She supposed she should have felt flattered. Instead, she imagined what little there was of her dress was losing the battle between her skin and Bendemann’s lascivious gaze. Still, she knew Roland would expect her to smile, and she did, just slightly, hoping her disgust might somehow pass for an attempt at being coy.
“Not that I know of, Mr. Bendemann.” She stretched her words into an exaggerated, honey-sweet drawl. “But all the girls back home in Heron’s Nest sure loved him.”
“Heron’s Nest.” He looked once again at Roland. “Is she for real?”
“As real as they get,” Roland said, and she warmed at the pride in his voice. “Like the way people used to be, before the war took us all to hell and back.”
The trio fell into silence—a sober island in the midst of so much festivity.
“My brother fought in the war,” Dorothy Lynn said, soft enough that the older man had to lean down to hear. Real tears pooled in her eyes. “He’s never come home. I just want to see him again, to tell him about my—” Something beyond Roland’s subtle jab kept her from saying wedding, and she didn’t dare mention her father in this place. Not that she believed the ghost of him would come barreling out of heaven to strike her down, but she’d taken enough foolish chances for one day. In the end, it didn’t matter what she was going to say, because H. C. Bendemann had once more snatched her away from Roland’s side, though this time in a slightly more paternal embrace.
“Well, then,” he said, raising the hand that still held his cocktail to summon someone from across the room, “what’s the use of having sway in this place if you can’t use it to help a sweet kid like you?”
He downed the rest of his drink and handed the empty glass to a passing waiter, instructing Dorothy Lynn to hand hers to Roland, which she did unquestioningly. From the crowd at large had emerged a man in a cheap tweed jacket and rumpled hat, wearing a large camera on a thick strap around his neck.
“You and the lady, sir?” he asked, chomping a piece of chewing gum in the corner of his mouth.
“Indeed,” Bendemann said, immediately releasing any fatherly tension from his embrace. “On three.”
The photographer counted, and on “Three!” a flash exploded, adding to the cloud of cigarette smoke in the room.
“In the dailies tomorrow,” Bendemann said, artfully slipping the photographer a folded bill. At least, that’s what Dorothy Lynn assumed he was giving him, as the light from the flash lingered in the corners of her sight. “Movie Weekly and Variety next week. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” He reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a notebook and a stub of pencil. “Caption?” he said, before placing the notebook along the side of his mouth. “Or are we wanting to remain anonymous?”
“My name, of course, and Miss—it is Miss, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Roland said. “Miss Dorothy Lynn Dunbar,” and he spelled it, keeping a careful eye over the photographer’s shoulder.
“That should get some attention,” Bendemann said, taking a new, filled glass from the same waiter who had carted his empty one away just a minute before.
“Indeed it should.” Roland handed Dorothy Lynn her drink, and she numbly participated as the three touched their glasses together. “You’re a powerful man.”
“We’ll see how powerful I am once my wife sees that picture. Oy, gevalt! You’ll explain to her, won’t you? God forbid she kick me to the street.” He took a long, appreciative swallow of his drink before shaking Roland’s hand and giving Dorothy Lynn a kiss on her cheek. Then he disappeared into the crowd.
“Can we go home now?” Dorothy Lynn asked, wiping the lingering alcohol from her face with the back of her hand.
Roland deposited their glasses on the tray of a passing waiter and picked up two others filled with champagne. “One drink.”
She refused to even touch the glass.
“One drink,” he insisted, “and one dance—not with me, but with some young sheik worthy of your company—and then straight home. Come on, my sweet rose. Enjoy your night in the snow.”
Tiny, enticing bubbles frolicked above the rim. She’d asked Brent if they could have a bottle of champagne at their wedding, just as Darlene and Roy had. Enough for all the guests to join in a single toast. He’d said she was out of her mind. Prohibition aside, it was a fool who got drunk with wine. And now . . .
“It’s too late,” she said.
“It’s not even eleven o’clock.”
Distracted by Roland’s misunderstanding, she reached for the glass. “Ma always said it was cheating to stay out past midnight. It keeps your feet in both days.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Our days are numbered by the Lord. If we live two at a time, we’re getting more than our share.”
“If that’s the case, baby,” he said, touching his glass to hers, “then we’re staying out ’til dawn.”
It tickled and burned at one time, leaving her unsure of both its delight and its danger. Roland, however, had no misgivings—no sooner were their glasses empty than two more arrived, and by the third, everything around the room was deliciously fuzzy.
Once, when Roland was off getting drinks, a woman in a dress made entirely of sheer gauze and strategic ribbons came up to her, leaned close, and in a booze-laden voice asked, “Who’s your daddy?”
“Pastor Dunbar,” Dorothy Lynn said, surprised at how thick the words were when she wasn’t simply flipping out a joke. “But he’s dead.”
Ribbons rolled her eyes. “Not your father. Your daddy.” She inclined her head toward Roland, who had a familiar champagne glass in one hand and one of the far more dangerous-looking dark liquid in the other.
Before he arrived, Dorothy Lynn cupped her hands around her mouth and bent straight to Ribbons’s ear. “That’s Roland Lundi. I think he may have ruined my life.”
I have seen all the works that are done under the sun; and, behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit.
ECCLESIASTES 1:14
BREATH OF ANGELS
2:07 P.M.
They call this the “celebration room,” even though most days it is indistinguishable from any other. The carpet is the same industrial mauve weave as is found throughout the facility, and the tables are the same sturdy dining sets that furnish the dining hall downstairs. One thing it does have is a generous window and sliding glass door opening to a narrow, walled-in patio in case a family’s celebration is given to moving outside.
Lynnie sits outside the celebration room, having dutifully taken a nap after her tour of the grounds courtesy of Charlotte Hill. Had her caretakers known the extent of her fitfulness during the prescribed nap, however, they might not have credited her with compliance. A body as old as hers did not expend its energy on tossing and turning, but her mind had never ceased its questioning as she lay, eyes closed against the gray light of the drawn drapes.
Now, freshly primped and propped in her wheelchair, she waits, staring at the black sign with white plastic letters wedged in its creases.
RESERVED
October 14
2–3 p.m.
The clock on the wall indicates that her party should have started more than five minutes ago, and she wonders if, behind the large double door, last-minute preparations are under way. Balloons, maybe—those large, floating, colorful, silver-backed ones—or bright paper streamers looped from one industrial ceiling tile to the next. She strains to listen for music, or even conversation, but hears nothing.
She longs, suddenly, for Charlotte, who—in her mind, at least—would have an answer for all of this. But Charlotte, chastised for keeping Lynnie out too long, had turned the wheelchair over to the capable hands of Kaleena and disappeared among the covered walkways. She might have whispered a promise to return, but that could be nothing more than a trick of an old woman’s mind that has lived with too many wishes.
With a gnarled hand she plucks at the pilling on the sleeve of her favorite blue sweater. Kaleen
a had asked if she wouldn’t rather wear something slightly more festive? Pink, maybe, or the white cardigan with the golden thread and soft fur running along the buttons? But this is warm and familiar, though she can’t help but think how it diminishes with every tiny, discarded ball of thread. Long ago, someone—or some machine, more likely—knit this sweater one stitch at a time, and here it binds itself in tiny balls to be pinched off by useless fingers and tossed onto the floor next to a wheelchair parked outside an empty celebration room. And to think, it’s not half as old as Lynnie herself.
These are the thoughts that plague her as she waits. And waits. In her youth this might have become a song, and her feet, snug against the soft soles of her slippers, twitch against the imagined cool forest floor where she’d escape to write it. Her mind grows drowsy looking for a rhyme.
Sweater . . . Better?
Silly.
As always, she hears them long before she sees them. What used to be overlapping, clattering footsteps have become purposeful, careful sounds of nonskid soles assisted by rhythmic, tapping canes. They’re arguing about gas prices, of all things, and the financial insanity of driving two extra blocks to save a nickel, at best. They’ve not even rounded the corner yet, and already she is exhausted.
“Aunt Dottie!”
She’s not sure if it is RJ or Darren who first shouts out the greeting. The difference in age that so defined them as boys disappeared shortly after high school. Today, as both enjoy rare, hearty health for men in their nineties, a stranger would be hard-pressed to know which was older. Indeed, Lynnie hardly knows which is which. It’s not until one of them bends to kiss her and she notices the scar on his bald, spotted pate—the testament of a collision between his head and a can of peas—that identifies him as Darren, the oft-wounded younger brother.
RJ patiently waits his turn before planting a dry kiss on her other cheek.
“Happy birthday, Aunt Dottie.” He twists his hat in his hands and looks around. “Nobody else here?”
“Does it look like anyone else is here?” Darren asks, forever seeking argument.
“I thought they might already be inside the room.”
“Then why would she be outside?”
“Maybe they got here before she did.”
“Then why would they close the door?”
Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!
When they were little boys, Lynnie wouldn’t have dared shout them down in such a way, for fear of incurring their mother’s wrath. Now, in their old age, they’ve reverted to the same childish behavior, and she is again powerless to make them stop. She furrows her brow and looks from one to the other, but they are too entrenched in their argument to notice her displeasure. The round-faced clock ticks down another minute of her designated birthday party time, and the possibility that she’ll spend every moment of it trapped in this hallway listening to two old men bicker is starting to seem very real when the sound of squeaking shoes and short, panting breath comes up from behind.
“Daddy! Uncle RJ! We can hear you clear down the hallway.”
It’s Penny, Darren’s oldest daughter, looking so much like her grandmother it takes Lynnie’s breath away. True, she’s fatter than Darlene would have ever allowed herself to be, but they share an identical chin and nose and slightly lifted left eye.
Penny is all business this afternoon, hefting a bakery cake box, a canvas grocery bag, and an assortment of gift bags, each with its own tufted tissue paper spilling from the top.
“Is anybody else here?”
“Does it look like anyone else is here?” her father repeats.
Fearing a descent into the same argument, Lynnie forces a grunt from the back of her throat to bring the attention back to her.
“Of course, happy birthday, Great-Aunt Dottie. If I can get one of these two to open the door, we’ll get things set up.”
Grumbling, RJ complies. Darren wheels Lynnie, who stares at Penny’s bustling behind, made even more entertaining as it wriggles beneath a pair of dark-blue stretch pants.
“Well, isn’t this nice?” Penny says with enough enthusiasm to make it so. In truth, the celebration room is modest in its glory. It’s warm in here—as always—and the tables have been covered with colored cloths that look like so much confetti. In the center of each is a glass vase with one or two plastic flowers—standard centerpieces for all occasions.
It turns out the answer to the question “Is anybody else here?” is yes. Seven people, actually, representing three generations: RJ’s son—another Roy—his daughter Kathleen and her husband, Patrick, and their four children, whose names Lynnie has never bothered to learn. They all start with K, a practice she has always found maddening, and as far as she can remember, she’s never had a single conversation with them beyond the obligatory thank-you and good-bye. Right now all of them—children, parents, and grandparents—are engrossed in their individual electronic gadgets, which accounts for the silence on the other side of the door.
“There you are,” Kathleen says, rising from her chair. She is every bit as portly as Penny, though she dresses more fashionably to accommodate the extra weight. “You said two o’clock. We’ve been waiting in here for fifteen minutes.”
“Well, I had to pick everything up, and the cake wasn’t ready, and then I couldn’t find a parking place . . .”
Penny’s litany of complaints goes on, without the slightest attempt to hide her frustration.
“Next time let me know and I’ll help out.”
“Oh, next time? For the hundred-and-eighth?”
They find resolution in laughter, never acknowledging that Lynnie is there, waiting, listening. Instead, Penny forges on, dropping the cake on one of the tables and unpacking the grocery bag with boxes of crackers and plastic packages of cheese cubes.
“Kids,” Kathleen says as she counts out a stack of paper plates, “go say happy birthday to your great-aunt Dottie.”
“Great-great-great-aunt Dottie,” Penny says, delighted. “Isn’t that something?”
None of the children move until their father nudges one with his elbow. Then, with eyes rolled to the ceiling, the oldest—a surly-looking teen—takes to his feet and shuffles over to where Lynnie has been parked near the window.
“Hapbirthdaygrauntdottie,” he mutters, not bothering to look away from the screen in his hands. It’s a wonder he can see anything through the shock of hair in front of his eyes. One by one they follow suit, looking either at their electronic games, at the floor, or at something slightly behind her. Only the youngest—a five-year-old surprise—stares at her with unabashed terror, forgetting completely what she has been sent over to say. A helpful older brother slugs her in the arm hard enough to knock her off balance.
“Say ‘happy birthday,’ stupid!”
Her round little mouth struggles for the words, but ultimately tears win out and she runs back to the safety of her father, who absently gathers her into his lap.
“What a doofus,” the slugger says as he rejoins his family at the table.
It seems only fitting that Darlene’s descendants are as unpleasant as her own children, though were she still alive and in this very room, she would deny any hint of rudeness.
Lynnie raises her eyes. You’re the lucky one, dear sister.
Oh, that she might be spared another repeat of this day.
The men congregate in muttering uselessness while the women putter about. Kathleen bops her finger, counting, and says, “Are we it?”
“I think so,” Penny says. “Aunt Margaret simply couldn’t make the trip. And really, at her age, what’s the point?”
Aunt Margaret, of course, is Darlene’s youngest child—the daughter she so hoped for—who married promptly at the age of eighteen and lived all over the world as an officer’s wife before retiring in Orlando, Florida. She and all of her family had flown in to celebrate when Lynnie had lived a mere century. That party was not held in the celebration room. Rather, they had rented nearly an entire floor of the ne
w Hampton Inn, and the party lasted most of a day with a catered dinner, a four-tiered cake, and champagne. A full hour was taken by each family member’s heartfelt good-bye, each sure this would be the last they would see her this side of Glory.
Most were right. Today, only the St. Louis remnant has assembled—those living in the shadow of Finest Automobiles, Roy’s car dealership, which RJ and Darren took over upon his retirement. It was a family joke that Finest Automobiles was a crucial third party in Patrick and Kathleen’s courtship, and to think—someday Roy’s legacy would be handed down to the sullen teen with nickel-size holes in his earlobes.
“We’ll still be finished by three, right?” Patrick says, readjusting the daughter on his lap to better see his phone. “I have two clients to see.”
“Yes,” Kathleen says, indulgently. “It’s just cake and snacks.”
Penny looks disgusted. “Would it kill you to put work aside and enjoy one hour of family time?”
A smile tugs at Lynnie’s mouth as she envisions him setting down his phone and keeling over. The kid might take a tumble, but children are resilient. Most of them, anyway.
“Besides,” Penny continues, pouring punch into red plastic cups, “how many more opportunities like this do you think we’re going to have? Maybe Christmas—”
“We’re going to have to come back here for Christmas?” the slugger whines. Kathleen shoots him a warning look and sends a long-distance jab with the sharp cake knife.
“We’d give anything to have one more celebration with our mother,” RJ or Darren says, and everyone in the room has the decency to look sad, though half never had the opportunity to meet her.
Suddenly, she is moving, being pushed by Penny, who—as always—smells like cake.
“Here we go,” she says in that singsong voice that lets Lynnie know she’s being addressed. “Let’s get you up to the table and get you a snack.”
Kathleen, the soul of efficiency, slides a plate of cheese and crackers onto the table.
“Can she eat those?” Penny asks above her head, whispering. “You don’t think she might choke?”
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