Hearse and Gardens (7 page)

After three hours of backbreaking work, we headed to Sandringham for respite.

We were only allowed entry via the service entrance of the kitchen, per Celia's directive. She didn't want us tracking any filth into the front or back of the house. Elle felt snubbed, like she was a poor relation. I felt more comfortable going in the kitchen door than the stuffy front entrance or the equally intimidating antiseptic gallery.

There were two things I noticed when we walked into the kitchen. One was the heavenly scent of New England clam chowder and fresh-baked bread, the other was the kitchen itself. The room was a perfect mix of old and new, with a huge center island topped in marble. The window over two double farm sinks looked to the west and had ocean views. Over the center island were two mammoth chandeliers suspended from white rafters with traditional crystal
prisms. Two nontraditional white gauzy opaque shades circled the top of each chandelier, adding an unexpected modern twist. The walls were made of exposed bricks showing patina and age, and the blue slate floor looked original to the house. The pièce de résistance was a bowed window with triple shelves filled with culinary herbs.

Mrs. Anderson stood at an eight-burner Viking stove. Above the stove was an open brick oven—the kind you saw in the best NYC pizzerias. “Welcome, girls. You're just in time.”

I hoped she meant for the bubbling chowder in the industrial-sized pot and the crusty loaves, plural, of bread with crisscross incisions from which butter oozed.

My father taught me “chowder” came from the French word for cauldron. Chowder originated as a community fish stew to which each neighbor contributed an item that would be cooked in the cauldron—a French potluck pot.

“In time for what, Mrs. Anderson?” Elle grinned.

“Chowder, of course. And please call me Ingrid.” She turned to me, smiling. “Hi, Elle's friend. Welcome to my kitchen.”

I was caught slightly off-guard. When I saw Ingrid at the funeral, she hadn't been smiling. None of us were. She looked so much like my mother I had to take a seat at the humongous wooden farm table to get my bearings. Of course, Ingrid was probably five to ten years older than my mother when she passed away. And I was only about ten years younger than Ingrid now. But that smile threw me for a loop—I never thought I'd see it again.

Elle took a seat next to me, and Ingrid carried over a tray with four large ironstone soup bowls, four bread
plates, four silver soup spoons, and four blue and white French dishtowels meant to be used as napkins.

I was slightly confused about the four place settings until Kate, followed by Liv, entered the kitchen.

“Oh, Mrs. A., you've done it again.” Kate plopped down in a seat across from us.

“Hi, Kate,” Elle said. “We haven't been introduced. I'm Elle Warner, your stepfather's great-niece on his first wife's side, and this is my friend, Meg Barrett.”

Kate picked up one of the towels and waved it in welcome, then stuffed it into the neck of her Grateful Dead T-shirt. “Hmmm. Wife number one. Can't say I know her.”

Elle smiled. “That would be pretty hard, seeing she died about sixty years ago.”

Liv interrupted, “Elsie Warner Falks, if I'm not mistaken. She died in childbirth and so did the baby. Sad story.”

Ingrid placed an ironstone tureen in the middle of the table and ladled chowder into a bowl. She handed the bowl to Kate because Kate's arms were outstretched and her hands were doing the
gimme-gimme
gesture of a toddler, hard to believe she was in her early twenties.

“Thanks, Mrs. A. Just toss me half a loaf of bread for dunkin' and I'm all set.” Kate dipped the uncut end of her bread in the chowder, then bit off a big chunk. Her incisors dripped chowder that trickled down her chin and onto her dishtowel.

Before going in for another dunk, Kate said, “Lots of sad shit in this family.”

Liv took a long inhale and shakily took a bowl from Ingrid's hands.

Not insensitive to Liv's feelings, Kate grabbed Liv's hand and whispered, “Sorry.”

Elle looked at Liv. “How do you know so much about Aunty Elsie, my namesake?”

“I love history, genealogy, and architecture. Always have. Especially growing up in a house like Sandringham, with all its secret rooms and passages. I almost became a historical architect but didn't want to leave Granddad to go on to grad school.”

Elle asked, “What exactly is a historical architect?”

Liv put down her spoon. “Historic architects deal with the preservation of historic structures by using similar resources from the same period in the reconstruction.”

I knew there was something I liked about Liv.

Kate said, “I think the old part of the house is creepy. Give me modern any day.”

Ingrid passed Elle and me our chowder and half a loaf of bread.

I took my first spoonful. “Holy cow, do I detect chunks of sweet lobster in my white clam chowder?”

“You most surely do,” Ingrid said. “Caught this morning. Enjoy while you can. It's nearing the end of the season.”

I asked, “How long have you lived here, Kate?”

“I was at boarding school and came here at eighteen. Montauk bored me to death, so I went to live with a friend in the city and took a couple classes at the Fashion Institute. But it was too structured. Couldn't understand their thinking, offering classes like Chinese Trade and the History of Fibers, to name a couple. Give me scissors, a sewing machine, and a glue gun, and I can make something
that would blow those pretentious designers at Fashion Week off the runway. You either have it or you don't.”

I liked her confidence but thought getting a broader education couldn't hurt.

Kate pushed away her bowl, laid the soggy towel on the table, and stood. “I've gotta run. I'm roped into helping Mother with Stepdad—a new shrink is coming to give him some kind of test. Hope he passes.”

“What doctor?” Liv asked.

“You'd have to ask Stepgranny that one,” Kate said on her way out the arched brick doorway.

Liv ran after Kate.

I scraped the bottom of my bowl, sad to see it go. Elle and I brought our dishes to the sink. I rinsed the dishes and Elle put them in the closest of three dishwashers.

“Thank you, girls.” Ingrid gave us another one of my mother's smiles and I almost broke down in tears.

“No. Thank you!” we said at the same time.

Ingrid took a seat at the table, pulled out a chair, and propped up her feet. “This is my favorite time of day, between lunch and dinner, when I can thumb through cooking magazines and get inspiration for future meals.” She nodded toward a tiered pie holder with three pies. “Let's break into one. What do you think?”

Hell yes!
The pies looked like either pumpkin or sweet potato. When I first saw the pies, I assumed they were fake—like the ones we'd used in the pages of
American Home and Garden
.

Ingrid went to get up, and Elle said, “Stay. Just tell us where everything is.”

She smiled. “Thank you.” Then she went on to instruct
us on where to find things, an easy chore thanks to the clear glass panes on the cupboards.

We brought the white plates, cotton napkins, bone-handled stainless forks, sterling pie server, and, of course, pie number one to the table.

“Pumpkin?” Elle asked Ingrid.

“Pumpkin–butternut squash. My own recipe. I like making each dish my very own. I'm hoping to publish my own cookbook.”

There was a five-minute silence as we all dug in. Heaven in a slice of pie.

Ingrid stood and went to a shiny silver coffee urn. She took out three stoneware mugs. “Coffee, girls?”

She brought it to the table, I added cream, and took a sip. The coffee was just the way I liked it, a dark roast without any bitterness.

Elle wiped her mouth with the napkin and put it across her plate. “That was the best pie I've had in a long time. Do I have to wait for your book to get the recipe?”

“Of course not. I'll get it for you and a blank index card to copy it down on.” Ingrid went to a rustic built-in desk with numerous cubbyholes and grabbed some cards and a pen. Then she came back to the table and handed them to Elle.

Elle said, “Thank you. Why is Uncle Harry seeing a psychiatrist and what kind of test does he need to pass?”

Ingrid said, “I'm not sure. This will be doctor number three. I want to think it's out of concern on Celia's part, but I don't understand why he's only seeing psychiatrists, not MDs.”

I stood, grabbed my handbag from the back of the chair,
and rifled through it. “That reminds me. I have a business card for my audiologist I want to pass on to Uncle Harry.” I'd pulled my hair back in a ponytail and saw Ingrid looking at my ears.

She said, “I've been after him for years to get new hearing aids. The last time Harrison saw someone was before he and Celia married.”

As I passed through the brick archway into the hallway, I heard Elle ask Ingrid, “How long have you been at Sandringham?”

I had to make a decision on which way to go. Left or right? I chose left and took the hallway to the formal front foyer of the mansion. Instead of taking the secret elevator, I climbed the curving staircase that spiraled up three floors. I really did want to give Uncle Harry my audiologist's card, but I was also curious about his latest psychiatric test.

When I finally found the door to Uncle Harry's suite, Brandy, his nurse/assistant, was standing outside. She had her ear to the door. As I approached, she put her finger to her lips in the universal “shush” gesture.

Brandy must've heard footsteps coming toward her from the other side of the door because she backed away and stood next to me. The door opened and out filed Celia, Kate, and I assumed the psychiatrist, a white-haired man with a goatee and wire glasses, trying to appear Freud-like but failing because he was so tall and overweight. He was talking to Celia but stopped abruptly when he saw us.

Celia said to Brandy, totally ignoring me, “He's not in good shape. You better let him rest.”

Then Kate added, “I think he's somewhere in 1972. Don't know if he's ever coming back. Poor Stepdaddy.”

Celia was prettier than Brandy, but Brandy's other assets, two to be exact, might have trumped good looks for any guy with a pulse. Celia, Kate, and the doctor followed the hallway that ended at the modern end of the mansion.

Before Brandy could protest, I stepped inside Uncle Harry's room. He was seated in a tufted high-back chair, fine enough to be placed on a king's dais—very Louis XV. He looked out the mullioned window at the Atlantic. Each diamond-shaped pane of glass filtered through a different hue—some mauve, some amber, some clear. I could only imagine the view from the window on a clear day.

I said, “Hi, Uncle Harry.”

He didn't move. He bit at his lower lip and rubbed the pointer finger and thumb on his left hand like he was trying to make them click to the beat of a song playing in his head. He wore his clunky hearing aids.

Brandy pushed past me and touched Uncle Harry on the shoulder. “Harrison, dear. You didn't eat your chowder.”

He looked at her. “Brandy. Where's the baby? Why didn't she come home?” Then he turned to me. “Meg. Where is Little Elf?”

“Elle is in the kitchen with Mrs. Anderson. We just had the chowder. It was so good.”

Brandy interrupted, “I think Harrison needs to rest and finish his lunch. Was there something you needed?”

“Let her be. It's not often I get pretty visitors.”

Brandy didn't respond. She took the bowl of chowder off the side table, went into an alcove, and opened a cabinet. Inside sat a small microwave oven. She put the bowl inside and pushed a button.

I moved closer to Uncle Harry. “What an awesome view.”

Brandy brought over the warmed bowl of chowder. “Do you want to eat in the chair or in bed?”

He didn't answer. Just looked out the window.

“Oh, Harry . . .” She tucked a linen napkin under his chin, and pulled a chair from the other side of the room and sat next to him. Then she fed him like an invalid.

I placed the business card on the small Rococo table between Uncle Harry and Brandy. “I wanted to give you the name of my audiologist. I noticed, like me, you wear hearing aids. He's fantastic. Changed my life.”

Uncle Harry shook his head at the spoon's advance, pushed Brandy's arm away, and grabbed my hand. “Brandy, call this person immediately.”

Brandy gave me a look I couldn't decipher, and I remembered the shouting match with Richard on the evening of Pierce's wake.

I left the room after promising Uncle Harry I'd go with him to the audiologist. As I walked into the sitting room, I heard Uncle Harry asking Brandy about the baby. Maybe Uncle Harry was in 1972 as Kate said, or somewhere in the past. Baby? Whose baby? Harrison's stillborn baby from his first wife, Elle's great-aunt Elsie?