“Go on, honey, let’s let’em roll.”
Millie and I went out to the back porch and sat on the top step together. Sat like we had sat stringing bushels of beans and shucking corn when I was a teenager, sat like we had sat when I was younger, pulling heads off shrimp—like two old friends, anchored together, and we wept and wept like children.
Forty-three
A Doctor in the House
Friday afternoon
RICHARD called me on Tuesday night. His colleagues had nothing to offer that Jack Taylor didn’t know Same procedures, same prognosis, same predictions. didn’t know. Same procedures, same prognosis, same
“Oh, hell, Richard. It’s bad,” I said, after I told him about the test results. “I am just so broken from this. I feel like I’m falling apart.”
“Of all the rotten things. Do you want me to come down?”
What? Want him to come down? Advice, sure. Visitation, of course. But, come down here and sleep in my bed? Was that what he meant? Was he insane or did he find death titillating? Did he think I was implying that I needed him? I did, I admitted that to myself. But for comfort as a friend, not as a husband.
“Come here?” I said. It was the best I could manage. I’d had enough shock for one week.
“Caroline,” he said, “you left me, darling. I didn’t leave you. I still love you. If you need me, I’ll come.”
I hardly knew what to say. In just a few weeks, I felt that I had struggled and rearranged my life to go on, perfectly well, thank you, and that that new arrangement had only occurred as a result of his outrageous infidelity and his bizarre erotic tastes! Was he crazy? Or was I?
“What are you saying, Richard?”
He sighed deeply, the way he always did when he was searching for words. “That I’ve had sufficient time to think and sort things out. I realize that I took you outside the boundaries. You are perfectly entitled to your opinion. I know that seeing Lois and me together was very upsetting to you. I know I was wrong, Caroline. Not wrong to want what I want, but wrong in that my desire hurt you.”
“What? Now desire is different than infidelity?” Not wrong to want what he wants, but wrong to hurt me? Or what? More head games! He had been leading a double life and the only reason it was wrong was because I caught him? Because Lois was nearly strangling Johnson under a tent of linen?
“I’m saying that I’d give it a go again, if you wanted to, that is.”
“What happened to Lois?”
“She’s dating an oral surgeon.”
“A root canal doctor?” I had to snicker. A perfect Freudian coincidence.
“Apparently,” he said. “They seem to be rather serious.”
“Gee, that’s too bad.” I felt a fleeting droplet of sympathy for him. All alone in New York with no one to wrestle his Willie under a napkin in a restaurant. Puhhhhleaaase. “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”
“Very funny,” he said.
“Well, then, try the personals in the back of New York magazine. Sure—MWMDRPHD seeks F for SMBDHJ. Like Eric says, do the math.”
“I imagine that on some level, I deserved that.”
“Yeah, my inner child felt like a drive-by.”
Silence. Followed by sighing and more silence.
“Oh, hell, Richard. I’m just not, I don’t know, I can’t think about . . .”
“There, there, darling. You’re right. Now is not the time. You just remember that if you need me, I’ll be there in a few hours.”
I thanked him to give the conversation a cordial end and gave the phone to Eric for them to chat. I walked away feeling my stomach roll.
The past few days had been that way. Mother had been suspiciously quiet all week—locked up in her room, on the phone. She took it upon herself to call Dr. Taylor Tuesday afternoon and invite him for dinner Friday night. She said she preferred to talk to him on her territory, that she’d be more comfortable asking questions in her living room while knocking back a bourbon and branch than in his office where she could smell medicine. Surely he could understand that? Poor Dr. Taylor was no match for Mother’s disarming charm. He accepted and Dr. Death would arrive within the hour. She was upstairs dressing and primping as though her lover were about to knock on the door with flowers.
Okay, I’ll admit that Jack Taylor was a nice man and it wasn’t his fault that Mother had skin cancer that would kill her. And it wasn’t his fault that he had to be the one to deliver the bad news. Still, he was Dr. Death.
Eric and I had decided to help prepare the dinner, with Millie’s supervision.
“I ain’t so crazy about you coming back yanh and trying to take over my kitchen!”
“It’s a good thing I am back! You and Mother would buy every gadget available on the Internet if I let you!” As soon as I said it, I wanted to take it back. Mother wouldn’t be buying gadgets any longer. No, Mother’s “dotcom” days were countable. I pushed the thought aside and went over the menu with Eric once more.
“Did you put soup spoons on the table? The round ones?”
“Yep, to the right of the teaspoon, just like you showed me,” he said. “What’s the soup anyway?”
“Cream of tomato with lump-meat crab, finished with a shot of sherry.”
“Hold the sherry in mine,” he said, “I don’t drink.”
The edges of my lips turned up and I looked up at Millie. She was shaking her head, testimonial to witnessing another precious statement from Eric.
“Lemme check that crab meat. Might have some shell in them,” Millie said.
She was determined to have a role in everything we did all week. I couldn’t blame her. The reality of Mother’s certain demise had hit us all, shaking us up. Even Frances Mae had appeared on Wednesday, her right arm filled with flowers and that ugly red-headed baby of hers on her left hip.
“Hi! Come on in!” I had said when I opened the door.
“No, I can’t stay. These are for Mother Wimbley. How is she feeling?”
“Well, she won’t discuss her health. But she’s been in her room a lot and on the phone a lot. Are you sure you don’t want a glass of tea?”
“No, thanks,” she said. I took the flowers from her and she shifted my niece, Little Red Rottweiler, to her other hip. “The girls have ballet this afternoon, so I’m driving all over hell’s half acre again! I swanny to Saint Pete, all I do is drive!” She was already halfway to her car. “Bye! Tell Mother Wimbley I send her a big kiss!”
I thought about Frances Mae as I chopped tomatoes for the soup. Even she had been uncharacteristically generous and congenial. We had all been seeing less and less of her. A small blessing given the hurricane we were feeling in our hearts.
Trip and Frances Mae were not coming for dinner. We would be just four at the table—Mother, Jack, Eric, and I. Somewhere during the week I had decided to throw myself headlong into the kitchen and cook away my grief.
As bungling and out of practice as I was, every technique I knew resurfaced slowly as I called on them. Actually, what I did was buy Gourmet and copy the presentations as well as I could—that and other things I downloaded from the Web. Having pictures helped.
I counted portions of meat and realized I had overcooked again. We had tomato soup, grilled baby trout on a bed of greens, sliced medallions of pork over garlic mashed potatoes, and homemade peach ice cream for dessert. We didn’t need four pounds of pork, even if it did shrink when I roasted it.
“Your potatoes smell good!” Millie said, lifting the top of the double boiler and inhaling the steam. “Garlic?”
“You betcha! Learned that from you! Sautéed and then smashed and chopped. Everything’s ready—just have to quickly reheat the fish. Roast is done too. What did the world do before garlic?”
I turned to see her stick her finger in the potatoes and quickly lick it off.
“Mmm!” she said. “Whatcha got for appetizers? This doctor is single?”
“And why would I care if he was? Appetizers? Oh, Lord, Millie! I
completely forgot about that! Yeah, he’s single but he’s the messenger of doom. You know I hate doctors.”
“You stupid too, yanh? He’s pleasant to look at, I suspect?”
“Pleasant enough. If you like the undertaker type.”
“And you think you don’t need me?”
“Millie? I need you now worse than ever!”
We eyed each other for a minute of serious thought and we were either going to start crying again or make dinner before Dr. Taylor arrived.
“I’ll go to the freezer. I got raspberries and brie in phyllo. Turn that oven on to four hundred degrees and go on and get dressed. You look like something the cat dragged in! Where’s Eric?”
“I don’t know; I’ll find him. Where did that boy go?”
I called all around the house and when I went upstairs, I heard his voice coming from Mother’s room. I stood in the doorway and watched them. They were completely oblivious to me. Mother was on her chaise in a kimono, hair and makeup perfectly done. Eric was enthralled, curled up on the floor at her feet.
“Yes, that’s how they caught bugs in my great-grandmother’s day!”
“With sugar?”
“Oh, my, yes! Here. Look at her diary.” She showed him the cracked yellow pages. “They would soak the sponges, squeeze them nearly dry, sprinkle them with cane sugar, and put them on the windowsills. Those stupid ants lined up like fools! Then some poor fool would lift the squirming sponge and drop it into a pot of boiling water. Dead ants!” She reached down and tickled Eric’s ribs, sending him into peals of laughter.
“Stop! You’re killing me!”
Eric laughed and laughed. So did Mother. It was the kind of moment I hoped he would remember and one that would give her strength when she needed it. I went in the room then and picked up the leather book with its yellowed pages.
“Where have you been, young man? Up here talking fool with your grandmother?”
“Yep!” he said. “Did you ever read this, Mom?”
“No, I never did, but I’d like to.” I looked at Mother. She had held those diaries and journals in safekeeping all my life. “Can I? You go help Millie, son.”
Mother smiled at me like she was seeing me truly for the first time. I knew what she was thinking, that I was acting as a parent should, moving the children along to their responsibilities. As she had done a thousand times. And that I sounded like her. And that part of her lived in me, as part of me would live in Eric.
“What?” I said, wanting her to confirm my thoughts.
“It’s impolite to read other people’s minds, Caroline,” she said and smiled again. “I know you think you’re like your father and not like me, but every time you open your mouth to direct Eric, it’s my voice you use.”
I sat down on the end of her chaise and she leaned forward to me and took my hand. “It’s true,” she said, and patted my hand. Then she held hers next to mine.
“I have your fingernails,” I said.
“Isn’t that miraculous? I mean, the whole reality of reproduction? The more I can see of me in you, Caroline, the easier this will be.”
“The easier what will be?” I knew she was going to talk about dying and I didn’t want to hear it.
“Caroline, listen to me. I’m not a fool. I have called my lawyer this week and we are discussing some changes in my will.” Her eyes searched mine and then she fell back against the chaise. “Oh! So many things trouble me now! I cannot leave this earth with Tall Pines up in the air. And, I cannot bequeath it to my son. I’m too afraid that he’ll gamble it all away. And you? What about your life? I can’t have you tied down to a place you don’t love. I don’t know what to do about all of this. I wish things were different. I truly do. My illness just comes at a most inconvenient time, don’t you think?”
“Mother, we can discuss your future when Dr. Taylor arrives. I’m not an expert on these things, he is. As to Tall Pines, it’s yours to give away. Not mine. You have to do what you think is right. And, it’s true, you know I’ve got these vagabond shoes. I might tire of all this, but I don’t know that yet. Who has had the time yet to even think about that?”
“Well, I know one thing. I’m not going to have it ever turned over to a bunch of real estate developers. I’d rather see it used as a museum or a bed-and-breakfast. But condominiums? On the land my ancestors shed their blood to keep? I think not! I’ll haunt these halls until kingdom come!”
She was working herself up to a snit and I knew that couldn’t be good. Especially with company coming. I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek and brushed a few strands of unruly hair away from her face.
“Mother? I’m here. No one is going to do anything stupid with Tall Pines now or ever. I promise you that.” That seemed to relax her a bit. “Dr. Taylor is going to be here in thirty minutes and I look like I’ve been working in the fields all day.”
“Yes, you do. Would you please take a shower? And put on some lipstick?”
I smiled at her, thinking how much I loved her cantankerous side. “Yes, I will, Miss Lavinia. To make you happy, I’ll even put on a dress!”
“That’s my good girl. And, one more thing.”
“Yes’m?”
“The diaries. You should have them. I want you to promise me you’ll take care of them.”
She extended the single volume to me, with a look of pride and surrender. The passing of the diaries. As symbolic a gesture of complete trust as I had ever received from anyone.
“You can rely on me, Mother, not only to take care of them, but to treasure them.”
“I know that, now go fix yourself up. It’s cocktail time!”
I showered, put on some makeup, pulled my hair up in a twist, and sprayed some cologne on my neck and wrists—Chanel No. 5—the only one mosquitoes didn’t seem to drink. When I got downstairs, Dr. Taylor and Mother were in the living room, chatting like old friends. She had poured him a generous drink and was enjoying her bourbon, sipping away like a debutante. She was in costume. Pucci. Vintage 1970. Neon paisley with turban. Feather-toed matching mules in lime. A thousand bracelets and, of course, her pearls.
“Here’s Caroline!” she said. “Don’t you look pretty, dear! Come say hello!”
Dr. Jack Taylor got up from the wing-back chair, the one my father always sat in, and I got a good look at him. He looked very nice. I went to shake his hand and could smell his aftershave. Very nice, I thought. Masculine.
“Hi!” I said, “nice to see you again.”
For the second time I noticed his eyes. Green. Nice. Didn’t he have on glasses in his office and at the party? Maybe not. He wore a navy sport coat, a white silk T-shirt, and khaki trousers. Polished loafers. No socks. Updated Lowcountry look. Pretty cool, even if he was a doctor. Actually, he was gorgeous, but I would have called anyone a liar who said I thought that.
“It’s nice to see you too.” He smiled, but it wasn’t a flirt smile, it was an I know this is gonna be a rough night for your mother and I’m glad you’re here smile.
He was pretty much all business. That suited me fine.
“There’s a bottle of wine in the cooler, dear. Corkscrew’s in the drawer,” Mother said. “Caroline prefers wine, you know. In New York, they drink wine. Very chichi!”
“Oh, Mother!” I started to open the bottle and Dr. Harbinger of Doom stepped in.
“Here, I can do that for you,” he said.
It wasn’t sexist or a defensive takeover; it was just a nice offer. I let him have it.
“Thanks! I’ll see about the hors d’oeuvres,” I said.
Of course, as soon as I turned to leave the room, there was Eric with a round silver tray. Millie’s plump, steaming, and toasted brown phyllo pastry nibbles were arranged in a circle on the outer edge and a bouquet of chives, rosemary, and lemon mint (all of them blooming tiny flowers), tied with kitchen twine, rested in the center, pretty enough for a bride. How did she even think of these decorations or garnishes or whatever you called it if you were in the foo
d business? I thought I was being old Julia Child herself to conceive of crab meat in a tomato soup! Hell, when I moved up from Waverly crackers to Carr’s Table Water crackers I thought I was a freaking gourmet!
“Watch your fingers!” Eric said. “They’re hot as Hades!”
“Thanks for the warning!” Jack Taylor said. “Are you Caroline’s son?”
“Yes! He’s my precious grandson, Eric!” Mother said. “Always offer the ladies first, dear, starting with the eldest, then the men.”
She took one and then Eric turned to me with his eyes rolled up in his head.
“Live and learn,” I said, taking one.
“Like I’m gonna be a waiter when I grow up?” Eric said, in a whisper to me that everyone heard.
“Don’t be a wise guy,” I said, before Mother could throw in her two cents again.
“What are you going to be, Eric?” Dr. Nosy said. “Any plans?”
“Yep,” Eric said. He put the tray down on the coffee table and stood, feet apart with his hands on his hips. “I’m gonna be a pediatrician. Or else a paleontologist.”
“My word! I never even heard such a word!” Mother said, grasping her bosom. “You are so smart, Eric! I declare! Paleon . . . what?”
“I’d go for paleontology, if I were you,” Dr. Career Counselor said.
“How come?” I said, just to be polite, wishing that dinner was ready.
“HMOs. Used to be that medicine was a lucrative field. HMOs have taken all the fun out of it.”
“Shouldn’t healing people be the incentive? Not money?”
“Caroline!” Mother said. “What an appalling thing to say to our guest!”
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Eric said and gave me a private thumbs-up on the way out.
“Sorry,” I said. But I wasn’t sorry at all. I hated this man who had told me my mother was so ill. I knew it was juvenile behavior, but I couldn’t help it.
“That’s okay,” Dr. Jack Shit said. “It’s a legitimate question, to which the answer is no. I didn’t go to school for twelve years and live like a dirtball for another five to spend my time arguing with insurance companies on the necessity of tests patients need to determine their course of treatment! Used to be that doctors thought they were God. Now it’s the HMOs.”
Plantation Page 41