Dying for Chocolate gs-2

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “Yeah, well, it’s my business.”

  I poured myself another soft drink. “Fine,” I said, and sipped. “Sure.”

  “That’s really not the problem with our relationship, anyway.”

  “What isn’t the problem?”

  “What I’m trying to do.”

  “You mean like looking for parents, learning to be a doctor or a cook, what?”

  “No, none of that. The problem with our relationship is just. . . that you don’t learn to be cool down in Navajoland.”

  “Learn to be cool,” I echoed.

  “I mean, you know, sex appeal and all that dumb stuff.” He began to whisk eggs in a copper bowl.

  I reflected on his words. You know, sex appeal? No, I really did not.

  “I’ll tell you what I do know, Julian.” I refilled my glass and watched the foam fizzle up the sides. “Sissy likes you a lot, cares about you.”

  He snorted.

  I said, “It’s like with Arch and me. Or even Arch with his father. Some people have strange ways of showing they care.”

  He gave me his defiant look. He said, “You should know.”

  As if in answer to his comment, the security gate buzzed. I flipped on the closed-circuit camera. Oh yes, Saturday afternoon, how could I have forgotten who would be arriving?

  The Jerk.

  19.

  I called the general over the intercom. He made one of his silent appearances in the kitchen and about scared me to death. How could he get around so quietly? Of course, that immediately made me think of what else he’d said he could do without making any noise.

  I said, “He’s here.”

  “Right. Call Arch. Meet me in the front hall.”

  I obeyed orders, alternating between feeling cold waves of fear and a sense of silliness. Were these elaborate troop movements really necessary? Five minutes later we all reconnoitered in the foyer. The general was wearing a shoulder holster.

  Arch said, “Wow! Is that cool!”

  “Oh please,” I said, “not a gun.”

  The general narrowed his eyes. He said, “Deterrent.”

  “This is Aspen Meadow!” I cried. “Not Beirut, for crying out loud.”

  The Jerk’s Jeep horn blew. Braat! Braat!

  The general leaned into my face. “Let me tell you something,” he said. “They thought I was crazy in Washington. They may think I’m crazy here. But. It’s all the same, Goldy. All over the world. You have to be ready.”

  Arch said, “Can we go? I’m ready.”

  And so the three of us walked slowly to the end of the driveway. Seeing John Richard made my heart involuntarily twist. He wore a white shirt, white shorts, white socks with his Nikes. His long fingers threaded through the bars of the fence. Sunlight caught gold glints in his brown hair. A tennis racket lay across the back seat of the Jeep. We used to play tennis quite a bit. Was he going to play with someone now? Was that what he had done this morning? Why did this still hurt so much?

  “Is the show of force really necessary?” he called through the gate.

  I did not answer and neither did the general, who gazed stonily forward once we had let Arch through. When Arch was in the Jeep, John Richard paused before getting in. Always the parting shot.

  He said to me, “I was nowhere near that damn café, you bitch. Just think of how many patients I lose when your cop buddies come around, and what that does to my ability to make money, and how that can affect you and Arch, and maybe you’ll be a little less eager to bug me.”

  “Say nothing,” the general instructed me under his breath. “Walk slowly back to the house. I’ll stay here until he’s gone.”

  This I did. So Schulz had not waited for me to report the incident in the café. Somehow this did not make me feel better, and my shoulders felt terribly heavy as I walked. Worse, the aches in my arm and chest began to pound, as if they had been awakened by the menace in John Richard’s voice. Not Beirut, I reminded myself.

  When I came back into the house the phone was ringing. To my surprise it was Elizabeth Miller, who asked if I wanted to have lunch on Monday. I said that I would love to, which was true. People who are grieving need to be with other people. Unfortunately, an unwanted skepticism crept into my voice. Why go out for lunch? This was a new activity for me, and it was fraught with problems. Did the person who asked intend to pay? Marla had paid for mine at the Aspen Meadow Café, but I had been under duress. Besides, she had money. I felt as if I should treat Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth must have thought my silence meant I was meditating. She jumped in with, “Let’s picnic out by the Aspen Meadow.”

  Another picnic. I said, “I don’t want to look at any birds.”

  “Oh! Philip was the bird expert. Not me. Listen. I’ll bring tabbouleh and Tassajara bread. You bring whatever you feel moved to bring.”

  The next morning after the early church service I felt moved to make tomatoes vinaigrette and a pound cake. As I beat the butter for the latter, the phone’s twang cut through the morning air. My spirits plunged. For heaven’s sake, it was Sunday! The day of the week did not matter to some people, apparently. I was the designated answerer. The general and Julian were out getting equipment for the next experiment. Adele was in the pool and had just started her slow, slow laps that were supposed to help strengthen her back. She would not be available for phone duty for a long while. For Adele, crawl was the perfectly named stroke.

  “Farquhars,” I said brightly.

  “This is Joan Rasmussen.”

  Without actually willing it, I looked over at the eggs on the counter. What had Adele said? This woman needed to be coddled.

  “Yes,” I replied, still bright, “how are you? This is Goldy the caterer.”

  Silence. She was not meditating, I felt sure.

  Eventually she said, “I understand your son is having some kind of party.”

  “Yes. We were thinking about this Tuesday evening, the fourteenth. He wants to demonstrate his tricks.” I cleared my throat. “Er, magic tricks, uh—” Did I call her Joan, since we were both parents of students, or did I call her Mrs. Rasmussen, since I was the Farquhars’ cook?

  “He’s invited my daughter.”

  “Wonderful,” I said without feeling it.

  “The last time I talked to you,” she went on, apparently unsure by what name I should be addressed, “you did not indicate enthusiasm for our pool fund-raising efforts.”

  “Ah—”

  “Although I understand that your son is indeed learning to dive,” she said as if this concluded her thought. She sniffed. “Our daughter has been on the country-club swim team for three years.”

  These subjects were related. Joan had passed Manipulative Behavior 101. Arch was learning to dive. Joan’s daughter was an excellent swimmer. The school needed a pool. If I helped with the fund-raiser, Arch would learn to swim, save the school, and get the girl. I bit the inside of my cheek. How Arch wooed his female friends was up to him. And I had no money.

  I said, “I’m glad your daughter is a good swimmer.”

  Joan Rasmussen tsked with impatience. “Would it be possible for you to pick up your fund-raising decals at the school tomorrow? You’re one of the very few parents who has not participated in any way.”

  A shrink would have a field day with this woman. Or with me, as I succumbed to a crushing wave of guilt.

  I said, “I’d be happy to pick up my decals tomorrow. Did you need to speak with Adele?”

  “Is she swimming this time, too?”

  “Well, yes, actually, but she’ll be at the school tomorrow for a fund-raising meeting—”

  Joan Rasmussen hung up on me. I replaced the receiver with the comforting thought that type A behavior usually had its own reward.

  Monday morning after I had done my yoga routine and seen everyone off for the day’s activities, I set out for Aspen Meadow, namesake for our little burg. Nothing like driving out in the unsullied Colorado high country to rid the mind of peevish folk
s like Ms. Rasmussen.

  As I drove, I was thankful that the preservers of Aspen Meadow’s environment had held their own during the state’s boom-and-bust periods. In our town, a shaky alliance between the old-time naturalists and new-age Greenpeace and Audubon Society types had kept the lid on rampant development. Philip Miller was definitely in the latter category, although he had never talked to me at any length about his involvement. To our age group, environmental activism was as natural an activity as bridge club and Republican women’s club had been for my mother and her set in New Jersey.

  Meadows and forest refulgent with growth bordered upper Cottonwood Creek on the way to the meadow. My environment-preserving friends had worked unceasingly to scuttle the state’s plan for a bypass through here about ten years ago. Before that, the do-gooders had moved heaven and earth to keep Aspen Meadow from being a site for the winter Olympics. Most towns would kill to get the Olympics. Not folks in Aspen Meadow. Imagine our meager hills being torn up for ski runs! No thank you! One of their posters had become a collector’s item: Save trees from skis.

  Out my window the wildflowers of mid-June seemed to wave in appreciation. Near the road, stands of chokecherry bobbed long, sweet shoots of white blossoms. Arrows of crimson fireweed dotted a dirt embankment, while the creeksides burgeoned with golden banner. Through the meadows, brilliant Indian paintbrush splashed orange amid the green.

  At the entrance to the wildlife preserve the van thudded from pavement to dirt. If I could ever get ahead in the financial arena, I was considering getting one of those new four-wheel-drive vans. Then I could ferry comestibles through any manner of blizzard and road conditions. But for now I would coax the old VW along, even on cratered dirt roads like this, and not ask too much of it.

  Elizabeth and I had agreed to meet around ten to have time in case the rain made its habitual appearance in the early afternoon. Elizabeth had not felt moved to be on time. I staked out our spot, an old picnic table by the stream. Close by I could see the boarded-up cabin of a beekeeper friend of mine. But the beekeeper was long gone. Standing on one of the picnic benches, I could just see one of his hives. Would the bees still be there, I wondered, and did they miss him?

  “What do you suppose happens to you after you die?” asked Elizabeth, who had appeared next to me. Her black ballet slippers had made no noise in the grass.

  “Gosh,” I said, startled. “I don’t know.” I was willing to bet my pound cake that Elizabeth subscribed to some esoteric theory of reincarnation. And at that moment I was not prepared to hear about Philip as a butterfly alighting on a nearby wild iris.

  “I’ve been reflecting on it. What did Philip think about life? What was important to him? I know how he felt about vitamins B, E, and C, and how he felt about our parents. But I haven’t a clue about his view of the afterlife.”

  “Let’s sit,” I said. She followed me to the table. Cottonwood Creek, muddied by the spring snowmelt, gurgled over a bed of rocks. I fluffed out a green-and-white-checked tablecloth and we both put down our baskets.

  I ladled out thick slices of tomatoes vinaigrette onto two paper plates. “What I think,” I said, “is that you have a clue about what was important to a person in life when you look at how he spent his time.”

  Elizabeth peered into her bowls and said, “Uh-huh.” She scooped spoonfuls of tabbouleh out for the two of us. Her offering looked like a cross between birdseed and the mixture they give in the cat cage at the Denver Zoo. I took a bite of tabbouleh, to be polite.

  “So,” I went on, “what was important to him was his practice and his activities like Audubon.” I took a deep breath. “And giving his body to science?”

  She looked away. A bee buzzed around the frizz of her hair.

  “Yes,” she said delicately. “He was an organ donor.”

  “I heard you arguing with Weezie about it.”

  Elizabeth squinched up her pixie nose. “That first-class bitch.”

  “Oh,” I said to keep her talking, “I don’t know if I’d go that far.”

  “You want to know what she wanted that day? The day after my brother died. You’re not going to believe this.” Elizabeth mimicked Weezie in a clever, accurate high pitch. “ ’Did he leave anything to me?’ Of course, I thought she meant money. But the day of the Audubon Society picnic she pulls me aside. She says, ’Don’t you think this ridge is beautiful?’ When I say of course, she says, ’Well, where’s Philip’s ecological strategy plan? Last Thursday he told me he had it ready to present to the county commissioners!’ “

  I shook my head. Last Thursday. The day before he died.

  I said, “A friend of mine is a police officer down at the Sheriff’s Department. Mind if I tell him this? He might be interested.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t care. I think Weezie’s out of her mind. I don’t know whether she and my brother were . . . having an affair, the way everyone thinks. But I doubt it. Besides, she used to own the damn ridge. If she doesn’t want Brian to develop it, why’d they go to the planning commission and say they did? You know the county commissioners aren’t going to veto a development once the planners have given the okay.”

  I said, “I don’t know. Maybe she just got carried away because she knew it was important to him.”

  Elizabeth studied the creek.

  She said, “You were important to him.”

  I shrugged. “Yeah. I know.”

  She sighed. “I didn’t know much about his practice. You know, couldn’t tell tales. But the two of you seemed to be happy.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Remember the morning of the brunch? I never really had the whole picture of what was going on in his life, you know. He just didn’t share. But I did want to talk to him, because this time I knew he was stressed out.”

  “About what?”

  “A couple of clients, I think.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. One was homicidal, can you imagine? That’s all he told me. He said, Guess there are crazies everywhere.”

  I was stunned. “That’s all he told you?” Schulz had found no notes, nothing indicating this, I was sure.

  “Yeah, it was something that had just come up. He was getting some research done on it. The other was some woman who had been abused.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t know who it was. He’d been seeing her for about a month.”

  About a month? I felt as if I’d been punched in the solar plexus. Elizabeth, I was quite sure, did not know why my marriage had broken up. I said, “Really?”

  “Yeah, he said he hadn’t broken through to the abuse yet, but that it was a puzzling case because he’d known her a long time ago. She was a strong woman, or so he thought, but she ended up staying with this abusive guy for seven years. His question was, how could somebody who was so competent in other areas be that self-destructive?”

  “That was his question, huh? So she was a client?”

  “Well, I just assumed she was,” said Elizabeth as she helped herself to more tabbouleh. “She must have been important to him. Oh, I don’t want to make you jealous or anything. I think he really wanted to study her. Wanted to help her, you know?”

  “No,” I said carefully, “I guess I don’t.”

  Elizabeth and I parted when the raindrops began to fall. I was a good actress. I let my words fall as lightly as the pinpricks of water coming down. “Can’t wait to get together again.” “Everything you brought was so delicious.” “Call me anytime.”

  There was a ringing in my ears. I was not aware of crying, only aware of wetness on my cheeks. I batted it away. Crying was a volitional act. Therefore, I was not crying.

  Didn’t know how someone could flunk relationships, but be so competent in other areas? Hadn’t they taught him anything in Shrink School?

  It felt strange to have been betrayed by someone who was now dead. If indeed that was what had happened— although it was hard to believe one of his clients had exactly th
e same history as mine, or presented the same psychological puzzle to be solved. I had been an idiot. It was like someone had shot an entire round of ammunition at me a month ago. The bullets were just now reaching their mark.

  And here I thought he’d liked me.

  I stayed for seven years with an abusive spouse because I was afraid I would lose Arch. I stayed for seven years because I was afraid I would not be able to make a living. But let me ask you about our relationship, Philip, yours and mine. In that relationship, who abused whom?

  Within half an hour I had driven back to Aspen Meadow and renegotiated the road to Elk Park Prep. Of all people, I knew the dangers of Highway 203, especially when it was wet. And yet I found myself whipping around its curves as if defying death.

  About a hundred feet past the school’s entrance I vaulted my first speed bump. The van caught a foot of air and landed hard. I downshifted. The engine whined in protest. No question about it, I was not driving the way a good prep-school parent should. But I was furious.

  I pulled alongside a man-made clump of perfectly planted wildflowers. These mounds, like mock ruins landscaped into nineteenth-century gardens, were placed at irregular intervals along the split-rail fence that ran the length of the drive. This was why they had put up the electrified gate to keep out flower-eating deer. Profusions of asters, daisies, columbines, and poppies spilled every which way. My guess was that the desired impression ran something like, We can tame the wild! This was undoubtedly similar to what they wanted to do with teenage prep students. But our state’s annual rainfall averaged only fifteen inches. Even Mother Nature could never grow flowers that densely. As if in answer, a hidden sprinkler erupted with a tent of mist.

  To my right, past the fence and the border of old blue spruce trees planted during the hotel days, more sprinklers gushed over closely shaved, too-green hockey and soccer fields. The shush sound of the water filled the air. I shook my head. If Philip had truly been concerned with the state’s ecology, he should have started with his alma mater’s depletion of the water table.

  I began driving again, slowly, up toward the pool construction site. Warning signs—Building in Progress. Keep Out!—were enough to make me swing wide of the chain-link extravaganza. No more speed bumps, I thought with glee, as I pressed the accelerator.