Jim came up behind. She turned and buried her face against his chest. She could just make out Jerry Garcia’s face on his T-shirt. Please God, not again.
NO PLACE FOR ONIONS
EDNA HAD JUST EASED HER SHOES OFF and was massaging her bunions when Sandra’s late-afternoon call came. Since Pierre’s accident, she had relied on Sandra to share details of Pierre’s progress, and so she’d been on needles most of the day, eager to hear about the boy’s hospital visit.
“Oh, good. It’s you. So. How did he do?” Edna asked.
“As far as the testing went, same old same old, but—”
“What’s that, Sandra?” Edna pressed her hand over one ear to drown out Hollywood Squares, blasting from the family room into the kitchen.
“He’s begun to remember.”
“No! Tell me.”
“It was a small thing. He let it slip on the ride home. Celine didn’t pick up on it—at least I don’t think so. But I did, and I’m pretty sure Pierre noticed.”
“You have to be delicate, Sandra.”
“Right. I’m taking him to Portland for the pops concert. I’ll see if he’s ready to talk.”
“Maybe you should wait for him to say something first? He’s such a private boy.”
“That’s my instinct, too.”
“What about Jim? Will Pierre open up with him there?”
“Jim’s off this concert set. His back.”
“It’s all that roof work. Much too difficult.”
“Not the roof. Surprisingly, that’s about the only thing with the house that’s held up,” Sandra said. “It’s the solar panels. There’s some disconnection and as usual, he’s convinced he can fix it.”
“Well, he can’t.”
“I know, but you can’t tell Jim anything he doesn’t want to hear. Anyway, he fell halfway down the ladder a while ago and he’s been in agony ever since.”
“Dear lord, Sandra. Poor man,” Edna said, looking at her watch. “Oh no. It’s Feud night and I’m not nearly ready.”
“Okay, I’ve got to run myself. I’m due to pick up Pierre in a few minutes.”
“Call me tomorrow?”
“You bet—”
“Hang on, Sandra. How’s Celine?” Edna asked.
“Not too bad, actually. A slight blip at the end. I’ll fill you in later.”
Edna hung up just in time to see the pizza-delivery truck roll up their drive. She ran out to meet the teenager as he approached with two boxes.
“Such a delay today, Tony. I hope Leon got it right this time,” she said.
“Sorry, Mrs. Sibley, but we got jammed in the last two hours. It says no onions on the order,” Tony said, waving the slip of paper in front of her.
“I’ll have to take your word for it. I’m in a terrible rush,” she said. “Say hello to your mother. Here’s a five.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Sibley,” he said, pocketing the bill.
She returned to the kitchen and immediately opened the boxes. Her heart sank. Onions. They liked different toppings, so she’d typically order two medium pies, one with plain American cheese for Luc, and for her, a collection of vegetables. Edna wouldn’t allow meat of any sort on Leon’s pizza—their beef was so gristly she could only assume it came from throwaway parts of the animal, such as ears or lips. But the pizza parlor added onions to every order pro forma, and she’d begged Leon to keep them off Luc’s pies, explaining how they gave him terrible heartburn, which kept him from sleeping well, which then made him grumpy in the morning and usually led to him having a bad day. Edna stared at the mess of oily onions lying on congealed cheese and chided herself. Why would she expect Leon to remember, let alone care, about Luc’s digestive tract and subsequent moods? She took a pair of tongs out of a drawer and began to tweeze off the finely minced onions. But Luc was already in the den finishing up with Squares and waiting for his favorite show to begin in just a few minutes, so she abandoned this time-consuming method and began scraping with a fork.
One night each week, Edna suspended the tradition of formal dining and indulged Luc’s obsession for the TV program Family Feud. He’d discovered an obscure channel showing back-to-back reruns from the 1980s and was devoted to Richard Dawson, the original host during that era. Edna was happy to accommodate anything Luc showed enthusiasm for, because not only didn’t he have much interest in the usual pastimes of young men his age, but he rarely showed outward emotion even for things that did excite him. Feud, and for some reason Dawson in particular, tickled Luc like nothing else.
Feud binge night happened to coincide with Luc’s day off from the March. They passed the morning and early afternoon performing weekly chores. Edna took care of laundry, a task impossible for Luc, what with separating colors from whites and adding the softener mid-cycle. Not to mention ironing, which included sheets and pillowcases, and a folding method for underwear, handed down from her great-great-grandmother. Edna was old-school and believed you could tell a lot about a person by their bureau drawers and linen closets, kitchen cupboards and cleaning-supply shelves, shoe boxes and jewelry caddies. Attention to detail was a trait she held in highest regard. And she’d been pleased when Luc showed an expression of this multi-generational gene, too. Through trial and error, because he wasn’t terribly dexterous, she’d winnowed his tasks to vacuuming and feather-dusting. Luc managed all the difficult spots, high and low, with impressive thoroughness and only occasional damage to fragile objects.
“Gram, Gram, Gram! Famous Georges! They got it all!” Luc screamed from the family room.
Edna was still in the kitchen, finishing up hacking away at the onions and garnishing both pizza pies with fresh sprigs of cilantro. She hurried down the hall, plates in each hand, just in time to catch the winning family freak out and Dawson kiss every woman on the lips.
“It was a pretty easy question,” she noted. “Remember last week? Name something you do with your nose. Aside from breathing, pretty impossible.”
“We know a George. He’s kind of famous, isn’t he?” Luc asked.
“George Hodges runs the dry cleaner,” Edna said, brushing dandruff off Luc’s shoulders.
“But he’s famous, ’cause everybody’s got dry cleaning.”
“No one knows him outside Oslo, dear boy. That’s not the kind of famous they’re talking about.”
“Right, Gram,” Luc said, regluing himself to Dawson, who’d begun his windup for the next question.
“Name an animal with three letters,” Dawson yelled.
“Frog,” a woman with crooked teeth answered. Dawson staggered to his knees, laughing.
“That’s not right. That’s four letters!” Luc scolded the woman badly in need of an orthodontist.
“Where on earth do they get these people?” Edna murmured to herself.
“Survey says?!” Dawson screamed at the board, still at the floor weeping.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeep.
They sat side by side in club chairs with TV trays positioned in front. Edna reached over and pinched a few onions she’d missed off Luc’s pizza. Maybe she’d call the pizza parlor tomorrow and complain to Leon again. Then she remembered Leon’s wife, who gave her a shampoo and set once a week at the Wash and Snip. In the coming months Edna would need Dede’s full cooperation, not to mention discretion. No, better to not annoy Leon.
“Do you use narcotics?” Dawson asked the tooth woman, a mother of seven from Lubbock, Texas. Not catching Dawson’s nuance, the woman shook her head. Edna wondered how the woman coped with so many children; no wonder she couldn’t get her teeth fixed.
Luc turned to Edna with a blank expression. “Gram, what’s a narcotic?”
“It’s drugs, Luc. The bad ones.”
“This lady’ll never answer that one right.”
“He’s asking her because … it’s not part of the game, dear.”
“Oh. Got it, Gram.”
Well into the evening, Edna brought in two servings of vanilla ice cream with dollops of Reddi-wip and blue non
pareils sprinkled on top. Even in summer, Maine nights could dip below sixty, and Edna shivered from a sudden deep chill. She excused herself to fetch her treasured ethnic shawl, a gift from one of Edgar’s business trips to South America. When she returned not thirty seconds later, Luc had already inhaled his ice cream.
“Couldn’t you wait for me?” she asked with a sigh.
“Sorry, Gram,” he said, glancing up at her.
“It’s okay, dear boy,” she whispered, patting his hand.
Luc grabbed her fingers and kissed them one at a time. “Love you, Gram.”
She eased back down on her club chair and coiled the shawl around her shoulders and neck.
“Name a famous rabbit,” Dawson yelled, his voice straining at high pitch.
“Hippity Hoppity?” a woman with thick glasses guessed tentatively.
“Very clever,” Dawson commented. “Survey says?! … It’s on the board!”
Ding ding ding ding ding.
Edna spooned her dessert, but it didn’t seem quite right. Sweet, but definitely a chalky undertone.
“Luc, honey, finish this for me.”
“You sure, Gram? Vanilla’s your favorite,” he said, taking the bowl from her.
“I’m full—too much pizza pie.”
Dawson moved to the next family member, a beefy blond with absurd blunt-cut bangs. Well, it was the ’80s, Edna reflected.
“Give me the name of a famous rabbit,” Dawson repeated.
“Jack Rabbit,” the man said with a fist pump.
“My sister used to date him,” Dawson disclosed. “Survey says?! … Right again!”
Ding ding ding ding ding.
“Disgusting,” Edna spat.
“Why, Gram?”
“Because Richard Dawson knows no limits. The lewd comments. And all that kissing. I’ve told you that time and again.”
“Richard Dawson’s smart. He knows all the answers,” Luc said.
“He most certainly does not,” she scolded.
Despite Dawson’s preposterous behavior, Edna had to admit that she enjoyed the program and Dawson in particular. He was an outrageous flirt, yes, but intriguing. The bowl haircut. That accent. The whole package held Edna’s attention in a way that embarrassed her. Now the family who couldn’t come up with “dog” or even “cat” had managed to win the final round, and Edna found this to be poetic justice. Just as she revved up to deliver a lecture to Luc on how folks who got things wrong could still be winners if they just kept on trying, a car crawled up her drive. The headlights blasted through the windows, blinding her.
“See who it is, Luc … Luc!” she called from the family room, but he was already in the kitchen, washing dishes with the faucet at full throttle. She set aside her TV tray, pushed herself off the chair, and slipped on her shoes, tying the laces in double knots. Before leaving the room, Edna caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror over the fireplace.
The previous day, a neighbor she’d run into at the bakery told her she looked haggard. Edna was so flustered by the rude comment she couldn’t summon an appropriate rejoinder. The woman then hoped nothing was wrong, and promptly turned away to pinch every last bagel in the basket for freshness. This woman, whose own extended clan was perpetually an anonymous call away from social services, was just one of so many who couldn’t help but gossip behind Edna’s back. As they’d done when Edgar died and then also poor Sammy. And now with Luc. How disingenuous. To all of Oslo, Edna was from away and always would be. They resented her wealth and that she owned prime property on the lake. She was considered a busybody and a know-it-all. Yet they had the gall to ask after her health. How she hated the pretense: thin and obvious. And worse, this woman’s comment came on a day she was in terrible pain from the rubber pads chafing her skin where she used to have breasts.
As she lingered by the mirror for a closer look, Edna saw that she did look awful. Her eyebrows were threadbare from the chemo pill, the hair on her head barely holding on. The nurses had advised getting ahead of the hair loss, yet she’d been avoiding any thought of a wig. Maybe now was the time to call that place in Portland and set up an appointment. Edna searched for the pink lipstick she kept in her sweater pocket as she walked to the front door. She dabbed at her lips, then rewrapped Edgar’s shawl around her shoulders. My God, she was cold. She posed a smile on her face and opened the door.
“Why, Sandra!” she cried with surprise.
“Sorry to bother you, Edna.”
“No bother at all. Come on in.”
When Pierre poked his head out from behind Sandra, Edna pulled him into her arms and hugged him. He accepted the gesture, shivering in the cool night.
“Where’s your jacket? You’ll catch your death.” She removed her shawl and draped it around Pierre’s shoulders.
“We hit a deer, Edna. It’s dead,” Pierre reported with a solemn tone.
“Lord, no. That’s tragic,” Edna said. “Thank goodness you’re both okay.”
“It’s a miracle, but we’re fine,” Sandra assured her.
“Pierre, darling, Luc’s in the kitchen and I’m sure there’s enough ice cream left for you. Go on now and let me talk to Sandra.”
“Is there chocolate?” Pierre asked.
“You’ll take what we have, young man. I know Celine brought you up better than that.”
She pushed him toward the kitchen and Pierre skipped down the hallway, her shawl floating behind. Edna ushered Sandra into the formal living room and motioned for them to sit in the overstuffed chairs opposite a teal damask sofa. Sconces with silk shades rimmed the perimeter of the room, and Edna felt certain that in this indirect lighting Sandra wouldn’t notice her nonexistent eyebrows and thinning hair.
“He seems fine, Sandra,” Edna said, now eager to hear about the boy’s recent progress in more detail.
“Much more chipper, yes,” Sandra concurred.
“And the memory?”
“That was touchy for a bit, but I think I understand what’s been happening. His memory is definitely coming back, but he’s become quite the little Sartre on the subject,”
“Oh? How so?”
“He’s questioning the purpose of memory. He doesn’t understand the point of the past or even the future. I wish you’d been there, Edna. Some amazing realizations for a boy his age. But that’s our Pierre.”
“Yes … our Pierre,” Edna murmured. “Let me pull the drapes closed,” she said suddenly and began to thrust herself off the chair, her arms shaking with effort.
“Easy, Edna. It’s a quarter mile up the drive. Nobody can see.”
She sank back. “You’re right. What’s the matter with me? And here it’s you who’ve had the trying night. So. A deer.”
“Not exactly. It was that moose who’s been roaming,” Sandra said, lowering her eyes.
“No!” Edna cried.
“I told Pierre it was a deer because I didn’t want to upset him. He’s seen the animal numerous times. But it was a clean hit, as far as I could tell in the dark,” Sandra said, then hesitated. “Edna? Jim and I’ll claim the meat.”
“Of course. That makes sense. If not you, someone else,” she said like a Mainer who knew the score.
Sandra smiled. “Thanks for understanding. We really need it. Anyway, I wanted to call it in to the police tonight, but out of earshot of Pierre. Which is one of the reasons I’m here. Can I use your landline?”
“You know the way.” She waved Sandra out of the room.
She listened to Sandra on the phone in the foyer, confirming the accident with the police and committing to the pickup. Edna fully understood the laws and customs around animals killed by cars, and that Sandra and Jim would make full use of the meat. But these days it seemed that all of life was about wreckage. And death. She let her head drop back, hoping the constant pain from the metastases to her spine would let up, even for a moment. Then she heard the boys, now in the family room, trying to imitate Richard Dawson’s accent. Edna listened as Pierre brought Luc
along in conversation—never superior or tutorial. Such an intuitive soul, he was. She made a mental note to invite him to next week’s Feud night. Luc was going to need someone like Pierre.
Sandra returned and Edna dragged herself to her feet, rocking back and forth. Sandra held out her hand and Edna grabbed it.
“Careful, Edna. Everything okay?” Sandra asked.
“Of course. It’s just late and my back acts up at night. What did the cops say?”
“We need to pick it up by seven tomorrow night.”
“Did you tell them it was a moose?”
“Had to. We’ll have to borrow a truck with a strong winch. If it were a deer there’d be no problem. We’ve lifted plenty of those with our bare hands.”
“I think Luc should drive you two home,” Edna said, suddenly wanting to be alone.
“Yeah, I was just going to ask that. I don’t trust the car. Lucky it drove even this far.”
They were out the door in the next five minutes. Edna returned to the family room and switched off Dawson. She went to the window, looking into pitch black and Maine’s thick silence. Even the houses across the lake had gone dark, as if no one lived in them. But Edna could name every single family, their kids’ middle names, when they were born, the relations who’d died, what they did for a living, how they spent leisure time, who was ill, and who wasn’t happy. Yet these neighbors of many years had shown little curiosity about her, especially after Sammy’s death when Edna brought infant Luc home. Those first weeks, walking around the house, hearing nothing but his wail at her shoulder as she jostled him. His cries for food. Perhaps for his mother. Edna doubted anyone in Oslo understood that kind of Maine night. That sort of loneliness.
She sat in the club chair opposite a framed oil painting and shucked off her shoes. The picture was hard to categorize, abstract for sure, yet on close scrutiny the brushstrokes belied a suggestion of three figures clustered together with their arms wrapped around each other. Both the color and mature application still made Edna stop every now and then and examine it closely. Sammy’s painting represented a time Edna never wanted to forget.
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