KLEENEX
As she plucked the tissue, the box lifted with it off the top of the toilet tank, then, when they separated, dropped back empty. She blew her nose, regarding the gray cardboard bottom through the plastic slit, annoyed at the extra task. With some effort, she tore the box apart so it would take up less space in the wastebasket. She’d bought a three-pack last week, saving a dollar, as always, with a coupon. As she pulled it from the linen closet, running her thumbnail along a seam between the boxes until the shrink-wrap split, she noticed she was out of sixty-watt bulbs. She’d have to put them on the list.
She took the new box downstairs and swapped it for the half-full one by Henry’s chair, then went around weighing the open ones until she found the lightest—on the kitchen counter—and switched them. She put the light one in Henry’s office, beside his computer, took the nearly full one that had been there upstairs and centered it on the toilet tank.
She could have stopped there, but, carried by her own momentum, she checked the rest of the upstairs boxes. She moved the fullest to her nightstand, the second fullest to the children’s bathroom, and the fuller of the last two to Margaret’s room, where Margaret would be sleeping. Only then, with order restored, could she go on with her day.
A few nights later, while she was reading in bed, her lamp burned out, and with a twinge she remembered that she’d forgotten all about the bulbs. Honestly, her mind was a sieve. Rather than wait till morning, she got up and went downstairs in her robe and slippers and wrote it on the list, with a 2 for two two-packs. Next time she’d be prepared.
EXTRAVAGANCE
Maybe Margaret was right, because the car was a godsend. Instead of having to follow Arlene’s schedule, now she could set out anytime she liked. The Subaru was several generations removed from the Olds in all respects, the interior a rich-smelling black leather with amenities Emily at first considered frivolous but found she used every day, like the seat warmers. The ride was amazingly quiet, and the sound system was better than her home stereo, boasting a dozen speakers and a six-disc changer—all standard equipment. Coming home from the Giant Eagle, she glided through East Liberty, Byrd’s Gloria lending the drab blocks a melancholy gravity. In the way-back, a thoughtfully designed mesh net kept her groceries from sliding around.
The car was small, but had some giddyup to it, and handled easily. Snow was no problem, even coming down Grafton. Between the traction control and the antilock brakes, she couldn’t put it into a skid if she tried. Best of all, it fit in the garage with room to spare.
The biggest difference was the gas mileage. She suspected the estimates on the sticker were inflated, and made a point of checking the first time she filled up. Though she’d yet to take it out on the highway, the car was getting almost thirty miles to the gallon, three times what the Olds got.
Arlene fawned over the map lights and the makeup mirror in the visor, and joked that she was jealous. Emily believed her. Beyond the fact that Arlene didn’t have the means to replace her Taurus, the Subaru had shifted the balance of power. Now when they went somewhere together, they took Emily’s car, and Emily, citing Arlene’s doctor, refused to let her smoke in it.
She also refused to let Rufus destroy her new leather seats, banishing him to the way-back, the carpet there protected by a rubber mat. This restriction proved harder to enforce. He was unhappy being exiled, despite her laying down one of his favorite blankets, and regularly jumped over the backseat and squirmed his way through to the front, taking his accustomed place as copilot, his nails digging in, leaving scuffs and scratches. Emily grew tired of scolding him and installed an expensive set of adjustable bars that made it look like she’d caged him for safe transport.
“I don’t blame you,” Betty said. “You want to keep it nice.”
It was Wednesday and Emily had taken her out to the garage after lunch to show off what she called “my present to myself.”
“It looks fast, with the hood thingy,” Betty said. “What do they call it—the Fast and the Furious.”
“It’s not too much, is it? I don’t want to be like one of those middle-aged men who buys a Porsche.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that.”
“Not that I qualify as middle-aged anymore.”
“It’s nice, it’s just different.”
“Not what you expected.”
“No, you said you were looking at them. I don’t know. Maybe it’s the color.”
“Too bright.”
“Maybe.”
Emily understood. She had trouble believing this sleek, nimble machine was hers as well. There was something incongruous, if not outright ironic, in the mismatch of car and driver. She felt decrepit, while it was brand-new, and at no time in her life, even as a long-legged teen, had she been sporty.
“I can wipe this off if you want,” Betty said, pointing to the roof, spotted with faint cat tracks.
“Honest to God,” Emily said, taking the rag from her and doing it herself. “I’ve only had the thing a week.”
“You think that matters to him?”
“Oh, he knows exactly what he’s doing. That’s the way cats are, very calculating.”
“I think you’re giving him too much credit.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t be happy if I let Rufus walk all over their cars.”
Betty chuckled to let her know she was being ridiculous. “That I’d like to see. Seriously, though, Emily, it’s a beautiful car. Toni would completely approve.”
“Thank you,” Emily said, but back inside, as they tended to their separate tasks, she worried that Betty, whose little Nissan was rusting, might think she’d been extravagant.
She was hanging the guest towels in the children’s bathroom when a truck rumbled down Grafton and squealed to a stop out front. She knew the putter of the mail van; this was larger, possibly FedEx or UPS. Belatedly, Rufus barked and struggled up from his spot beside her bed. He stood at the top of the stairs and looked at her as if waiting for permission, then, when the doorbell rang, charged down, frantic.
She had a number of items from Eddie Bauer on back order, including Margaret’s big gift, a goose-down comforter, and had been fretting that they wouldn’t arrive in time. She tried not to be too hopeful.
The bell rang again.
“You got it?” Betty called.
“I’m getting it.”
Rufus was still sounding the alarm, as if no one else could hear.
“Move,” Emily said, blocking him as she cracked the door.
The deliveryman held a poinsettia, the pot wrapped in gold foil—Kenneth and Lisa’s traditional gift, a polite, not quite personal offering, accepted by Emily in the same spirit.
“Mrs. Maxwell?”
“That would be me. Just ignore him, he’s harmless.”
There was nothing to sign. The man wished her happy holidays, hustled back to his step van and was off before she could set the pot on the front hall table and close the storm door.
There was a miniature red envelope taped to the foil. The card was bordered with jaunty holly. In the florist’s careless hand, the message read: MERRY CHRISTMAS WITH LOVE FROM THE MAXWELLS.
Emily wondered how much it cost, and whether Lisa had phoned in her order or gone online. Not that it mattered.
The plant itself was flawless, the leaves a brilliant vermillion, the delicate flowers in the center just beginning to bud, the result of a long, involved hothouse process, keeping it in the dark much of the day so it would bloom at just the right time. Twice in the past Emily had tried to transplant them outside, but they weren’t hardy enough. Like the others, this one would have its few weeks of glory in the front window and then linger on in Kenneth’s room, another thing to remember, slowly dropping its leaves, its stems drying to twigs as the winter months passed, until she would have to throw it, pot and all, in the trash. Over the years she’d mentioned the waste of it to Lisa several times, not to complain—she wasn’t ungrateful or trying to be u
nkind—but to suggest more practical and affordable choices, yet every Christmas another perfect poinsettia arrived.
She pushed her geraniums and African violets aside to make room. In the sun, the leaves were even brighter.
“Wow,” Betty said. “That’s a nice one.”
“Isn’t it,” Emily said.
CHRISTMAS CHEER
With Margaret coming, the question was what to do with the booze.
Out of respect for her sobriety, Emily’s instinct was to stow it in the basement—not locked away but boxed and out of sight—except Margaret might take the empty liquor cabinet as an insult. Would it be better to pretend everything was fine? She’d tried that the last time. Fool me once, except Margaret hadn’t fooled anyone in years, not even herself. Emily felt equally helpless. Either way, Margaret could fault her, and after much agonizing, she decided to go with her first instinct.
Until she filled two heavy boxes and lugged them downstairs, barely making a dent, she hadn’t realized how much there was—not just Henry’s collection of scotches and the normal Episcopalian assortment of hard stuff but the brandies and ports and sherries and different liqueurs they’d amassed over the years, many of them presents, some, like the cone-shaped bottle of Poire William and the dark rum from Kenneth and Lisa’s Caribbean trip, untouched. The bottom shelf was like their basement, packed with forgotten odds and ends. They had two open bottles of Drambuie, and two of her favorite Grand Marnier left over from the days when they used to entertain. Cointreau, Armagnac, amaretto, B&B, Calvados, Courvoisier, Rémy Martin.
Though recently she’d apologized for blaming others for her own personal choices, in the past Margaret often said it was no wonder she drank, given her role models. Emily had never taken this accusation to heart, since neither she nor Henry were what she would consider heavy drinkers. Yes, they drank socially when they were younger, but when Emily recalled their parties, she remembered the backyard flickering with tiki torches and Henry tending the barbecue, card tables laden with baked beans and potato salad and slices of watermelon and brownies, the whole neighborhood gathered—kids and adults—for a good time. There would be croquet and horseshoes, and the boys would organize a wiffleball game in the courtyard, drafting Henry to pitch. Maybe later Kay Miller would get out of hand and topple her lawn chair, or Gene Alford would break into song so that Ginny had to clamp a hand over his mouth, but by then the children were in bed. It was possible that Margaret watched them from her window, her nose pressed against the screen, but what she would have seen wasn’t some depraved bacchanal, just a circle of friends trading stories and laughing, glad to have one another’s easy company at the end of the night. It wasn’t until Margaret was a teenager that they started having problems with kids stealing beers from coolers, and it was to Emily’s eternal shame that, under her relentless questioning, Kenneth confessed that Margaret was one of the culprits.
Emily hadn’t let her off easy, though it was the late sixties and there were far worse things girls her age were into. No one could say Emily had ignored the problem. If anything, she was too vigilant, and this was just the beginning. From then on the two of them waged a daily struggle over clothes and boys and grades and smoking until, to the relief of everyone, Margaret went off to college, leaving the much easier, eager-to-please Kenneth, whose vices and desires were transparent. They’d had their flare-ups, yet at their very worst, which had not been often, she’d felt disdain from him, never hatred.
She’d thought about this a great deal, having directed, at the same age, that same obliterating anger toward her own mother. At some point—maybe when she’d fled Kersey and left that stultifying world behind, or when she began a family of her own—she’d been able to put it aside. She feared that Margaret hadn’t, and that that—that she, through no fault of her own besides her existence—was somehow behind all of her problems. Louise said she would drive herself crazy trying to figure out why Margaret was the way she was, knowing it wasn’t in Emily’s nature to let even the smallest matter drop.
She had tried. She had compromised, listened, waited, prayed. She’d lent her money—tens of thousands—foolishly, perhaps, though she could rationalize it, saying she’d done it for the children. Looking back, it was hard to say if her efforts had succeeded. Was Sarah happy on her own in Chicago, as Margaret claimed? Was Justin really enjoying school? Emily had no way of knowing. She couldn’t even be sure Margaret was sober, though that was the assumption they were operating under.
After all this work, Emily thought, filling yet another box, she’d better be. Was she being uncharitable? Overwrought? Why did the mere idea of Margaret’s arrival set her off? Shouldn’t she just be happy she was coming?
The shame of it was that this was the best time of year to linger at the table after dessert and savor a wee dram, as Henry put it. Christmas meant the foamy, sweet kick of eggnog, and her Grandmother Waite’s breathtaking rum balls. She would have liked to offer Sarah wine with dinner, now that she was of age, but that too was ruined.
She didn’t bother with the mixers or the glasses. The last box was a grab bag of half-pints and miniatures and Henry’s many flasks, all of which, to her dismay, needed polishing. She lugged it down, careful on the stairs, and set it atop the others beside his bench. She couldn’t resist counting them—eight full boxes of liquor. Stacked like seized evidence, they seemed to support Margaret’s case, but Emily knew better. This accumulation had taken decades, and while she still enjoyed an occasional nip, most of these bottles would survive her. Not that that was any great loss. Henry would want Kenneth to have his scotch. The rest held no such sentimental value.
In the top box rested a curved hip flask she’d given Henry for Christmas years ago, engraved with his initials. She lifted it out and angled it toward the light to admire the filigree. Slim as a cigarette case, it fit perfectly in the back pocket of his favorite corduroys. He carried it on their fall walks in the park, and while he tinkered in the garage at Chautauqua. Winter nights in Panther Hollow, as they sat by the bonfire of broken-down pallets and watched the children skating where they’d once courted, he handed it to her first and then pretended to disinfect the mouth with his sleeve. Weekends and vacations, at the end of the day he set it with his Hamilton on his dresser, another elegant accessory. That was what alcohol was to her, an extra, civilized pleasure, part of the sophisticated life she’d always wanted. She understood that Margaret had a disease. What she couldn’t figure out was why.
She unscrewed the cap and passed the threaded stem under her nose, taking in the scent of old smoke, knowing she shouldn’t, then tipped it to her lips. The scotch was dank and peppery, with a sting of iodine. She held the sip, letting it puddle on her tongue a moment before swallowing, monitoring its progress down her throat to her stomach. The warmth rose from her core straight to her face, a flush like the first stirrings of a hot flash. Just a taste, that was all she wanted. She capped the flask, returned it to the box and closed the flaps. After a brief search, she covered the stack with a dropcloth, topping it with a paint tray and an old roller—still too conspicuous but the best she could do. Was it enough? Probably not, but if Margaret wanted a drink that bad, at least she’d have to look for it.
Later, her back hurt, and she had to lie down with a heating pad. She set her glasses on her nightstand, slung one arm over her eyes and, as she expected, drifted off to sleep. When she woke up, it was dark and she was sweating. Some obnoxious Rachmaninoff was playing, meaning QED was into their evening schedule. She swung her legs off the bed and sat on the edge for a second, rubbing her face, and then laughed, thinking: The things you do for your children.
THE BUSIEST DAY OF THE YEAR
Emily had just finished putting the lasagna together when Margaret called. She was on her cell phone, her voice warped and ragged with static, cutting in and out, then suddenly gone, as if she’d been kidnapped.
“Hello?” Emily tried. “Hello!”
A minute later Margaret called back
. The reception was better, though she gave no explanation.
They were going to be late. The storm coming up the East Coast had grounded everything. Sarah’s flight out of Chicago was delayed as well. The airline wasn’t telling them much, but the planes were still sitting on the ground in Charlotte.
Outside, as if to refute her, the sky was blue.
“How’s the weather there?” Emily asked.
“Here? Fine. If we were flying direct, it’d be no problem. It’s the stupid hub thing—whoever thought that up was a genius. My worry is that we’ll miss our connection and end up spending the night there, which would not be fun, as much as I love the Charlotte airport. This weekend’s so busy, if we wait till tomorrow to go out, we might not get there at all, so it’s not like we have a choice.”
“I’ll just sit tight till I hear from you.”
“It could be a while.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Emily said.
“Neither are we,” Margaret said.
She called Arlene to let her know. She was supposed to come over at two so they could go meet them at the baggage claim.
“How’s she doing?”
“About how you’d expect.”
“Oh my.”
“Yes,” Emily said, “oh my.”
“What does that mean for our dinner plans?”
“Everything’s on hold for now.”
“I should probably hold off on my garlic bread then.”
“I think that’s wise,” Emily said.
Their departure time came and went, and still she waited, as she said she would, resisting the urge to call Margaret’s cell. The Met was broadcasting Prokofiev’s War and Peace, a rare offering, but she couldn’t enjoy it. The plan had been for them to fly in around midafternoon. That would give them time to get settled while she baked the lasagna. It took fifty minutes to get to the airport, another twenty to park and wait for their bags. As Napoleon drove deep into Russia, she pushed dinner further and further back. Society dines late, Henry’s mother loved to say, but anything beyond eight o’clock was absurd.
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