Once Upon a List (5 page)

Actually, Clara, staring at her lap, was so used to tuning everything out, it had become an unconscious gesture, as natural as blinking. “What? Yes. Of course.”

Leo's mouth turned down in an uncharacteristic scowl. “You know what? The Beer King's right. It's like you're the walking dead.”

Clara grimaced. She may have been existing in a numbing fog, but she wasn't
that
bad.
Was she?

“I—I'm sorry.” Leo reached across the table to touch her arm. “But if I can't say these things to you, who can?” He waited for Clara to respond. But she said nothing. “I've bitten my tongue for as long as I could. I was praying things would get better, but they're only getting worse. There's no way I can continue to watch you sink further into darkness. I can't do it, Clara. I love you too much.” Leo inhaled deeply, hesitating for a moment. “The kind of trauma you've suffered . . . you—you
have
to get help.”

“I've tried every form of help that exists,” Clara, slumped in her seat, said flatly. “And then some.”

“I know.” He nodded. “I know you have. But you've got to try again.”

“Yeah. Easy for you to say.”

Leo stared at her. “No. It's not. Believe me.” His voice was thick with emotion. “You're in real trouble, butt-face,” he whispered. “Can you honestly tell me this is how you want your life to be?”

Clara didn't have the heart to tell him that Sebastian's life wasn't the only one that ended back in March. Nor did she have the guts to ask,
How do I hold on when there doesn't seem to be any end in sight?
Finally, she lifted her chin and looked her brother in the eye, fully exposed and knowing that she could not lie. Not to Leo. Not while sitting across from him at that old marble table, inside those trusty, familiar four walls that held their secrets and deserved to be honored. All she could do was hope to repress the prickly knot that had started to form in her throat. “Listen,” she said softly, “I love you too. And I know your heart's in the right place, but I really don't want to talk about this right now. Besides, Libby gave me this same exact speech before bed. She also sang ‘Turn That Frown Upside-Down' in an octave that was totally out of her range.” Clara rolled her eyes, trying her best to appear animated. “I think I've had just about as much as I can take for my first day back.” She stared at her brother. “Please,” she begged in a whisper.

Standing up, Leo began clearing the table. “That song's the worst.” He collected her plate.

Clara smiled gratefully at him.

And he smiled back.

What a gift it was to be understood.

 

5.

T
he following afternoon, Libby, in her usual frenzy preparing for the annual Black family Thanksgiving party, sent Clara, against her will, to Foodthings, the local gourmet shop, to retrieve enough preordered side dishes to feed an army.

Foodthings reeked of holiday cheer, with chattering shoppers zooming about in all directions. In years past, the store's merry decorations and well-known festive atmosphere during holiday time always delighted Clara, signaling to her that her favorite time of year was finally here, which was why she typically made it a specific point of volunteering to go there on Libby's behalf. But not this year. After waiting in line for almost half an hour
,
Clara was finally on deck. She couldn't help but notice a young couple holding hands by the fresh seafood counter. When the obviously love-struck man fed the woman a free sample shrimp, tenderly plopping it into her open, waiting mouth, Clara immediately looked away. How she wished Sebastian could be there with her! This was supposed to be
their
first Thanksgiving together as a married couple.
They
were supposed to be the seafood couple making innocent shoppers nauseous. Clara's eyes quickly settled at the deli counter, but once again her stomach turned when she spotted an elaborate hanging array of salamis. Salami was Sebastian's all-time favorite food. He put it in everything from scrambled eggs to macaroni and cheese, and included it as the “secret ingredient” in his “famous” spicy chili. When he and Clara vacationed together in Italy, he even sampled it dipped in dark chocolate, declaring
salame al cioccolato
was the best thing he'd ever eaten. Sometimes the mere sight of an aged Genoa brought Clara to tears. Other times, it made her laugh out loud, summoning fond memories of her salami-loving soul mate. Such was the unpredictable, tempestuous roller-coaster ride of grief that had come to define her. The sea of shiny, happy faces that Clara felt like she was drowning in appeared to her to have so much to be thankful for. And though it shamed her, she was envious of every last one of them.

“Thanks again, William.” The female checkout clerk smiled at the man in line in front of Clara when he finished paying his bill. “Have a happy holiday. And tell Hans I say hello!”

“I will. And happy Thanksgiving to you too,” replied William, grabbing his grocery bag and turning around to leave. Coming face to face with Clara, he stopped in his tracks and did a double take. “Clara?”

Peering up from the
National Enquirer
, which she'd grabbed off a nearby shelf to help keep her distracted while she waited, Clara's jaw nearly fell open.

“I thought that was you,” William said.

Could it really be?
She silently wondered.
No. . .

“My goodness, it's been
ages
!” He extended his hand.

There, before Clara's eyes, stood none other than her childhood crush. Or at least she thought it was her childhood crush. It was hard to tell for sure. The last time she saw him had been decades ago, when he still had metal braces on his teeth, far more hair on his head, and far less meat on his bones. “Billy . . .
Warrington
?” Shocked, Clara shook his hand.

“I go by William these days,” he said, smiling at her. “Wow. Nobody's called me Billy in years.”

“Well, I'm still Clara,” she replied sheepishly, unable to believe that she was actually standing next to Billy fucking Warrington in the flesh. He smelled good and manly, like a combination of spearmint and musty cologne.

“It's terrific to see you,” he said. “Do you live around here?”

“No, I'm just visiting for the weekend from Boston. And you?”

William glanced at his Rolex. “Shoot! I apologize for having to rush off like this. Someone's waiting for me in the parking lot and we're already running ten minutes late to an appointment. Please forgive me.” Hurrying toward the exit, he stopped, looked over his shoulder, and grinned at Clara. “Maybe I'll see you around town over the weekend.”

She hadn't so much as even considered Billy/William Warrington in decades, and now, in the span of a day, his name had come up not once, but twice. And here they were actually standing in the same room together! What were the odds? Clara did not believe in coincidences. And though she had stopped believing in God, she speculated that this random encounter surely had to hold some level of significance. If everything in life happened for a reason, which seemed to be a popular—not to mention annoying—theory applicable to her fiancé's untimely passing, then certainly this too had to be some sort of sign. Why, it just
had
to be.

Suddenly, before Clara had time to even think about it, or realize what she was doing, she dropped the
Enquirer
on the floor, gave up her place in line, and raced after William.
“Wait! William! HOLD ON!”
she shouted. Operating on autopilot, she navigated her way through a slalom course of uniformed bag-boys, caught up to William just as he was about to step inside the revolving glass door, spun his body around, grabbed him by his trench coat lapel, yanked him toward her, and planted a big, wet, passionate kiss right smack dab on his lips.

Several amused shoppers witnessing the spectacle clapped their hands, as if it were the climactic scene in a romance film, and a little wrinkled old lady wearing a shawl around her shoulders made a triumphant fist, grinning. “Go get him, honey!”

When she finally ended their impromptu smooch, Clara pulled away from William, beaming.

In an obvious state of confused astonishment, he pointed at the parking lot, stuttering, “Hans . . . Hans . . . Hans is out there waiting for me.”

Equally surprised, Clara felt lightning bolts of adrenaline coursing through her veins.

“He's—He's my husband,” said William, frozen in place with his startled eyes opened unnaturally wide.

 

6.

C
lara raced through Libby's front door to discover her family decorating the foyer with jewel-hued floral arrangements, candles, and gourds. “Hello!” she greeted them, grinning exuberantly and removing her coat to hang it up in the closet. “It looks wonderful in here. Very festive!”

Libby and Leo shared a curious look.

“You'll never believe what happened to me at Foodthings. I mean,
never
!” Clara rushed on. “To be honest, I still can't quite believe it myself.”

“What happened?” asked Leo.

“You didn't accidentally forget to pick anything up, did you?” Libby cringed, adding some autumn leaves to the cornucopia on the table in the center of the foyer.

“Of course not.” Clara practically bounced in her shoes. “But I
did
accidentally make out with a gay man!”

“Excuse me?”
Leo's eyes bulged. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about Billy Warrington!” Just saying his name made Clara smile. “Oops! I mean,
William
Warrington. He goes by William these days.”

“Are you serious? You saw Billy Warrington?” Leo confirmed, slack jawed. “And he's gay?”

“Quite! He's married to Hans.”

“Oookay.” Libby attempted to follow along. “And, just to be clear . . . you
kissed
this
gay William
who's married to
Hans
?”

“Yes! Can you believe it? I really did it!”

“And . . . this is a
good
thing?” Libby rubbed her brow, squinting.

Clara paused to consider it for a moment. She was unable to comprehend the strange phenomenon herself. “Yeah. I suppose, somehow, it is.”

“I'm not sure I understand”—Libby shrugged—“but you seem happy about it. Remind me to send you to Foodthings more often.”

Suddenly, Leo's eyes lit up with understanding. “
I
know what this is about,” he declared, shocked. “Holy cow. I—I can't believe you really did it!”

“I know!”
Clara agreed.

“Kissing Billy Warrington was the very last thing on Clara's time capsule list of things to accomplish by age thirty-five,” Leo explained in a matter-of-fact tone to their puzzled mother. “Billy was her fifth-grade crush. He had an awesome mullet that drove girls wild.”

“William,”
Clara corrected.

“I see.” Libby placed a candle inside of a freshly polished silver votive.

“Out of nowhere, there he was . . . standing directly in front of me in the check-out line. I didn't even know it was him! One minute I was reading the tabloids about the poor little
unicorn-girl
who sawed off her own horn, the next minute I was chasing William down for a kiss,” Clara slowly recalled, as if the words she was choosing to describe the baffling sequence of events were stuck in molasses. “It all happened so fast. I—I didn't
mean
to do it. It's not like it was premeditated . . . I don't even know what came over me! Honestly! I've never done anything like this before in my entire life! I guess I just figured
why not
? I mean, it was on my list. And I'll probably never have the chance to do it again,” she rationalized. “Somehow, it just
happened
.”

“Well, it looks like you can officially cross
Kiss Billy Warrington
off your list.” Leo handed Libby some more candles.

“I can, can't I?” Clara twinkled. She picked up two small pumpkins from the ground. “Need an extra hand decorating?”

A look of pleasant surprise crossed Libby's face. “You
want
to help?”

•
Kiss Billy Warrington (Clara + Billy = TRUE LOVE FOREVER!)

 

7.

L
aughter wafted throughout the convivial dining room, where two long tables of dear family and friends carried on spirited conversations while partaking of the bountiful Thanksgiving buffet and endlessly flowing wine. Guests punctuated the leisurely meal with toasts to their hostess and one another, though all of these sentiments were lost on Clara, whose exhilaration from yesterday's gay kiss had long since worn off. Staring down at her watch, her focus remained on the second-hand crawling at a frustrating turtle's pace ever so slowly around the dial.

“Excuse me everyone.” Aunt Billie, Libby's inebriated older sister, stood up. She tapped her knife against her almost empty wine glass. “If I may add just one more thing.” She hiccupped, tilting slightly to the side.
“All hail the mighty Turducken! We're not worthy!”

An enthusiastic round of “Hear hear!” followed.

Leo, seated beside Clara, shot her a look. “
Oh boy,
here we go,” he muttered under his breath in her ear. “Think we better cut Aunt Billie off?”

Clara just shrugged, grateful to no longer be the focus of attention.

Earlier, a stir regarding her diminutive appearance had ensued among the murmuring party attendees. It had been over a year since Clara last donned her navy cocktail dress, which she'd haphazardly tossed in her suitcase. When she slipped it on shortly before guests were due to arrive, she discovered, to her dismay, the elegant garb that once did all the right things for her body—highlighting her long, muscular legs, shapely waist, and rounded bosom—now appeared to be several sizes too large, as if it belonged to a stranger. And for all intents and purposes, it did.

Clara frowned at her reflection in her bedroom's full-length mirror. It looked to her as if she was draped in an ugly tent, rather than the beautiful, designer-label frock that had cost her an arm and a leg. Though, it
had
been well worth the price to see the dazzled expression on Sebastian's face the first time she wore it to the opera. “Have mercy,” he'd uttered, awestruck and attempting to hide his growing erection. From that point on, it was known between them simply as “the boner dress.” Banishing such agonizing memories from her mind, Clara clutched her arms around her chest, as if to cover the gaping hole in it. Then, she did the only sensible thing she could think of: call for Libby.

Frightened by the piercing shriek, Libby, dressed in diamonds and a stylish gray suit, literally came running. “What is it? What's wrong?”

Slowly pivoting around from the mirror to face her mother, no words were required for Clara to explain her obvious dilemma.

“Oh. I see.” Libby exhaled, absorbing the image of her daughter standing before her, lost in excess fabric, fragile and ghostly white, like a delicate porcelain doll with cracks.

“It's the only nice thing I packed.” Clara cast her brown eyes downward, their once fiery glow now extinguished.

Libby dashed away and returned several moments later holding a basic black dress. “I shrunk this in the wash. It's nothing fancy, but it should hopefully do the trick for tonight.”

Smiling weakly, Clara allowed her navy gown to crumple to the carpet as she reached for the impromptu alternative.

Libby stifled a gasp, observing her daughter's bony, exposed form. “Here”—she swallowed, trying not to stare—“let . . . let me zip that in the back for you. Careful now, lift up your hair for me.”

Clara didn't move.

“Sweetheart? Can you lift up your hair for me, please?”

“Oh, sorry.” Clara did as her mother asked.

“ 'Atta girl.”
It was as if Libby was speaking to a lost child, rather than a grown woman. After adjusting the dress while Clara stood there like a limp puppet, she finally grinned. “Okay!
There
we go. What do you think?”

Clara sighed. “That I'd like for this night to be over,” she mumbled, daunted by the idea of having to interact with forty party guests—of having to remember to look interested, to nod or smile at appropriate intervals. She knew it was not going to be easy.

Libby examined her with a growing expression of concern. After a minute, she took a deep breath. “You know, I always miss your father more on Thanksgiving. Every year. Without fail. It's just how it goes,” she confessed in a soft tone. “Are you thinking about Sebastian?”

Clara's chest ached with crushing emptiness at the sound of his name, at the idea of spending her first Thanksgiving in ten years without him, at the impossible realization that she would not hear his infectious laughter around the holiday table that night. Or ever again. Her thoughts turned to last year's jovial Thanksgiving meal during which, fancying herself a stand-up comedian, she had told a dirty and absolutely hilarious lawyer joke, captivating the attention of everybody in the room and bringing the house down. For the life of her, she couldn't remember what specifically the joke was about. But she recalled with shocking clarity Sebastian's facial expression—the way his dimple in his left cheek creased, how he closed his eyes—as he threw his head back in laughter and slapped his hand against his thigh, struggling not to spit out the cranberry sauce that was in his mouth as the room erupted. The joke had been such a hit, in fact, that Clara, shamelessly hamming it up, took a bow and teased, “Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen! I'll be performing here all week. Don't forget to tip your waiter!”

Later that night in bed at Libby's, while discussing their favorite parts of the evening, as they often did, she and Sebastian had laughed about it all over again. What a truly fantastic holiday it had been . . . To answer her mother's current question, when was she
not
thinking of Sebastian? Looking away from Libby, Clara nodded, fighting back the tears that had been threatening to flow since she woke up that morning. “This dress is nice.” She forced herself to focus on it in an effort to avoid spiraling deeper into depression. “Thanks for letting me borrow it.”

W
hen the last bite of pumpkin pie had been swallowed, and a round of potent aperitifs had been poured for those who weren't full enough to burst, the guests retreated to the music room for the evening's main attraction: Libby's annual medley of her most notorious jingles.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” Leo stood before the clattering group, his cheeks rosy from wine. “The tryptophan will soon take effect, so, without any further ado, it is my pleasure to introduce,
for one night only
, the incomparable
Libby Black
!”

The room erupted with merry, boozy applause, and somebody lounging in a club chair whistled.

“All right, everyone, you're familiar with the old drill by now.” Libby handed her glass of cognac to Leo, taking a seat at her beloved Steinway. “You all know the words, so everybody's invited to sing along. And don't be shy! Dignity be damned!”

“You're a star!” bellowed Aunt Billie, petting her sweater's puffy cornucopia appliqué, which suddenly lit up and began blinking.

“You
might want to be a little shy.” Libby winked like an experienced lounge singer. At last, her fingers landed where they most belong, and began tickling the ivories, starting off the show with a slow and romantic,
“With a cheeseburger in my hand . . . I'll show you the promised land . . . At Burger-In-Your-Car . . . Everywhere that you are . . .”

Normally, this whimsical tradition pleased Clara to no end, for the comforting sound of the piano and the sound of her mother's voice were one in the same in her mind, and never failed to lift her spirit or make her heart swell. However, haunted by Sebastian's ghost, it would have taken a miracle to accomplish this feat.

After an especially peppy polka for Pepto-Bismol, Libby took her performance down a notch, playing the poignant and tender salt-free seasoning jingle for which she was awarded her first Clio. Swaying dramatically on her piano bench with her eyes closed, she crooned,
“So I'm cooking with So-Not-Salt, because I love you, yes I dooooo”—
some of the guests chimed in
—“my life would mean nothing if I didn't have youuuuuu . . .”

Tears slid down Clara's cheeks.

When Aunt Billie, seated beside her on the Oriental rug, glanced Clara's way, her bloodshot eyes filled with fear. “What's wrong?” she whispered, leaning toward her.

“Nothing,” Clara whispered back, her limbs splayed in the extremity of her grief. “Why?”

“You're crying,” answered Aunt Billie, gently placing her hand on top of Clara's.

“Me?”

“Yes,
you.
What's the matter?” Aunt Billie hiccupped again.

Confused, lost in the numbing haze, Clara slowly touched her cheek with her free hand. Her fingertips felt the warm, wet tears that she was unaware were falling.

Bowing her head, Clara allowed a single teardrop to land on Aunt Billie's hand, which she held on to a little bit tighter.

“It's okay, love. Shhhh . . .” Aunt Billie soothed.
“Look!”
she whispered a bit too loud. She tapped her puffy cornucopia appliqué. “Pretty lights! Like Broadway!”