watery chop suey or gummy chow mein. “No way Wang’s,” she says.

  “My point exactly. We have to act fast.”

  Will her health insurance cover all aspects of her illness? she wonders. Sh
e’s sure there will be unforeseen expenses … She forces herself to act calm. “And how do you propose paying for this?” she asks.

  “Your mother,” he says, as casually as if he’s offering the weather report.

  Annie jumps up from her chair, almost knocking it to the floor. “Ursula?” she exclaims. “We are not asking my mother for anything!”

  Sam’s expression is mild and reasonable. “Why not? It worked fine before.”

  “What?” She grips the edge of the table. Her cheeks blaze.

  Sam’s own cheeks suddenly redden. His face turns hangdog. “Whoops,” he says. He flashes his silly-ol’-me smile, eyebrows tilted into pleading commas, chin tucked in adorably.

  A smile, which, though usually irresistible, she manages to resist. She sits back down, bursting blood vessels and rising temperature instantly chilled. “What?” she repeats.

  “I can’t believe I …” Sam points to his Scotch. “Loose lips sink ships,” he says. “I better cut out the booze.” He studies his glass. “This was, was intended, as a secret between your mother and me.”

  Although more than aware of her own hypocrisy, Annie’s in full indignation mode. “We have no secrets, Sam,” she says.

  “This is the only secret I’ve ever kept from you. Ever. Ever. I promise.”

  “The nature of which …?”

  Sam smacks his head. “I’m an idiot.” He takes another gulp of whiskey. She can hear his throat slap it down.

  “Just tell me.”

  “Here’s the thing. When we first bought the shop, Ursula gave us—me—a loan.” He reaches for her hand.

  Annie pulls it away.

  “I paid it back,” he says. “Ahead of time. With interest. Frankly, Annie, I think you’ve given your mother a bum rap.”

  Her fury rises again. Her pulse beats a rat-a-tat in her temple. Such anger cannot be good for her health. For her nonhealth. She takes a few deep breaths, the kind taught in the yoga class she hardly bothered to attend. She’s determined not to fight with Sam. Not to spend another night on the couch. Nevertheless, what could be crazier or more upside-down than battling over a mere haircut yet declaring peace when faced with a gigantic betrayal involving her mother, her own personal wishes, her own personal history?