Death in a Funhouse Mirror (9 page)

But this was no time for daydreaming, not if I wanted to get to Monty's on time. I grabbed an emerald green shirt and my favorite jeans, stuck my feet into some green flats, and went into the bathroom to check my hair. Not spectacular. I looked like me. That would have to do. I found my purse and was looking for my keys when the phone rang again. This time it was Eve.

She sounded exhausted. "Sorry I was such a beast yesterday. It must have been the shock." Her words came with difficulty. "I sound weird," she said. "I know. I've been on the phone all afternoon. Helene's funeral is on Tuesday. I was hoping you'd go with me."

Surely even those who didn't want me to get involved would agree I ought to go to the funeral. "Of course, Eve. What time? Shall I pick you up?"

"I'd like that," she said, "if you don't mind. The service is at two-thirty, so maybe around two?"

"Two is fine. I'll see you then. Call me sooner if you need me." I hung up the phone, scooped up the keys, which were hiding behind the malevolent ceramic cat on my sideboard, and went out.

It was still light, and the clear mild air was scented with salt. I drove with the window down and the sunroof open. It didn't matter if the wind messed up my hair, my hair is chronically a mess. Untamed hair. My mother used to try to impose order on it, forcing it into braids so tight I could barely blink my eyes. I suffered for a while until I figured out that I could unbraid it as soon as I got to school. She had untamed hair herself, so she believed me when I told her that the braids had come undone when I was jumping rope. I complain about my hair a lot but the truth is that I like it. Back when I was a kid, I read in some romantic trash book that a woman's crowning glory is her hair. That's how I feel about mine. I could cut it short and it would be neat and manageable, but I like the mass of it, its wildness, the feel of it on my bare shoulders.

As I got away from the sea, the air smelled of flowers, damp earth and fresh cut grass. Everyone seemed to be outside weeding, mowing, planting or just savoring the last of the day. On the radio, Jackson Browne sang over a swirl of guitars and piano, wanting me to "Stay," but I had places to go. I put the pedal down and my turbo engine responded with a burst of speed. As I skimmed along the highway, everyone seemed to be smiling. Balmy weather does that. It's hard to be grumpy in May. I hoped the weather would work a little magic for poor Suzanne.

The parking lot at Monty's was jammed. The lines at the takeout window were impressive, and the picnic tables that looked over the salt marsh were crowded. I wasn't the only one who had longed for clams. I beat out a slower car for the last parking spot, ignoring the other driver's flashing finger, and headed for the door. The guy rolled down his window and yelled, "Bitch!" but I ignored him. Women these days can't leave home without their epithet repellent. Anyway, he was just plain wrong. Suzanne was waiting inside, a confection in turquoise, with dangling turquoise and magenta earrings and a bright jewel-toned scarf around her neck. "Beat you," she said, grinning.

"I paused for a manicure."

"Are you ladies ready now?" We followed the host to a window table that looked out over the water. How it was possible in a place this crowded to walk right in and get a table was beyond me, but Suzanne had a knack for making things happen.

When we were seated, and he had handed out our menus and left, I asked. "Very nice. How did you manage this?"

She smiled wickedly. "Simple bribery. I told him this was my bachelor party, slipped him a twenty, and told him I wanted a window table."

"Well, you don't look the least bit green."

"It's the tonic effect of spring air, I guess. I feel green. Well, actually, now that I'm here, inhaling all these incredible smells, I feel like I could eat a horse."

"Fried horse? It doesn't sound appetizing."

She gave me a quelling look.

"Will you stop being flippant. How can I pour out my heart to you?"

I tried to look contrite. "Just defending myself against a hostile world. I'll stop."

Our waitress appeared, so fresh and young I felt old as Methuselah. She must have tipped the scales at 102, and her tiny Lycra mini clung to a bottom the size of two softballs. "Can I get you ladies something to drink?" Looking at her, I needed one. "Beck's dark," I said. Suzanne asked for white wine. "You can't drink that with fried clams."

"Right," she said. "Sam Adams." The girl slipped away through the crowd to get our drinks. "You looked like you wanted to eat her, Thea. What's with you tonight?"

"Drank too much vinegar this weekend, I guess. Sorry. I'll try to stop." Outside, a rising tide was creeping in, covering the mud and stirring the fresh green grass. "Tell me about these jitters."

She set one elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand, her straight blond hair falling forward on each side, her face half-hidden. She looked about sixteen. "I can't figure it out. I love Paul. I don't have any doubts about that. I like his kids, and they seem to like me. I think I've got a pretty realistic picture of what those complications are going to be like. And I want to get married. You know that."

"I sure do. And you and Paul are great together. So what is it?"

She just looked back at me with puzzled eyes. "I don't know. I want this. I'm happy. I've looked forward to this for years. So why do I keep having the feeling of the prison door clanging shut behind me?"

"Because for the last seventeen years or so, you've been making your own decisions, and running your own life. You're a rational, independent person, and even if you want to start sharing with someone else, that doesn't mean you don't have regrets, second thoughts, and awareness about what you're giving up."

"But what am I giving up?"

"Spontaneous dinners like this. A movie when you feel like it. Saturdays when you never get out of your nightgown. White wine and brie on toast instead of a proper dinner. Those evenings after an impossible day with some pompous, uncooperative administrator when you want to curse the armchairs and kick the cat, but your spouse wants to chat about coordinating calendars and planning your next vacation and the kids keep throwing up on the rug. A part of you is just being realistic. Your life will change. Mostly for the better, but it's naive not to recognize that you also have to make compromises, and they aren't always easy."

"You make me wonder why I'm doing this. I hate getting out of my nightgown on Saturdays."

Our waitress arrived with the beer, slid it onto the table, and pulled out her order pad. "You ladies ready to order, or would you like a few minutes." No reasonable person ever lets a waitress go in Monty's. We ordered now, or we risked dying of starvation.

I flipped open the menu and scanned it quickly. "The fried clam platter. Extra tartar sauce please."

"The regular platter, or the jumbo," she asked, not meeting my eyes.

"The jumbo." The jumbo platter would feed half a football team, but it was just fine the next day, reheated.

"I'll have the regular," Suzanne added.

"Fine." She snapped her pad shut. "You want another round of beer when I bring the clams?"

"Please," I said. She hurried away.

Suzanne sipped her beer, staring out the window. "I don't know if I feel better or not," she said. "If it's going to ruin my nice, comfortable life, why do I want to do this?"

"I didn't say it was going to ruin your life, just change it. It will also change all those lonely Saturday nights when you went to the mall or Frugal Fannie's because you couldn't stand being home alone. No more awful blind dates, first dates, disappointing dates. No more late night wrestling to get the reluctant date out the door. You'll have someone to bring you aspirin when you wake up with a headache. Or soup when you're sick. Someone to share jokes with. Bike with. Maybe to carry in the groceries. Or even buy them. Someone to take showers with who can wash your back. Someone who can put sunscreen on the parts you always miss. And think how warm the bed will be at night." She was smiling now.

"But remember how angry you used to get when I didn't want to stay late at the office and work, because I wanted to go home to David?" I said. She nodded. "That's going to happen to you. Suddenly you will find that work is only a part of your life, and the other things will tug at you and make you feel conflicted and guilty, as well as happy."

"I remember," she said. "Boy did I resent him, at first. But he was so direct about it. About competing with me for your time. There was nothing subtle about David. He was like you. Strong willed. Direct. Honest. Dependable. Do you still mind talking about him?"

"Sometimes it's okay. But in the context of a wedding, it's kind of a bummer. That's why it was so important that Andre come. And now I don't know if he will."

"He'd better," she said. "I don't want a depressed matron of honor."

"I can still be happy for you, even if he doesn't show up."

"That's the spirit," she said. Our waitress delivered enough clams to feed the extras in
Ben Hur.
I looked around at table after table groaning under the weight of clams. It was a wonder there were any left in the sea. It looked like some of the people here ate Monty's clams every night. It wasn't just the tables that were groaning. There were plenty of bulging guts, sagging over belts, slipping out from underneath shirts, pressing dangerously on buttons, and a wealth of ponderous thighs, spreading like unbaked dough over chair seats. But everyone looked happy. The din was incredible, and as it grew dark, the recessed lights shone down through air that was thick with smoke and grease. I loved places like this, dark enough for privacy, and so alive with the interactions of happy people. How could I feel sorry for myself? It was a wonderful place to be on a warm May night, with a good friend and grand, greasy food.

 

 

 

Chapter 6

 

The fog was so thick I couldn't see two feet beyond my deck, but I knew it was raining, because the water had finished pouring through my coffee pot and I could still hear the sound of dripping. It's not such a bad thing to have it rain on Monday, it makes everyone feel a lot less sorry for themselves about having to go back to work. I was eager to go to work. What I'd said to Suzanne last night, about an advantage of marriage being that you didn't have to sit home feeling lonely, was true for me, too. If I'd stayed home, I would have probably embarked on a cleaning frenzy accompanied by a long, self-pitying brood about whether Andre was going to show up for the wedding.

Instead, I had a power breakfast of raisin bran and skim milk, grapefruit juice and black coffee, followed by a vanilla yogurt, ignoring the temptation to follow it up with a dozen fried clams. I put on silky navy blue slacks, purchased by Suzanne, and a crisp white cotton shirt with beach-umbrella wide navy and red stripes, also purchased by Suzanne, a red belt and shoes, and fastened my hair back with the antique silver barrette Andre had given me. I was ready to knock 'em dead. Of course, the day I'd planned involved slaving over a crowded desk, but one must always be prepared. You never knew when a potential victim might stray across the perimeter of your patch.

Suzanne was already in, wearing a suit, which meant she was meeting a client. My secretary, Sarah, was at her desk, making faces at the pile of stuff I'd left on Friday. She grimaced as I passed her desk. "Jeez, Thea, it's Monday morning, and I already have a week's worth of work. Can't you ever take it easy?" It was a rhetorical question. She's used to my habits. If she ever came in on Monday and didn't find a stack of work, she wouldn't know what to do. Today, though, she looked tired. She had two children and a husband who didn't help out much. She handed me a stack of pink message slips. "These were on the machine," she said. I was late, arriving at nine. In the academic world, they get going bright and early, right along with the students.

I skimmed through the messages, arranging them in order of priority. I'd been a little dishonest on Saturday, telling Cliff that business was booming. Things were going well, but we were in a little lull. Neither of us had worried much about it. The business has always had cycles, and we'd just finished an impossibly busy year. Besides, Suzanne was planning to take a few weeks off, to revel in her newly married state, and I had enough to keep me going. We had several proposals out, some of which were bound to result in contracts, but still, I checked the messages carefully for anyone who needed stroking. There were a couple of people who did, and two more people who wanted to get together to talk about our services. The last message was a surprise. From Cliff Paris. Please call him at work.

I got some coffee, kicked off my shoes, grabbed a pad of paper, and lifted the receiver, ready to reach out and touch someone. By eleven, I was convinced that the medical community ought to pay more attention to the workplace ailment I called "crushed ear syndrome." I cradled the miserable piece of plastic and took a restroom break. Outside my insulated cubicle, the office was humming. Besides me and Suzanne, we had two full-time secretaries and one who worked three days a week, two full-time staff people, and six or seven people on call to do telephone surveys, large mailings and other big projects for us. Suzanne says it's just sensible business practice, creating a pyramid underneath us that earns us a lot more than we pay them, but it makes me nervous being responsible for supporting so many people.