150 Pounds (25 page)

“That’s funny, Mom.” She was aware of Joe walking beside her, his shoulders slumped over with age. Small wisps of silver air puffed out of the end of his pipe and trailed into the sky, which was dotted with pink clouds like they were placed there by an artist’s brush. The color was so vivid it shone against his white hair.

“Oh, Mom, guess what? I found some of Dad’s old albums. Did you know he liked the Doors?”

Pam chuckled. “Bob always insisted he hated them, but he would hum along to ‘L.A. Woman’ on the radio when we were driving sometimes.”

“I remember him saying they were crap when I was in college, but I found a Doors album! I feel close to him here. Like he’s left us all these clues.” She realized how corny she sounded and glanced quickly at Joe Murphy, but he’d stopped walking and was turning over a rock with a stick he’d found, gazing intently at whatever lay beneath.

“It was one of his favorite places,” Pam said softly. “Are you going back there tomorrow?”

Was she? Since Mimi’s lawyer had contacted her, she had been living in a kind of haze about the house. She had a hard time picturing herself as a homeowner. She’d always thought a husband would come first, and then she’d stick it out in the city atmosphere of Hoboken until moving to the burbs. But that had all seemed so far away, like buying a car and even the hubby. She’d worked her butt off to get into Princeton, but she didn’t have that
drive drive drive
other people her age did, to make a lot of money and be outrageously successful beyond her wildest dreams. Her blog earned her a modest salary of thirty-five thousand a year, though she did hope to parlay it into a book deal, perhaps along the lines of feminist theory, or advice for Fellow Fatties, a hodgepodge of her posts on
Fat and Fabulous
.

But owning a house? Wasn’t that something real adults did?

“Yes. I’ll come back tomorrow with cleaning stuff. The farm needs a lot of work,” she said. Crows pecked at the grass near her, huddled like football players. Their beaks were long and black.

“Your sister and I can meet you there in the afternoon. Em is working until two in the city.”

“Okay, see you then. I guess just ring the doorbell?” In Hoboken, she was used to buzzer systems. The doorbell was so quaint. So suburban. She now owned something that had a
doorbell
. Far out.

“Love you.”

“Love you, too, Mom.”

“Lovely broad, yer ma,” Joe said when she disconnected. He’d wandered back over to her, and now used the stick as a walking prop as they set forth again. “Never seen two people more in love than yer folks.”

“They were married here, right?” Shoshana asked.

“That’s right, summer of ’76,” he said. “Your mother was radiant as a dove, she was.”

Shoshana smiled. Pam had been too heavy to fit into any traditional wedding gowns, so Mimi had hand-sewn her a white silk dress. A dove was the last thing Pam had looked like, but it was kind of Joe to say so.

They came to the rise of a small hill, when suddenly Joe’s mansion rose like a mirage in the desert. A Tudor-style home, it showcased twelve bedrooms, six porches, and a horseshoe-shaped driveway with white pebble rocks. In front sat a blue Ford pickup truck that had left a little shiny brown oil stain in front of its left tire. It was an odd juxtaposition to the grandness of the house and she wondered if the truck was Joe’s or maybe belonged to someone working on the property. Her first hunch was confirmed when he leaned into the glove compartment as they approached to grab a ziplock baggie full of tobacco. She was becoming used to its smell, like a wood-burning fireplace on an autumn night. In back of the mansion was a large red barn, leaning a little to the left.

“I remember this place,” Shoshana said. She was whispering, a little in awe. “It still looks just as huge to me now as ever. When I was a kid Emily and I used to call it the Princess House. Your wife Georgina was always so nice to us. She let us come over and play with those antique dolls she collected. Do you still have them?”

“They’re up in the attic, sure,” he said. “Didn’t want ta bother you with ’em when you were coming ta Mimi’s as teenagers, though you’re welcome to take them now. Thought you’d think I was a silly old man. And Emily had the spikes then. I was right scared.”

Shoshana laughed. “That’s right, I forgot about that. She did have a Mohawk for a while. One side was purple, the other blond.”

“It’s amazing to me what young people get up ta these days. How does Emily not set off metal detectors with all those piercings?”

“Sometimes she does!” Shoshana said as he leaned his bony shoulder on the front door and it swayed open.

She gasped. Potted palms the size of Christmas trees swayed in their colorful planters along the orange-tiled hallway, the kind that must feel cool under one’s feet on a summer day. Their fronds turned up toward the sun streaming in from the end of the hallway. The room opened onto a spacious courtyard. Someone had strung white lights in boxwood bushes. The walls of the entryway were periwinkle, a blue so deep it touched purple.

She was distracted by a series of high-pitched barks she knew well, and she turned to find the source of Sinatra’s anxiety. She heard a rush of feathers and an image swam into her vision that seemed impossible; a large peacock, its blue body waddling somehow with precision, its rainbow tail trailing behind it like a train, came strutting toward Joe, who immediately reached into his suit pocket and held out a box of raisins. The peacock walked in circles, emitting a loud screech, until Joe got the top open and scattered the snack onto the ground. Sinatra ran in circles, barking excitedly. The bird promptly ignored the dog, like an older sibling choosing maturity over bopping the younger one in the nose.

Its face was black and blue, with a yellow beard along the bottom. Shoshana swore it looked triumphant as its long neck stretched to gobble up the raisins. When it turned, Joe softly ran his hand down the feathers in back as they gathered and bunched, spread open and closed.

“This is P-Hen,” Joe said, giving her one final affectionate pat. “Georgina and I used to keep a henhouse ’ere on the estate for fresh eggs. A man was transporting peacock eggs illegally—you’re not allowed to cross state lines to sell exotic animals. Anyway, his truck broke down off ta highway and he walked ’ere. I always keep some gas in the toolshed, so I walked back with him to fill his tank. As a thank-you, he gave me P-Hen’s egg. The old girl lived with our hens, when we still had a whole loud bunch of ’em.”

“And P-Hen?” Shoshana reached down to scoop up Sinatra, who continued to bark like mad.

“A peahen ’tis a female peacock,” he said by way of explanation, over the noise.

“Oh!”

“I wasn’t very original in naming you, old girl,” he said to the bird, who gathered up her feathers like a gown and strutted off down another long hallway, the walls lined with gold frames. A long green, yellow, and red Oriental carpet partially covered the tiles. Ceramic plates in a myriad of colors hung high gave the space a Mediterranean vibe.

An old woman so short she was almost dwarflike, with fluffy white hair and huge, luminous brown eyes, came bustling in, wearing a blue dress covered in little yellow poppy flowers. She had soft, pudgy skin that was very light, and tiny hands, which she wiped on the buttercup-yellow apron tied around her small waist and extended her arms, surprising Shoshana with a hug. Shoshana caught the sweet scent of vanilla.

“I remember you!” the woman exclaimed. “Shoshana, the older sister. I remember Emily, too, the naughty one.” When she smiled, small wrinkles appeared all over her face, from the corners of her eyes to around her mouth. She had small gold earrings with green glass in them, causing her earlobes to droop slightly.

Shoshana laughed. “She’s not so bad anymore.” Emily had gone through a phase around puberty when she had a perpetual scowl on her face. She’d sit in her room listening to Nirvana for hours. Their father used to joke he was afraid she’d run off with a sword swallower and join the circus one day, with her multicolored tights, piercings, and rainbow hair.

“Hello, my dear.” The woman reached out and held her arms wide for Sinatra, who leaped from the floor into her arms and immediately ceased barking. He laid across her bosom like it was his dog bed and licked the side of her face enthusiastically.

She closed her eyes and could almost feel soft hands guiding her small, plump ones as she mixed cake batter in an expansive white porcelain kitchen, somewhere in the depths of this house. A woman’s pleasant voice telling her, “Now add the butter.”

There are certain adults children innately love; they have patience with short, slow-walking legs, with dirt underneath fingernails. Shoshana remembered Greta’s kindness toward her as a child and felt an invisible wave of warmth flow over her body when she hugged her.

“I remember you were very kind to us. And I remember saying your name in a funny way as a kid, I think I called you Get.” P-Hen let out an ear-piercing shriek down the hallway, the sound filling the space around them, the afternoon sunlight streaming in from the open door.

Greta threw back her head with laughter. She had a wonderfully silly laugh, like someone being tickled. “Yes, you certainly did. My mother, she had high hopes. Named me for Greta Garbo. Then her daughter is born with a big nose and a mole on her chin. Go figure!” She made a gesture like pushing the thought away. She had an impish look in her eye that Shoshana liked. She bent down to gently stand Sinatra on the floor, and he sat with his legs crossed in front of him, looking up at Greta adoringly.

“Don’t let her fool ya into thinking she’s a nice old lady,” Joe said. His pipe dangled from the corner of his mouth and his blue eyes sparkled. “Thirty years ago Greta had a man who was deeply in love with her. She near broke his ’art.”

“Really?” Shoshana asked. She adored love stories. She was naturally curious when it came to stories of the heart. Maybe it had to do with the closeness she shared with her mother and sister. Or living with four drama queens.

“Don’t listen to that old geezer,” Greta said. “He’s starting to lose his marbles.”

“No more than you are, lass,” Joe said. “Anyway, we once had a bloke named Guy who worked ’round here. We used to take in racehorses after they retired, let ’em graze on the grass on our estate, run through the woods if they wanted to.” He took out his silver flask and raised it to his lips, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he took a drink. Shoshana caught Greta glaring at him. She deduced Greta did not approve of Joe’s drinking habit. “Guy fell in love with Greta over here, and when he decided to go back to Holland, where he was from, she wouldn’t budge. Said she was a Jersey girl through and through, even though she’s Ecuadorian, and the man left, broken.”

“Look, you old goat, you would have been dead a long time ago from the drink if I hadn’t stayed on,” she said, gesturing to his flask. “Besides, there was no way I was leaving Ms. Georgina. Nicest woman on this green earth, god rest her soul. Now, would either of you like to join me? I was just about to say my afternoon prayers.”

Shoshana looked over at Joe, who was rolling his eyes at her. She tried not to laugh. “Um … I’m Jewish,” she said.

“Of course, sweetheart. But Jesus loves all his children.”

Joe gestured with his flask. “Mother Teresa over ’ere decided she wanted ta get ordained as a minister, so she’s been taking some online course this past year. Though if you ask me, I don’t see how god transitions onto the Internet.”

Greta swatted at his sleeve. “You are lucky I’m a minister, I’ll be saving you from hell. And you forgot to take your vitamins this morning, I had them right next to your cereal bowl and you forgot. Getting senile, you are.”

“Oh, go shit in your hat,” Joe said.

Shoshana smiled. She could see it was an old routine, and she liked Joe more for being the kind of man who enjoyed being berated by his housekeeper, someone he employed.

There was a small gold-edged photograph on the wall, of an attractive middle-aged woman from the nineteenth century, sitting in a blue velvet chair with gold piping. Shoshana walked over to it. The subject had black curly hair piled on top of her head and held with a gold seashell clip. Her clothing was humble, a plain cotton dress with a high-collared shirt beneath.

A breeze from outside picked up and the palm fronds swayed in the hall.

“Beautiful, wasn’t she?” Greta came and stood next to Shoshana.

Joe was again packing his pipe, his fingers working dexterously. “My ma,” he said. “Back in Ireland. Been dead now fifty years, I can hardly believe it.” Her cornflower-blue eyes, identical to Joe’s, were forever fixed to stare at her own reflection in a large gold mirror across the hallway.

Shoshana remembered what the lawyer, Mr. Berkowitz, had told her: “Your new house is just a few acres down the road from Joe Murphy, whose family worked in the oil business. Huge tycoon, very old money.” She looked at his mother’s simple dress and wondered how he’d gone from immigrant to rich mogul.

“Come, my dear, let’s get you fed,” said Greta, holding her elbow. “I want to hear all about Ms. Mimi’s house, and what you’ve been up to since I saw you as a little girl.”

So Shoshana followed this tiny sparkplug of a woman down the hallway, in the direction from which P-Hen had waddled. Joe shuffled along behind them, walking slowly. Sinatra and Patrick O’Leary stayed in the entry hall, sniffing enthusiastically after some scent that led them to the windows. The rubber soles on Joe’s dress shoes squeaked. Lining the hallway were black-and-white photographs of apple trees. There was one of Georgina and Mimi from sometime in the fifties, Georgina’s arm slung casually around Mimi’s round waist. Both women had their hair in tight curls, and they had matching dark lipstick on. Mimi was holding a wooden basket full of apples on her hip. They both squinted against the sun.

“That was taken in Mimi’s orchard,” Joe said. “It was such a beauty; I wish you could have seen it. She and Georgina grew Red Delicious, Cortland, Rome Winesaps, and Granny Smiths. People used to come from all around the Garden State ta buy Georgina and Mimi’s special apple pies. It was quite a sight, all them trees. I’d get up on one and climb it right now, I wasn’t so goddamn old.”