by Nina Solomon
“I have this all under control, Milt,” Bert said, waving him off and proceeding to light the grill with a sparker. Grace saw a flash out of the corner of her eye and turned to see a huge flame shooting into the air. Bert quickly covered the grill, cautiously looking up to see if Francine had witnessed the pyrotechnics. Assured that she hadn’t, he turned up the flame. “It heats up better this way,” he explained. Then he turned his attention to the preparation of the mushrooms, slicing them an eighth of an inch thick with utmost precision. “Boy, Laz must really be tied up to miss this.”
When everyone was seated, Bert bowed ceremoniously. Francine poured low-sodium soy sauce into small triangular dishes and passed out chopsticks and wasabi. Bert uncovered the grill and brushed the surface with oil. Shrimp, onions, and mushrooms sizzled as Bert tossed them high into the air with his spatula to a round of applause led by Milton. The smell of the shrimp was beginning to make Grace’s stomach turn. Bert added the steak and, with a flourish, threw his spatula in the air. The white plastic spatula twirled like a drum majorette’s baton. Everyone watched as it missed Bert’s outstretched hand and landed instead on the grill, melting like wax onto the caramelized onions. Grace’s mother gasped. Francine almost choked on a pickled carrot. Bert reacted quickly, dousing the grill with what he thought was soy sauce, but which turned out to be sherry. Flames soared and the guests ran from the scorching heat.
“My best spatula,” Francine grumbled, as she got up from the floor, smoothed her skirt, and left the room.
Francine quickly returned calm and collected, carrying a fire extinguisher, and sprayed the grill with what looked like whipped cream. “No problem,” Francine reassured everyone. “Chicken Kiev in three minutes and thirty seconds.”
THE SCRABBLE BOARD was set up after dinner. They played several rounds while sipping steaming green tea and eating tender litchi nuts. Bert had planned to serve pineapple flambé, but everyone insisted it be eaten uncooked. Grace declined because of the brandy.
“First a vegetarian, now a teetotaler?” Bert asked.
“Whose turn is it?” Grace’s mother interrupted.
“I think it’s Paulette’s,” Francine answered.
“No, it’s Grace’s turn,” Bert corrected her.
“It’s my turn actually,” Grace’s father said in an unusually firm voice as he placed the letter x on the board to form ox.
“You opened up a triple-word score, Milton. Don’t you have anything better? Laz would never have left that open.”
“I’m planning ahead, dear,” he said, picking up another tile. “Using a bit of strategy.” Grace tried to focus on the board. The letters looked blurry, as if they were underwater. The thought that she might not be pregnant but have a brain tumor instead crossed her mind, and it almost seemed to make more sense. Laz would undoubtedly be there for her for cancer, but not necessarily for childbirth. Before they were married, he had been adamant about not having any children. They took up too much time and he said he didn’t have the patience. His decision had seemed so overly intellectualized that Grace had thought he would eventually warm to the idea. It might even keep him home.
She rearranged her letters almost unconsciously and placed them on the board. She felt as if her very participation at these weekly gatherings was programmed into her.
“Flumm? What kind of word is that?” Bert asked. Francine shushed him. Grace moved the tiles across the board, attaching them to her father’s ox.
“Flummox,” Grace announced.
“Never heard of it,” Bert said.
“Look it up in your O.E.D.,” Grace’s father suggested.
“Go ahead,” Francine quipped.
“I’m sure it won’t be in there,” Bert said, getting up from the table and going over to the dictionary. He opened the volume and sighed. “I knew I should have gotten the abridged edition,” Bert grumbled under his breath.
“Bravo, Grace,” her mother said. Then, with a self-satisfied smile, she proceeded to add ed to flummox, her own score nearly tripling that of Grace’s.
“Oh, by the way, how was your anniversary last night? We would have called, but we didn’t want to bother you.”
Anniversary. The word hit her like a burst of frigid air. She could not believe she’d forgotten. She tried to console herself with the idea that she had, indeed, celebrated at their favorite restaurant. The anniversary must have registered on some level, no matter how unconsciously so.
“We went to des Artistes,” she answered, finally, growing queasier and queasier.
“You went to dinner?” her father asked, furrowing his brow.
“Lovely,” her mother chimed.
Grace wobbled as she stood up from the table. Bert raised an eyebrow.
“Too much celebrating last night, it looks like,” he said.
“Can I use your telephone?” she asked Francine.
“Certainly. You need to call Laz?”
Grace nodded. She feared if she tried to speak that she would not have been able to keep her food down.
“Use the one in the bedroom—it’ll be more private,” Francine offered.
GRACE WALKED DOWN the hall toward Francine and Bert’s bedroom. Just as she was turning the corner, she saw her father standing in the shadows.
“Honey, I need to talk to you,” he said softly, touching her arm.
“Sure, Dad,” Grace said. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness she could see that his expression was grave. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, I’m fine. Never felt better,” he said, lightly patting his stomach. “Now that your mother has me doing laps around the reservoir.” His expression changed quickly and he stammered to find the right words. “It’s . . . about Laz,” he said, finally.
“What about Laz?” Grace asked, trying to appear unfazed.
“Grace, I saw Laz on Bookspan last night talking to that guy who’s been trying to discredit him. Something about an eyewitness in Kosovo who—” He paused. “I just thought you might need to talk, that’s all.” Grace’s thoughts careened, trying to find the right response.
“He’s been on that show several times,” she explained. Grace’s father looked at her with concern.
“It was live, Grace. From Washington. I turned it off before your mother came in the room. I didn’t want to upset her. Are you and Laz having some kind of marital problems? Because when Bert and Francine went through their little rough patch a few years back . . .”
Grace remembered when Francine had gone to stay with Grace’s parents for five days after a disagreement with Bert. She had slept in Grace’s room and moped around the house in curlers, until Bert came over with a bouquet of roses and took her home. Grace felt herself beginning to lose her resolve as she took in the full measure of her father’s concern, but the pretense was as much for him as for herself.
“Laz and I were out to dinner last night,” she began. “That was just a rebroadcast of a show he did weeks ago. You know, because of the holiday. Don’t worry, Dad, things couldn’t be better between us.” Grace tried to rein herself in. She knew she was beginning to sound manic. She took a deep breath. “Everything’s fine. We had a wonderful anniversary.”
“Oh, I’m so glad, sweetie. I knew there was a good explanation,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. As he did, a small black comb fell out of his shirt pocket. He bent down, fumbling as he picked it up. “Now go call Laz and tell him he was missed. And let him know that I’ll have the edition of Melville finished by next Friday, if I can swing it.”
“I will,” she assured him, watching as he disappeared down the hall.
GRACE SLIPPED THROUGH the half-open door to Francine and Bert’s bedroom. Her feet sank into the soft-pile carpeting as she closed the door quietly behind her. The flowers she had brought were on Francine’s ornately mirrored vanity by the window. She couldn’t stop thinking about her encounter with her father in the hallway. The worst part for her was that rather than feeling regret for having lied to
her father, she wished he’d taped the show so she could play it over and over again to look for some clue as to why Laz had left her.
For a second, Grace thought she saw something moving among the flowers. Unnerved, she went over to the bed and turned on a small lamp on the nightstand. She knew she was on Francine’s side of the bed because the base of the lamp was a porcelain lady wearing a frilly petticoat. The mate was on Bert’s side.
Small figurines were posed on every flat surface in the room like a display in a store window. She thought about Laz’s wedding band behind the rusting can of shaving cream. It seemed so out of character for her to have forgotten her own anniversary when she’d kept track of everything else so well.
She looked out the window but all she saw in the glass was her own overly made-up reflection. Still feeling a bit queasy, she considered lying down but abstained, not one to take liberties in someone else’s home. Instead, she sat on the edge of the bed, relieved to be alone. She felt an odd sense of calm among the frozen figurines. She picked up a small porcelain figurine next to the lamp. It was cold and smooth in her hand—a mother and child holding onto the brims of their watery-blue sun hats, perhaps walking on the beach.
She thought again about Laz and their first Valentine’s Day together. The BE MY VALENTINE lift ticket was still on her ski jacket. The memory was clear in her mind. She could conjure every detail—the touch of Laz’s lips on hers, the sting of the wind on her cheeks. She wondered if he remembered it, too.
And then another detail of that day, which she’d almost forgotten, began to surface. It had been late afternoon. Grace remembered the deep-blue color of the sky just before their last run. While they were on line for the lift, Grace noticed a young girl wearing a pale blue jacket who had fallen off the rope pull and was crying quietly. Grace knelt down to help her up. Laz stood blocking the sun behind her. She’s old enough to take care of herself. We’re going to miss the last run, he said, steering Grace toward the lift before it closed. Laz pulled the metal bar over Grace’s legs, and she looked back once more as they left the ground and ascended into the clear blue sky.
GRACE WAS ABOUT to leave Francine and Bert’s room when she became peripherally aware of a shadowy fluttering in the lamp shade. She immediately felt the familiar palpitating in her chest as she recognized the dull thump of a moth against the lightbulb. She rolled up Francine’s Redbook magazine and prepared herself.
The moth fluttered against the shade, coming in and out of focus through the fabric, looming surreally larger as it pressed its wings against the shade. It reminded Grace of the giant Woodstock balloon that had almost crashed through her window. She struck the shade with the magazine, and the moth fell to the nightstand and lay motionless. She struck at it again, and then once more just to be sure, surprising herself with her spirit for retaliation.
The room suddenly grew bright, and Grace saw Francine and Bert in the doorway. Francine’s mouth fell open as she digested the scene.
“Bert’s Painted Lady!” she cried. “Grace, you just killed Bert’s prized butterfly!”
GRACE’S GUILT OVER killing Bert’s butterfly was offset by her elation at now having an excuse to leave the Sugarmans’ early. The mood had changed after the incident, as if an ominous high-pressure system had descended upon them. Grace assured Bert that she would make reparations, although she had no idea where to find a replacement caterpillar. She’d seen cardboard butterfly kits sold at the Museum of Natural History, but she was doubtful they’d suffice.
Grace said her good-byes, and after a needless discussion about the best way to get back across town, she left, laden with two Food Emporium bags brimming with leftovers.
14
THE DOPPELGANGER
When she arrived home, the first thing Grace did was to go into the kitchen and check on the fishbowl. The ice had melted substantially, and the key was now encapsulated within a smaller ball of ice, the size of a grapefruit. Like a fortune-teller, she held the fishbowl in her hands and gazed into the water. The ice would be melted soon, but the fishbowl did not contain the answers Grace was looking for.
Inspired, she went in search of other methods of prognostication. The Magic 8-Ball was still under the desk in the bedroom, and Grace decided there was no harm in giving it another try. Suitably skeptical, she gave the ball a gentle shake, not wanting to jostle it unnecessarily, and asked again if she was pregnant. She read the answer: Yes, definitely. At first she was incredulous, so she proceeded to ask again, watching with amazement as Yes, definitely appeared in the tiny window three more times in a row.
Grace hastily put on a pair of sweats and ran down to the corner drugstore to buy a pregnancy test. She asked the salesperson for a double bag in order to conceal her purchase, but from whom she wasn’t certain. Once home, she immediately performed the test and waited, her hands shaking, until the three minutes were up. She scanned the results and sighed with relief as she saw that only one pink line had appeared in the test window, putting to rest any fears—along with any stray hopes and dreams—about having a baby.
Grace wrapped the pregnancy test in tissues, stashed it in the garbage can, and then went into the bedroom. She picked up the 8-Ball, embarrassed that she had given it so much credence, especially since the pregnancy test was ninety-nine percent accurate and there was no toll-free number on the back of the 8-Ball. She let the ball drop to the floor and gave it a good kick, watching as it rolled under the bed. It was just a silly plastic toy filled with colored water. And yet, as hard as she tried to ignore it, she couldn’t help hoping it knew something that the pregnancy test did not. She lifted up the dust ruffle and rescued the 8-Ball from a field of dust bunnies. Leaning over the side of the bed, she turned the ball over to reveal the answer: Yes, definitely.
GRACE AWAKENED THE next morning filled with optimism. She had slept soundly. Marisol would arrive shortly and order would once again be restored. The lights would be strung on the tree, caramel custard would simmer on the stove, and the dust bunnies would be swept clean.
After bringing down José’s coffee, Grace called Chloe and left a message that she and Laz would be in Chicago for her birthday. Then she began to straighten up, or, rather, to arrange the room so as to give the impression that the apartment had been inhabited by Laz. The amaryllis was almost in full bloom, with another flower about to burst open like a brilliant ruby flame.
She hummed as she displayed items around the house that she and Laz might have used over the holiday weekend—a pair of gloves, boots, two crystal flutes for their anniversary celebration, a half-eaten currant scone dripping with jam, Oblomov still marked with a folded scrap of yellow paper on the desk, a cashmere sweater on the coat rack. She even left drawers and cabinets half-open—one of Laz’s habits, which used to drive her crazy but which now seemed endearing—as well as chairs pulled out from the table. It was the part of the day she derived the most pleasure from—setting the scene.
As she was leaving the evidence of Laz having eaten a peanut butter sandwich by scattering a few crumbs on the counter and leaving a knife in the dish drain, she glanced at the fishbowl and noticed that the ice had melted completely and that the key was lying at the bottom. She plunged her hand into the still-icy water and, feeling very much like a nursery rhyme character, pulled out the key. Even this she took in stride, secure in the knowledge that she was prepared to handle whatever she would confront in Laz’s apartment.
The phone rang. It was Marisol’s niece with the news that Marisol had eaten contaminated jambalaya and would not be in until Wednesday at the earliest. Grace spent the next few minutes walking aimlessly around the apartment, like a dandelion in search of a swift breeze.
Now that all her efforts that morning had been wasted, she needed something to occupy herself. Her grandmother’s afghan, draped over the side of a chair, looking tattered and forlorn, provided her with the solution. She decided at once to take it to the yarn store on Broadway to see if they could repair it. It was as though
she’d found her mission. With a few deft strokes, all would be right again, even if only with the afghan. And on the way home, she’d stop by the managing agent to pay the back rent on Laz’s old apartment. After consulting the combination thermometer/barometer her father had installed outside the kitchen window, and with afghan, checkbook, and key in hand, Grace left the apartment.
On the front table in the vestibule, she noticed a white postcard from her gynecologist, reminding her of her appointment for her yearly exam. She took this, as opposed to all other signs, as proof that the planets were aligned and cooperating fully.
IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL, clear day and everything, including the sidewalks, sparkled. Grace felt enlivened, better than she had in weeks. She walked up the steep flight of carpeted stairs to the yarn store, which had been on Broadway for as long as she could remember, and pressed the buzzer. She heard the click and opened the door. She didn’t see anyone at first as she walked inside. The walls were lined with skeins of yarn in every shade, balls of wool piled high in wicker baskets. Sweater samples hung on wooden dowels above the large windows, and in the middle of the room was a long wooden table with ornate legs and clawed feet. On it were half-finished pieces in an array of textures and patterns, unidentifiable swatches of knitting left in progress.
From behind the counter a woman appeared. She was lifting a large box from the floor, which she set down on the table. Her hair, the color of raspberries, was piled high on her head, and she wore an overly formfitting dress in a floral pattern, with a lavender shawl over her shoulders. Grace waited. Finally, the woman looked up and asked, “Can I help you with something?”
Grace opened her bag. “I was hoping someone could repair this.”
“We don’t do repairs,” the woman answered curtly. “We instruct, make patterns, troubleshoot, sell the materials. But we won’t do it for you.”
“Oh,” Grace said. “I don’t know how to crochet.”