Goldy Schulz 01 Catering to Nobody (16 page)

"Go! Go!" Trixie shrieked over the din. She was throwing her arms and legs out like a cheerleader fighting off a mugger.

"Best thing for a hangover!" shouted the man next to me as we switched to jumping jacks.

The mirror reflected new unwelcome pillows of flesh in the worst places. Not rushing around to cater was taking its toll. I went to the wall to stretch ligaments and wished to be dying in L.A. rather than exercising. Back in my spot I began to jog in place. My neighbor (hung over?) responded by increasing the speed of his jumps, which he accompanied with loud grunts.

We flapped arms and kicked legs while Trixie increased the tempo to what could only be described as frenzied. It was like an African tribal dance being filmed by National Geographic.

Abruptly the music stopped in mid bar. I stopped too, although the maniacs around me kept hopping.

"What is the matter with this thing?" screeched Trixie as she punched buttons on the lifeless stereo. "What! What!"

She picked up one of the weights, a big one.

"Damn you!" she screamed, and heaved the weight at one of the wall-sized mirrors, which shattered with the sound of windows exploding in a small building.

"That's worth at least forty-nine years of bad luck," said Hung-Over.

Trixie ran into the locker room. Hal appeared at the top of the stairs. He looked bewildered, but quickly summoned all the masochists to the outside track. I decided to hit the showers.

In the locker room Trixie was complaining loudly to a group of women in shiny leotards and tights about the stereo system, the club, and life in general. I slipped into the welcome relief of a shower stall. When the crowd dispersed I would check out Laura's locker. But fifteen minutes later the women were still bubbling with subdued chatter about Trixie and her temper tantrum, so I headed for the steam room. There I encountered the becalmed mirror-shatterer herself.

"Trix," I said cautiously as I eased down onto the moist tile steps. "Guess you were a little pissed off back there."

She groaned and turned over. "Guess so," she said. "Hal's secretary just came down. Breaking the mirror cost me three hundred dollars. Next time it'll be my job."

I muttered something about being in the same boat, a metaphoric fit with the clouds of steam enveloping us. Then I said, "Listen, I don't know how to say this delicately, but I just found out about your baby. I'm sorry. I didn't even know you were pregnant."

She said nothing for a few minutes. Then, "Thanks, Goldy. It's been really hard."

"I'm sorry," I murmured again. In the clouded light I could just see her hand. I took it and squeezed; she squeezed back.

I said, "Want to talk?"

"Maybe sometime. I need to figure out how to break the mirror news to my husband. . . ha ha." She let go of my hand.

"I didn't see your husband at Laura Smiley's house," I said.

She said, "God, it's getting hot in here."

"Really."

"Yeah, Martin," she said vaguely, as if she had just remembered his name. "He was out of town. Doesn't like the thought of death, anyway. Since. . . well."

"Of course," I said, and nodded in the dark mist. I cleared my throat and said, "I went over to Fritz Korman's the other day. He was doing better, went into the office Wednesday."

"Don't mention that man to me."

"Mad at the doctor? Why?"

"Don't call him a doctor," she said evenly as she swung her body around and rearranged herself on the room's tile steps. "Don't exaggerate."

I needed a cold shower. In the last ten minutes heat and moisture had built up in the steam room to almost unbearable proportions. But I couldn't go yet.

"Hey," I said, "I called Fritz's son a husband, and that was the worst. exaggeration of my life."

This brought a laugh. She said, "I know I'm being disagreeable. I'm just worried about the cash for the mirror."

"I wrote the book on money worries making you disagreeable. At least no one's asking if I'm premenstrual."

Another harsh laugh.

“Anyway," I added, "if that theory worked, my roommate would be the most agreeable person in the world."

“Also the stupidest," said Trixie acidly, "since she's going to Fritz Korman for treatment."

"How did you know that?"

"She told me, sitting right in here not long ago. She was talking to Laura Smiley about it one time when I came in."

"What? I didn't even know she knew Laura."

Trixie let out a breath. "I'm not saying she knew her, Goldy. I'm just saying that one time she was talking to her. I didn't even hear the whole conversation, since I came in in the middle and had to leave before they finished."

"But what were they talking about? What were they saying?"

"I don't know. They were talking about Fritz. Patty Sue was upset. When I first came in they stopped talking, you know how people do. When I asked them if they wanted me to leave, Laura was, what's the word, cryptic. She said, 'Trixie had the same doctor. She doesn't think too much of him.' "

"Then what?"

Trixie said, "Patty Sue was saying she was sorry she had bothered Laura, and Laura was saying that was okay. I had already dumped all my grievances on Laura once before, and I didn't want to hear any more about Korman. So I got out."

"That's it?"

"I think so. So what?"

I thought for a minute. Then I said, "Well, judging from what happened last Saturday, you weren't the only one dissatisfied with Fritz."

"That doesn't surprise me."

"Of course," I said bitterly, "whoever was upset with him could have managed to give him rat poison someplace besides Laura's funeral."

"Odd that he would even come," said Trixie.

"Why is that?"

"Oh, I don't know. As I said, Laura and I used to talk in here. And usually not with your roommate around. It's hard. With Laura gone, I mean."

"What did you and Laura talk about?"

"Jesus, what is this? Interrogation time?"

"I'm sorry, forgive me," I said. "I'm just interested because of my business being closed down from what happened at her house. Sorry," I said again. I thought I was going to faint from the heat and humidity in the small dark room. The ambient temperature must have been a hundred and twenty. But instead of leaving I cleared my throat and said, "Have you thought any more about coming to our group?"

She moved around on the tiles.

"Tell me again when you're meeting."

"Next week, Thursday, and also Friday night, October thirtieth. I just thought you might enjoy it."

"Well, at least I can enjoy the food, right?" She gave a harsh laugh. Then, "The thirtieth, I guess."

"You'll be glad you did."

She said, "I guess," and stood to leave. The door slammed behind her.

Twenty minutes later I was dried and dressed but still full of questions. While Trixie worked on her hair and makeup I tried to bring up the subject of Laura again, to no avail. When I asked if we could get together before the meeting on the thirtieth she gave me a curious look.

"Just to chat," I said.

"No," she said, then picked up her gym bag and swept out.

The locker room was empty. I groped around in my handbag for the key to Laura's locker. L221. The L stood for Ladies; that much I knew. I wouldn't get over to do the M side until I did my first cleaning job here. For that I could wait.

There was a sudden hush in the locker room. Saturday classes were over before noon. Everyone had left to chop firewood or shop for groceries. This set burgling into high relief, morally speaking.

I put the flat metal key into 221 and turned. Gooseflesh crawled up my neck. The key wouldn't budge. I jiggled it and tried again. The door clanged open.

The inside of the locker door was plastered with homemade signs, and I began to wonder if Laura had a fixation with slogans. "You Can't Find These Muscles on the Seashore." Too much. The uppermost sign was a copy of the Serenity Prayer. She had underlined to change the things I can.

On the top shelf was the usual array of female bath accessories, shampoo, rinse, body lotion. Still no razor, I noticed, and made a mental note to tell Schulz. Not that he would care. My ideas didn't seem to carry much weight with the local constabulary. Behind the toiletries was a paperback, which I imagined from its brittle condition to be reading material Laura took into the sauna. It was a day-by- day meditation book, advocating strength and courage and calm. For what?

Underneath her name in the front of the book were the words Sundays, noon, Episcopal church. Thinking of my old parish, I tried to remember what went on at noon on Sundays, after everyone had left. Several times I had stayed to clean the Sunday school room while Arch threw stones into Cottonwood Creek. One time I had gone into the ladies' room to cry when John Richard slipped out with the choir lady; Arch had thrown enough stones into the creek to qualify him for dam construction by the time I came out, red- eyed and sniffly. And there had been a meeting going on, where I remembered several of the people had also been red- eyed and sniffly. What was it? Memory failed.

My hand slid across the cool metal of the shelf. In the far corner there was a piece of paper that was stuck. Perhaps Laura had put a wet bottle of shampoo or damp washcloth up there. It was probably just an old label from soap. Without thinking I pulled, and half of whatever it was came off in my hand.

The torn paper was not a label, and I cursed myself for not trying to extricate it

more carefully. It was part of a yellowed article from an old newspaper with a scrawled note: Show P.S. and T. I tried to release the rest of the stuck paper from the shelf with my fingernail, but got only illegible bits.

The torn part read:

CAROLTON PHYSICIAN TO MOVE Local obstetrician Fritz Niebold Korm last month on charges of having in mistrial, will move his pract Sources indicate that Korman, under investigation by the Il Examiners for other alleg accusations, Korman stat

tired of it all," and he had received a Iic been practicing in

The upper left-hand corner said October 6, 1967.

I put the book with the notation about Sunday meetings, as well as the article, into my gym bag and headed for the front desk. In 1967 John Richard had been ten years old, so that even if he would be willing to explain this, he probably wouldn't remember. If I could get Vonette sober, she might tell me more. Maybe Schulz had already found out what this was about, though I doubted that. Like the book of advice or the church meeting, or the fact that Vonette had said that Laura had been a nanny for them, I did not know how this fit.

At the desk I received a note telling me Arch's teacher had tried to reach me at home and had been told to call here, and would I please call her at home during the weekend. Nothing urgent, she'd said, just call at your convenience.

You bet, I thought, but first I had some other business to attend to. I dialed the number for the office of Korman and Korman, asked for an appointment, and was informed that the doctors had left for the weekend. Would I like to see Dr. Korman senior on Monday?

"Yes," I said. "I have to bring Patty Sue Williams in anyway; maybe you could fit me in around that time."

There was a pause. "I only need to see him for about ten minutes," I said.

"Oh? And what is your problem, Miss Bear? Are you in pain?"

"Chronic. Lower abdomen. I know he'll be able to help me." I said, "There's just

so much I can't digest," and hung up.

-12- Show P.S. and T.

Why had Laura Smiley made that note on an article about a mistrial? It had been in her locker; one had to assume that P.S. and T. were available in the athletic club. It was an article about Dr. Fritz Korman, something from two decades before, something which, for a reason I did not know, had relevance for P.S. and T.

I put the article down and tried to call Arch's teacher, Janet Heath, but got her answering machine instead. I stared at the article again.

Trixie (T.?) had said that she and Laura had talked about Korman in the steam room after exercise class. She also had said that Laura and Patty Sue, of all people, had had a tête-à-tête in the same steam room. Time for me to have a little chat with P.S. myself, especially since she was the only woman I knew who was a current patient of Fritz Korman's.

But Patty Sue was out running when I

arrived home. When she came back Arch was in and out with Todd so that it was impossible to ask questions. Then she went to bed after we finished the dishes. What was the point of all that exercise if it rendered you constitutionally incapable of staying up past nine at night?

Well, we still lived under the same roof. Sunday morning would do for questions. I dialed Janet Heath again and got her machine again. Another chat set aside for the next morning.

As usual I awoke early. Sunday, with its inevitable doldrums, is the bane of the single person who has been married. For couples and families it is a day of church, picnics, fishing, football games, pizza, and movies. Now the emptiness descended like one of the cold fogs that go creeping through the mountain valleys in winter. The frigid moisture is almost invisible, but you can see the way the icy clouds turn green pines to silver; you can feel the chill seep into your bones.

So I followed my routine. Cooking was the cure for loss.

The candy for Arch's Halloween party at Furman Elementary was the next order of business. A batch of my Terrific Toffee would do for the sixth graders. The candy would keep in the refrigerator for a couple of weeks. I buttered two nine-by-thirteen- inch glass pans and started to melt butter with brown sugar in a big pot. I rummaged through my knife drawer for the candy thermometer, then snapped its long bulb onto the side of the pan.

GOLDY'S TERRIFIC TOFFEE

2 cups coarsely chopped pecans 2 pounds (8 sticks) unsalted butter, plus extra for pans 2 pounds best-quality milk chocolate (Lindt) 4 cups packed dark brown sugar

Note: A candy thermometer is essen tial for this recipe. Making a good toffee is tricky at high altitude, because the traditional soft-crack stage is not reached until the thermometer reaches 300 , at which point the toffee is in danger of burning. Therefore, at high altitude, if you are close to 300 , detect a burning smell, and stir up a darker substance from the bottom of the pan, stop stirring immediately, remove the toffee from the heat, and quickly pour it into the prepared pans without scraping the bottom of the cooking pan. If you have managed not to stir in any of the burnt candy, the toffee will still be delicious. It will be chewier than that made at sea level, but proper refrigeration will maintain a good candy texture.