The Whole Enchilada

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “I should have been invited to this party!” George Ingleby hollered. “I’m his father. How dare your wife exclude me?”

  “Out, out,” Tom was saying.

  “Damned spot,” Marla added gleefully, happy to have at least some ex-husband drama. Holly crossed her arms and ignored both of us.

  “We’re walking to the front door,” Tom went on, wrenching George’s arm and pulling the tall, balding stranger along as well. “We don’t want a scene, do we?” Tom’s cold tone scared even me. “In fact,” he concluded, “we want no excitement here at all.”

  Then Tom pulled the stranger, who had not spoken a word, and George, who looked as if he worked out as much as his ex-wife did, toward the front of Marla’s house. No matter what those guys’ routines at the gym were, neither one of them was a match for my husband’s strength. For the first time, I noticed Lena Ingleby, who was as short and curvy as Holly was tall and slender. A dark nest of curls surrounded her head and framed her pretty, perfectly made-up face, which featured a tiny chin and even more tiny turned-up nose. She didn’t dare touch Tom, but she did squeal in protest.

  “Holly had no right to exclude us!” she cried. “She’s already sending Drew to Alaska, to see her sister. George was manipulated into giving his consent, but really . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Yeah, like you care about Drew,” Holly said under her breath.

  “But why didn’t you invite George to this party?” I asked, as gently as I could. We had divided the invitation duties in half; she was supposed to invite Drew’s people, while I did Arch’s. About twenty folks had replied to me; the rest had answered Holly, which was how we’d come up with forty-odd guests, many of whom now stood in Marla’s kitchen looking at each other, openmouthed. Their expressions seemed to be asking: How often do you witness adults acting like spoiled kids, at a kids’ birthday party?

  “Oh, George is such a wuss,” Holly said. “How could I enjoy myself if he was here?”

  “Darling,” said Marla, “it’s not your party.”

  Holly shrugged. Meanwhile, someone had finally told Drew what was going on. He raced past us, calling to his father.

  “Oh, don’t, Drew,” Holly cried.

  Drew stopped long enough to give his mother a slit-eyed look. “You should have invited him.”

  “God,” said Holly, tossing her hair over her shoulders. “Everybody always blames me when things go wrong.”

  When Tom, the stranger, George, and Lena had disappeared, the timer went off. I called to the parents, who remained rooted in place, directionless. “Everyone who has a dish heating, now is the time to check it. Dinner’s in ten minutes.”

  And that, finally, was how we got things going. The parents began talking to each other and pulling their casserole dishes from Marla’s ovens. Arch, who was in charge of leading the kids to the buffet table, knew his cue. Drew, his body slumped in defeat, slouched along behind him. All the rest of the guests—kids and parents alike—offered to get drinks, serving spoons, or whatever was needed. Marla asked that they make sure no one went outside with a china dish or glass bottle. We also needed more plastic cups lined up on her kitchen island. Soon everyone was busy with duties.

  Considering the early fireworks, the party went off . . . well, okay, I suppose. When Tom reentered Marla’s dining room, I cocked an eyebrow at him. He shook his head once, indicating that I’d hear later what had happened. Meanwhile, the dining room table was crowded with offerings. A pool of steaming cheese floated atop a tamale pie, while an inviting scent wafted from the enchiladas. A large tossed salad tantalized with its sweet cherry tomatoes and crunchy chips. But it was Julian’s gorgeous colorful chile relleno tortas that had most of the guests oohing and aahing.

  At Marla’s insistence, I went through the line with the other parents. Julian, meanwhile, moved quickly and purposefully around the buffet and the guests’ tables. He filled serving dishes, removed empty bowls, and asked if people needed something else to drink. Really, I wondered, how had I managed the past few years without him?

  Drew seemed to recover from his father’s unexpected appearance, followed by his swift disappearance. He and Arch blew out all the candles on the sheet cake. Julian and I scooped out dulce de leche ice cream until my arm ached. Julian’s swimming-strengthened arms never appeared to be bothered by anything.

  Even Holly, who had seemed unsettled by the appearances of the uninvited stranger, then George and Lena, began to laugh and enjoy herself. To be honest, I would have been upset, too, if my ex-husband had made a scene and I were being stalked by a “nutty manipulator.” I did notice that Holly conscientiously gave Warren Broome a wide berth, even walked away when he leaned down to talk to her. I made a mental note to ask Marla about that. Could he be the one with whom she was having the relationship mess? For Patsie Boatfield’s sake, I certainly hoped not.

  Before I could stop him, Bob Rushwood, holding one of the red Pails for Trails, made the rounds of the parents, asking for donations. He’d given one to Ophelia, who stood resolutely beside Marla’s fireplace. Well, I didn’t blame her for refusing to be so rude. Several of the parents, including Holly, crossed the room to avoid being hit up for cash. I started across the room toward Bob, to ask him to stop trying to raise money at a birthday party for someone else. But Marla beat me to it, snatching the pail from him and taking the one Ophelia gladly handed her.

  Holly giggled with friends and said no thanks to cake topped with ice cream. Then I realized I hadn’t seen her eat any dinner. Maybe this was how she kept her svelte figure. When the boys tore into their last gifts, twin boxed sets of masculine soap and cologne, I noticed Holly spoon up a minuscule amount of Mexican food. Well, at least she wouldn’t go home hungry. I still hadn’t heard what the source of her financial problems was, or the nature of the relationship mess.

  Summer nights in the mountains can be quite cool. Perhaps it was the chilling of the air that made the party break up early. Arch put on a mask of happiness, but I knew he was disappointed that it hadn’t been more fun. Bob and Ophelia’s presentation and panhandling, the bizarre appearance of the balding stranger, and the arrival of George and Lena had made the party develop a layer of unease. Even I had been unable to relax completely.

  Holly and Drew were the first to leave. Holly looked a little green around the gills, but I put it down to the effort she’d had to put into avoiding the manipulator, George and Lena, Bob and Ophelia, and finally, Warren Broome.

  “Goldy,” she said, “I’m sorry. Maybe I should have invited George and Lena. I just . . . Let’s . . . We’ll get together soon, and talk.”

  “Sure,” I said. I hugged her. She clung to me, just like in the old days. Then she turned away.

  Sometimes parties go well, sometimes they don’t, I reminded myself, as I helped people into their jackets. And then I and everyone at the party, everyone who lived on or near Marla’s street, heard Drew screaming.

  5

  Mom!” Drew yelled. “Mom, what’s wrong? Wake up! Somebody help me! Mom!”

  A human wave erupted down the driveway. Some of us trotted, some walked. The kids, worried about Drew, raced. But everyone suddenly stopped by Marla’s mailbox. It was there that Julian, who’d arrived first, put out his arms. He ordered everyone to stay where they were, then called for Tom.

  When I saw Holly sprawled on the street, I stopped breathing. I was close enough to know something was very wrong. The logical part of my brain was asking, What? But my emotions were way ahead of that, and I found myself gasping for breath.

  Drew was screaming, “Mom! What’s wrong? Mom! Talk to me!”

  My knees buckled and I pitched forward. Tom grabbed me.

  “Miss G.,” he said softly. “Sit down. Don’t move.” He called to one of the parents to stay beside me. I barely registered Patsie Boatfield putting her arms around my shoulders.

  Bob Rushwood was hollering something about knowing CPR. Tom called for him to help, and they dashed past us, as
did Marla. I was having trouble getting oxygen into my lungs. Someone handed Patsie a paper lunch bag, and she ordered me to breathe into it.

  I did so, then shakily stood. “I have to be with Holly,” my voice squeakily announced.

  “I’m coming with you,” Patsie said. She felt my wrist, and I finally looked at her. She had curly red hair that she had allowed to grow into a long, attractive mop. Her clear blue eyes matched the sleeveless dress she wore. “Your pulse is thready,” she added. “Goldy? Do you remember I’m a nurse?”

  “Yes,” I mumbled, mentally adding, I think so.

  Patsie held me up until we got to the bottom of the driveway, where Julian let us through. Drew was kneeling next to his mother’s prone body. Marla sat on the curb, stunned. Tom’s presence gave me a chill of relief. Tears spilled down my cheeks. Bob Rushwood was performing CPR on Holly. This isn’t happening, my logical mind said.

  Tom took Drew’s cell phone from him and began speaking to someone I assumed was the emergency operator. Drew, his hands empty, leaned in close to his mother and sobbed.

  “Patsie, help me,” I finally said. I choked up and couldn’t speak for a moment. “We have to get Drew away from this. Holly needs air.”

  “I’ll do it,” she said authoritatively. “You go be with Marla.”

  This I did. Marla and I sat next to each other, shivering.

  Despite Patsie’s pleas, Drew would not move. Big-boned and strong, he barely registered Patsie, who finally gently pulled on his forearm. He wouldn’t budge, even shoved her away with such force she almost toppled over. She righted herself, pressed her lips together, and came over next to Marla and me on the curb.

  Arch, whom Julian had allowed through, tugged my sleeve. “What happened?” he said. “Is Drew’s mom okay?”

  “I don’t know,” I told him. We were about ten feet away from where Bob, his dreads incongruously hanging over Holly’s shoulders, was still working on her.

  Patsie spoke again, the voice of authority. “Arch? You need to help Julian keep everyone away from this. Tom and Bob have to work on Holly. The ambulance will be here soon.”

  “Father Pete,” I said, my voice disembodied. “He’s here. Let him through, if you can.”

  “Sure, I’ll go get him,” Arch said. “But . . . what happened to Drew’s mom? Did she lose her balance on the driveway?”

  When I didn’t reply, Patsie shook her head grimly. “Please go get the priest, Arch. He needs to be with Drew.”

  I stood and motioned for Arch to follow me. The parents and kids were rubbernecking to see what was going on. “Something else?” Patsie called after us. “Make sure no one films this with a cell phone.”

  But Julian was already telling the guests to put their phones away now, or he would confiscate them. Arch walked to the driveway and added, “Can somebody please send Father Pete over to where Drew is?”

  When I turned back, Drew had finally moved to the curb. He sat huddled next to Marla and Patsie. Patsie had a hand on his shoulder and was talking in a low tone. Paying her no heed, he was staring openmouthed at his mother. When he stood, he immediately leaned against a pine tree whose roots snarled the ground. When he teetered, Patsie snagged him, then steered him away.

  “Everybody better sit a little ways off so the ambo can get through.” She corralled us to a small spew of stones. When I sat down, the gravel bit through my slacks. Drew watched Bob working expertly on Holly. I knew CPR, but I don’t know if I could have been that good at it. I wondered vaguely if anyone had collapsed on the treadmill at Aspen Meadow Country Club, and Bob had had to bring the would-be athlete back to life.

  Tom was holding Holly’s wrist while he barked commands into the cell phone. Holly still had not moved on her own. Like everybody else, I wanted to ask Drew what, exactly, had happened. Was it possible Holly had lost her balance, fallen on the driveway, and been knocked unconscious?

  Sirens sounded from far away. This sent Drew into a fresh torrent of sobs. “God! Oh, God!”

  Father Pete, his olive skin glistening with sweat, trundled over and lowered himself to the gravel beside us. He shook perspiration off his black curls and put one of his large arms around Drew.

  “We were walking,” Drew explained, without any of us asking. “She usually goes faster than me. But she didn’t this time. She was going so slowly that I asked her what was wrong. She said she was just so tired all of a sudden—” He dissolved in tears again, then wrenched himself away from us and lunged toward his mother. “Oh, what is the matter with her?”

  “Come here.” Father Pete caught the back of Drew’s jeans. Despite being overweight, Father Pete, a former prizefighter, was still nimble. “Drew? Stay with me. Julian!” he called. “Please walk over to us.”

  Julian sternly ordered the parents to stay put, then traversed the short distance to us.

  “Sit down next to Drew, please,” Father Pete commanded. Julian did so, but his face, so animated when he’d talked about cooking for Holly, was completely drained of color and expression.

  I swallowed my panic and swiveled my head in all directions.

  Marla’s neighbors’ houses were set far back from the road, not chockablock the way they were on our street. Still, there had been kids who’d been playing out front when I set up. Had anyone besides Drew seen what had happened to Holly? Squinting, I could make out a couple of neighbors standing in their doorways, curious about the ruckus. But no one was approaching us, as they would, or at least as I hoped they would, if they’d witnessed something Tom should know about.

  A sudden wind lashed the aspens and ponderosa pines lining Marla’s driveway. The party guests, who’d edged nearer despite Julian’s warnings, talked in hushed tones. The sirens became louder. Drew suddenly grabbed Father Pete’s shirt.

  “Father Pete! She trusts you. She trusts you!” he cried. “If she’s dying, give her the last rites. You know, extreme unction. Or whatever it’s called. Quickly! I know she’d want you . . . hurry!”

  Without questioning this, Father Pete got to his feet. He asked Drew to accompany him. The two of them quickstepped over to where Bob Rushwood was still working on Holly. Bob’s expression when he looked up at the priest was stricken. Tom, Bob, and Father Pete exchanged a few low words. Tom pressed his lips together and looked stoic as he pulled Bob up and away.

  The ambulance careened onto Marla’s street. Father Pete motioned for Drew to join him, and they crouched next to Holly. Father Pete said words over Holly, made the sign of the cross on her forehead, and said more words. She still did not move.

  The paramedics jumped from the ambo and moved everyone away from Holly. They put up screens to shield the scene from inquisitive eyes. After a few minutes, one of them came out and confirmed what Tom, Bob, Father Pete, Marla, Julian, and I already knew, although I couldn’t face it. None of us could.

  Holly was dead.

  Tom walked over, exhaled, and asked if I was all right. I said no, not really. His face creased with concern as he murmured that the ambulance was going to leave, but he needed to wait for the coroner’s van. He turned to Marla and told her to ask the guests to go home. When Marla appeared dumbfounded, he asked Patsie to do it. Also, Tom said, he didn’t want Drew to be around when the coroner’s van arrived. So . . . a patrol car was on its way. If I felt up to it, could I drive into town with Drew, wait for someone from the sheriff’s department, then take Drew back to Holly’s house? Tom added that Father Pete and Julian could come with us. Father Pete had already told Tom he knew how to get to Holly’s rental. I looked quizzically at our priest. How did he know how to get to Holly’s house, when I had no idea?

  “Goldy?” Tom asked, his voice still low. “Do you feel okay?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Any stomach upset?” When I shook my head, he said, “How about the other guests? Anybody feeling sick? I’m just trying to cover the bases here.”

  “No, Tom. Except for this, this . . . I’m all right.” I turned back to the dri
veway, where Patsie was dispersing the glut of people. “Nobody has reported anything.”

  Tom said, “All right, then. I have to call social services.”

  “Why?”

  “Drew is a minor,” he explained. “He has to be in foster care until we know what’s what.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Tom’s voice was barely above a murmur. “Keep it down, all right? After that fight between George and Holly, I can’t let Drew go to George’s house. We both know there was no love lost between Edith and Holly. Probably Lena hated Holly, too, so it’s not a good environment for the kid. I don’t know what’s going on here. Neither do you. But unless Holly was under the care of a doctor, there has to be an autopsy.” I closed my eyes and fought the urge to be sick. Tom said, “Miss G.? You with me?”

  I opened my eyes and nodded. “Yes.”

  “Drew is a minor, so what I’m talking about is the law. I’ve already asked Drew if he has relatives in the area, even in the state, besides his father. He does not. So, listen. He has to be with an approved foster family for the time being. He’ll be okay. We have families who help when kids’ parents die suddenly. I can give the deputy directions as to where Drew should be taken after he’s ready to go. But . . . can you take him home to pack? I thought it would be better if he had some people around who know him, instead of just a department deputy.”

  I swallowed. “I can do it.”

  Tom still kept his voice very low. “Somebody said something about Drew taking off for Alaska?”

  I nodded. “Lena did. But I’m sure he won’t . . . I don’t know when—” I choked up again, and worked to get control of myself. “Do you know what, what”—I couldn’t bring myself to say what killed Holly—“what happened?”

  Tom said, “No, I don’t.” He took a call on his cell, then said, “The cop will meet you outside the Grizzly.” He pressed his lips together, then asked, “What did Drew say Holly said? Right before she collapsed, how did she act?”