The Inn at Lake Devine (13 page)

“Who?” I whispered.

“Robin,” Kris told me, in a cry of brotherly grief that made the next question unnecessary.

C
hip and Jeff were hurt but would survive. The details came from outside—newspapers and television. Robin, in the backseat with her wedding dress, had received the blunt force of a skidding car that had hit black ice and swerved into their lane. The other driver, an elderly woman, killed. No one could bear to ask questions or speak at all, including me, except to offer to go home and leave the Fifes and the Berrys to their pain.

Mostly, I stayed out of the way by cooking. Breakfast on trays, handed to Kris for delivery. Comfort foods for lunch and dinner—plain custards and clear soups that were sent without fanfare and returned untouched.

I kept asking him, then Mr. Berry and Ingrid, whose kitchen I had effectively taken over, “Am I imposing? Should I leave? I’ll understand.”

Someone always said, “You’ve been so helpful. Please stay.”

I did stay, despite the chill of the poorly heated rooms and my fear that trays of food and cups of tea didn’t adequately express my own sorrow.

A few wedding guests who couldn’t be reached in time—it had been Gretel’s job, with her trained voice and her poise, to go down the list—arrived Saturday morning in wedding finery. The families asked if I could turn the horrified guests away, or register those who couldn’t face a return trip. I did. I assigned rooms in the same far-off corner as mine, and made sandwiches. In the morning, they slipped away.

Mr. and Mrs. Fife, under sedation by the Berrys’ family doctor, left their room only to talk to the undertaker and the minister. Someone said that if Robin had wanted to be married at Lake Devine, then surely she would want to be buried there. The Berrys must have spoken privately with the minister, because plans for the grave site changed. The Fifes were helped to see that there was
no cemetery per se on the property, and since Nelson and Robin had not yet been formally … well, united in matrimony, it might be more comforting for all concerned if Robin were buried closer to home. The funeral was a different matter entirely, the minister said. How utterly fitting that it be in Gilbert.

Mr. Berry drove Mr. Fife to Mary Hitchcock Hospital in Hanover the first day and drank tea in the cafeteria while he and his sons talked and cried. Jeff was recovering from surgery for a ruptured spleen and several broken ribs. Chip, with less trauma of the physical kind, came back with them, bruised, stitched, silent.

When the few woeful guests checked out, it was just the immediate families and I who had to get through the five days until the funeral. I woke up when it was still dark, made coffee and French toast dipped in eggnog, and kept it warm as the mourners drifted in and out of the kitchen in bathrobes and a state of near befuddlement. My parents called, asking if I wasn’t intruding on the families’ privacy and worrying that I was running up an enormous bill. I said, “I can’t be sure, and I don’t want to ask, but I’m sort of managing the place. I don’t think they’ll charge me.”

By Monday, according to my standards, supplies were running out. I approached Mr. Berry and offered to restock the pantry.

“Could you?” he said. Then vaguely, as if it were difficult to address anything material from before the accident, “Can you drive a manual transmission?”

I said I couldn’t, so sorry. But was there a market that delivered?

“Nelson will drive you,” he said rotely.

I said, “Do you mean Kris?”

“I meant Nelson,” said his father. “He needs to get out.”

I asked about a grocery list. “Use your discretion,” he said. “Nelson can sign for anything.”

I could barely engage Mr. Berry in the face of his helplessness, so I was relieved and surprised by Nelson’s near-normal demeanor when he appeared, jangling keys. Kris, swigging juice at the refrigerator, quipped, “Natalie, you know where we keep the herd, right?
Two gallons is probably enough—good strong yanks. The half-and-half comes from the black-and-white cows.” When Nelson laughed, I did too. Having not seen mourning at close range, I had assumed that in the raw days following a tragedy there were no breaks in the pain, no moments when an older brother might laugh at the goofy joke of a younger brother, or that anyone would dare provoke laughter at all.

On our ride to the supermarket, I told him how terribly sorry I was, and sad; how inadequate words of condolence must sound. Nelson said matter-of-factly, No, words of condolence helped, although he hadn’t heard from many friends.

I said, “It’s too soon. They probably think you don’t want to talk.”

“I don’t,” he said. “At least not every minute.”

“People don’t know what to say. That’s why they send flowers to the funeral and leave casseroles on the front porch. It’s their way of doing something and taking care of you.”

“Did someone leave a casserole?”

I said no, but it hadn’t been that long. And leaving a casserole at a hotel … well, people assume there’s a working kitchen.

“Speaking of that,” said Nelson, “has anyone thanked you for all your help? Because I don’t know what we would have done.” His voice caught, and I could see his hands tighten on the steering wheel. He forced a grim smile. “Well, I do know what we’d do: We’d be eating my mother’s cooking.”

I said, “She’s taking care of everything else. Much harder stuff.”

He said it had to be a sacrifice at this time of year, my being in a joyless house at Christmas instead of with my own family.

I said no, it was no sacrifice at all.

He turned on the radio, fiddled with dials, and snapped it off.

I said, “I stayed because I thought it would be good to have someone around who can … well, function. Don’t get me wrong, not that you can’t function, but someone who wasn’t … so close. Someone who can help.”

“But, still, this can’t be easy for you.”

I said, “When I’m working, I feel as if I’m helping. When I’m in my room, I feel strange about being here.”

“And lonely,” said Nelson, “with all of us disappearing into our own rooms.” After a pause, he said, his voice hoarse, “I’m dreading the funeral.”

I wanted to do better, but confessed only, “So am I.”

“The minister said it would help.”

I said I’d heard that.

“Even if it doesn’t, at least I’ll have it behind me.”

I asked him if he believed in life everlasting and all that.

“Do you?”

I lied. “Sure.”

He said, “I wish I did.”

I told him I didn’t either but had wanted to say the right thing. I said, “I think religion was invented to deal with death. It’s when it helps the most.” I checked his face in profile and saw tears rolling down his cheeks, which were scratched as if he had shaved blindly. When I didn’t look away he said, “I’m all right.”

A
s our fellow shoppers expressed their condolences, I listened to what people said so I could memorize graceful and helpful phrases. Women were better at it, or at least said more. Men had to mention the black ice. Everyone asked what they could do. One woman, after testifying that her heart was breaking for him and his family, confided that a lifetime ago her fiancé had broken off their engagement just before the wedding; and in some ways—

Nelson said tersely, pushing the cart forward, “I appreciate your sympathy.”

From the privacy of the next aisle, we made horrified faces: the absolute gall of that woman to compare … to bring up her own …

Quietly I said, “I’m sorry I dragged you here.”

Nelson acknowledged the sad nod of another shopper, then said, “I had to get out sooner or later.”

I went back to my list: eggs, milk, butter, bread, chicken, grapefruit, vegetables, real syrup. He glanced at it and said, “Looks so practical.”

I asked him what he’d do differently.

“Shrimp cocktail, ice cream sandwiches, Rocky Road, Mallomars, pizza, hearts of palm.”

“By all means,” I said.

“Seriously, you should get whatever strikes a chef’s fancy.” He smiled sadly. “Or anything poor Nelson wants.”

I asked what his family liked for dinner.

He stopped to ponder the hot fudge, butterscotch, and sprinkles section. “Probably the same thing your family likes for dinner.”

I didn’t think so, but I said okay. At the meat counter, I selected two loins of pork, four chickens, three pounds of bacon, two pounds of hamburger for lasagna. And there was Christmas to consider. I rang the bell at the meat counter, and a man in a bloodstained apron waved from behind the glass divider. When he came out, I asked him if there were any fresh turkeys to be had. He said Christmas orders were in already, sorry.

I whispered across the tubs of chicken livers, “I’m shopping for the Berry family. From the Inn?”

He winced and said he’d heard about the accident. What an awful tragedy.

I asked again, “Do you think you could find a fresh turkey somewhere for their Christmas dinner?”

He said, “They always have a ham on Christmas. I have a couple of beauties,” and motioned that I should follow him. I told Nelson I’d be right back; why didn’t he fill up the cart with everything he’d ever wanted. The butcher called to me from cold storage. “I have one I was saving for myself—it’s not from my usual provisioner but a smokehouse down by Manchester. It’s a beauty. No chemicals. Just under twenty pounds.”

I asked if he was sure, because I didn’t think the Berrys would know the difference.

“I insist. It’s the least I can do.”

I said, “I know they’ll be very grateful.”

He reappeared cradling an enormous haunch, which he slid onto a metal slab. After wrapping it in yards of butcher paper, he pushed a few buttons. The machine discharged a price sticker, which he slapped onto the bundle. He winked at me and said, “Almost twenty bucks; she won’t be
that
grateful.”

He hauled it to our cart in the cereal aisle, where I explained to Nelson that this was the butcher’s private family Christmas ham, which he selflessly insisted on us having—well, on us
acquiring
, instead of a frozen turkey.

“That’s very kind, Stan,” said Nelson, and, with more difficulty, “Christmas is Kris’s birthday.”

The butcher wiped his big hand on his apron, then squeezed Nelson’s shoulder, assuring him that ninety-nine cents a pound covered his costs and no more. Softly, he asked me, “You gonna put that pink glaze on it from a jar?”

I said, unsure of his leanings, “No.”

He smiled and said, “Atta girl.”

T
hat evening, for the first time since the accident, everyone came down to dinner. The big stone fireplace was ablaze, and I had arranged hurricane candles and pinecones into a low-key centerpiece. Mrs. Fife, the last to arrive, murmured almost inaudibly that she couldn’t possibly eat a bit of this lovely food … so sorry, after all the hard work Natalie had done. Her skin was gray and her eyes were so dull that I didn’t think she understood anything being said. Mr. Fife cut her food. She sat with her hands in her lap, clutching a Christmas handkerchief. Every few minutes her husband would pick up her fork and try to feed her a morsel, but she would shake her head. He’d whisper something to her, and she would open her mouth obediently and chew without expression. I said, from my seat next to him, “Is there anything I could make her that she really loves?”

He shook his head and patted my hand with a pained, grateful smile. “It wouldn’t matter,” he whispered.

I had cooked what my grandmothers would have produced on a cold, woeful winter’s night—
gedempte fleysh
and
lokshn-kugel
—or, as I billed it for the Fifes and Berrys, pot roast and noodle pudding. For dessert I made trifle, guiltily, disguising a layer of wedding cake that had been stored unfrosted and labeled in the walk-in freezer.

With everyone at one table, it was clear to me that the Berrys had bitten off more than they now wanted to chew. The Fifes were suffering the loss of their dearest, only daughter, while the Berrys, next door in their white house, were going through something several degrees less profound. Conversation was hopeless with the funeral and a ragged Christmas still ahead. Every topic except the food on the table brought tears to someone’s eyes. The weather and the forecasts raised the specter of bad roads; the subject of home reminded everyone of what had to yet be endured before leaving and what heartbreaking memories would ambush the Fifes in Farmington. Between courses, Kris prompted me to tell my Ten Tables/Monsieur P. story, which, after it was sanitized, had no point except my joblessness.

To Gretel’s credit, she found the most self-centered and therefore neutral subjects to chat about: her term paper on whether
The Magic Flute
the movie did justice to the opera; her friend Suzanne’s new black Lab puppy; what did Mr. Fife think Middlebury should sing in the New England Barbershop and Sweet Adelines Invitational?

It was also apparent to me that Gretel was making a play for poor, bruised, dazed Chip. She maneuvered next to him at meals with the technique of a musical-chairs champion; she kept his milk glass refilled, reminding him of the healing properties of vitamin D. I wondered if I was the only one who noticed, until I saw Kris watching a particularly fawning waitress act, and we exchanged split-second smiles.

Away from the table, Gretel was unfriendly. I tried to enlist her
for kitchen chores, thinking she’d welcome the occupational therapy. Kris and Nelson appeared regularly to chop and peel, but Gretel, I soon realized, regarded me as hired help. “Go put your feet up, Natalie,” the boys would order after dinner. “We’ll stack the dishwasher.” I knew they viewed the kitchen as a free zone where they could be less lugubrious for an hour between sad conversations. They wouldn’t let me wash dishes, but they wouldn’t let me leave, either; they liked me to sit at the long, chipped enamel kitchen table and recount temperamental-chef stories in a bad French accent.

Ingrid would march in and out to supervise. When I stood up, one of the boys would tell me to sit down. Kris would ask Ingrid, “Do you think your daughter could lower herself to pick up a dish towel?” to which their mother would reply that Gretel was helping in other ways, tilting her head toward the stairs: the packing up of wedding gifts; the Fifes.