The View from Mount Joy (25 page)

“It’s not a magic pill,” said Mrs. Rog, who at eighty-seven still drove to the store every Monday afternoon for her weekly shopping. “But they do say that chocolate releases some kind of feel-good hormone in the body, and if anyone deserves to feel good, it’s you and Flora.”

There used to be a “cry room” in movie theaters—a small room off the balcony where mothers could take their babies or small children and watch the movie behind a glass window. Sometimes it seemed to me my office had become my cry room.

The phone rang, but I left it to someone in the back room to answer and was going to ignore the red blinking light that signaled the call was for me.

Reluctantly, heavily, I leaned forward and picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Joe, it’s a girl!”

“Kirk?”

“We finally got our baby! Eight pounds, six ounces. Twenty-one inches, in case you’re one for stats.”

My mood climbed out of the basement as I fully comprehended what he was telling me.

“A girl! That’s great! How’s Nance? What’s she look like? How’re you? What’d you name her?”

Kirk filled me in with all the details. Nance was fine; it was hard to tell who the baby looked like—“their faces are kinda squished up, you know” he was fine; they’d named her Coral—“you know, because we both think the reefs are about the most beautiful things we’ve ever seen.”

The happy news buoyed our conversation for a good long while, until Kirk apologized.

“Nance feels so bad she wasn’t at the funeral, Joe—but who’d have thought Coral would come three weeks late? Anyway, she just wanted me to let you know Coral’s middle name.”

Sometimes it hurt to hear Darva’s name, and I tensed, preparing myself for him to say it.

“It’s Rapturia—after that painting she gave us for our wedding. We thought it might be nice to name a work of our art after Darva’s.” Kirk laughed. “Shit, that sounds pretentious, doesn’t it? What I mean is, we thought it was a nice way to honor Darva…and also because it sounded a lot better than Coral Darva.”

His laugh was still self-conscious but eased up when I joined in.

“I think it’s an all-around excellent choice,” I said. “Darva would be thrilled—I just hope Coral is when the kids at school learn what her middle name is.”

“Are you kidding me? Have you heard the names parents are giving their kids these days? Rapturia’s like Mary or Ann compared to them.”

He filled me in on the birth (“Man, I’ve seen dophins and manatees get born, but this was something else”), on Nance (“At one point she told me to eat shit,” he said happily. “I guess it’s common at a certain point in labor to attack the father”), and his mother’s reaction (“I can’t remember when I’ve seen her so happy”).

“Sorry,” he said finally. “I guess I’m being an ass going on and on about all these great things in my life.”

“Believe me, I could use some good news for a change.”

There was a short pause. “It still doesn’t seem real.”

“What?” I asked. “Having the baby?”

“No…Darva.”

My sigh could have blown out an octogenarian’s birthday cake.

“It’s just in the last couple days that I don’t expect her to come through the door,” I said. “Listen, Kirk, I should get back to work. Give Nance a big kiss for me, and Coral too. I’m really happy for you.”

“Thanks, Joe. I know you are.”

After I hung up the receiver, I picked it up again and did something I had done dozens of times since Darva died: I called my mom. She, more than anyone, understood the mind-bending, soul-numbing state I was in.

I told her Kirk’s good news, and while she was happy to hear it, she knew I had something else on my mind. That’s why it was so easy to call her; she could read my moods like a seer.

“So what is it today?” she asked, her voice gentle in the way only a concerned mother’s can be.

“I can’t stop thinking,” I began, “how none of us is safe from anything.
I
could be hit by a guy on his way to sign divorce papers,
you
could be hit by a guy on his way to sign divorce papers,
Flora
could be hit by a guy on his way to sign divorce papers.”

“But it was Darva,” my mother said softly. “It was Darva who got hit by a guy on his way to sign divorce papers. Just like it was your dad who went up in that airplane that crashed.”

“So what’s your point exactly?” I said, bothered that she had failed to console me, the thing I’d counted on her to do.

“My point is that a guy who had an appointment with a divorce attorney ran a red light and hit Darva’s car. That’s what happened to
her.
It doesn’t mean it’s going to happen to any of us.”

“I’m just so…afraid,” I whispered, even though I was all alone in my office. “Afraid that anytime, anywhere, something terrible can happen.”

“It can,” said my mother, a response that made me hold the receiver out and look at it, as if I could see the flip and thoughtless person who’d intercepted my call from my mother. “But odds aren’t it won’t.”

“Odds didn’t work for Darva.”

“No, they didn’t, Joe.”

“I feel…I feel like I blew it. I loved her so much, Mom—she was my best friend. I should have protected her more. I should have driven her to work that day.”

“Joe, you know how I beat myself up when your dad died. Why did I let him go up in that plane with Miles? Why didn’t I make him stay home and go drapery shopping with me? Why didn’t I, why didn’t I, why didn’t I? As many times as you ask those questions, you’re never going to get an answer.”

“Life stinks.”

“You’re right, Joe. Sometimes it does.” After a moment she said, her voice a tone brighter, “Are you and Flora coming tonight?”

“It’s Tuesday, isn’t it?”

“Good. Can you bring a pint of cream?”

“Yes, Mother,”
I said, like the good mama’s boy I was.

Twenty

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The scandals of televangelists in the late 1980s didn’t touch Kristi; in fact, her appearance on the newly revamped
Hour of Christian Love
was said to have helped herald the new age of
HCL,
as it was called by its legions of followers.

I watched her, enthralled as an entomologist looking inside the hive at the queen bee.

“
Elle est belle,
” said Flora as Kristi strode out onto the sparkly set, wearing a long flowing gown and carrying, like a pageant winner, an armful of roses.

“She
is
pretty,” I conceded.

“For you,” said Kristi, and the new host (whose hair was so perfect it looked like he wore a toupee of plastic) who had replaced the ousted and jailed one held out his arms.

“Not
you,
” said Kristi with a laugh, “For your better half.”

The host’s wife, whose hair had its own teased and lacquered magnificence, accepted the flowers, drawling, “Bless your heart, Krissie.”

I was probably the only viewer who saw Kristi’s radar go up, saw that glint in her eye that said,
Well, let the games begin.

“Did I just lose my
t
?” she asked comically, then lifted up several cushions of the guest’s couch, finally waving at the camera to let everyone know, “I’m just joshin’.”

The studio audience laughed and their applause turned into a chant: “Kristi. Kristi. Kristi.”

“I believe those are your fans, the Kristi Corps, speaking,” said the host, Johnny “How could you not be a man of God with a last name like mine?” Priestly.

“Yup, they’ll correct your pronunciation every time!”

Jean Ann Priestly held up her hand. Looking at her lethal red fingernails, I thought,
I wonder if Johnny lets her pick the pimples on his back with those things.

“As God is my witness, Kristi, I’ll never forget one of your consonants again!”

This got a big laugh and more applause, so I turned to Flora to get a normal person’s reaction. She looked less amused than puzzled.

“So if Maman and you went to school with her,” she said, “how come she looks so young?”

I couldn’t be offended, it was true; at thirty-seven, Kristi still had that smooth-faced, bright-eyed what’s-next look of youth, whereas I, well, at least I had all my hair.

“And Uncle Kirk says she’s mean, too,” said Flora. “She doesn’t look mean at all.”

“You don’t have to look mean to be mean,” I said. “Remember Breanna what’s-her-name?”

“Breanna
Brell,
” said Flora disdainfully, referring to the cherub-faced girl who’d formed the Fourth-Grade Five, a club that liked to remind everyone who hadn’t been invited to join—especially Flora—of its exclusiveness. I had been thrilled when Breanna’s mother told me at a PTA meeting that her husband had been transferred and the whole family would be moving to Denver during the Thanksgiving holiday.

“Now isn’t it true that the Kristi Corps will clap back a beat that you play on the drum?”

“That’s right,” said Kristi, and the fabric of her white gown pleated as she crossed her legs. “We all like causin’ a ruckus for God!”

“Why didn’t you bring your drum tonight?” asked Jean Ann, whose accent Kristi had subtly been mocking.

“Well, I would have brought it out, but I didn’t want to crush your flowers! I do happen to have one right here, though.”

To the audience’s delight, Kristi bent over the back of the couch, giving us a view of her backside, chastely draped in white.

When she revealed the snare drum and sticks, the crowd went wild. Sitting back down, she smiled at the
HCL
hosts and said, “I think of drumming as my external heartbeat. My external heart that beats for God.”

Oh, brother,
I thought.

She played a simple rhythm, and the audience clapped back.

“
Our
external hearts that beat for God,” she amended.

“Can I quit the clarinet?” asked Flora.

“Hmmm?” I said, taken with the frenzied interplay between Kristi and the audience.

“I think I’d rather play the flute. Mr. Benson says it’s okay with him, because we have way too many clarinet players already.”

“Sure,” I said. “I like the flute. But what made you want to switch? Last year you were all excited.”

“Mr. Benson played a record in band yesterday. It was this guy, Jean-Pierre Rampal is his name, and I don’t know”—her voice grew soft—“maybe because he was French and his music was so pretty…it reminded me of Maman. And Mom. That’s why.”

“Good reason,” I said, squeezing my daughter’s shoulder, and just as Kristi was telling a story that had Johnny Priestly genuinely laughing and had Jean Ann Priestly looking defensive, my wife walked in.

You heard it right:
my daughter, my wife.
Or should I say, my
pregnant
wife. Nearly three years after Darva’s death threw me in life’s ditch, I had not only climbed out, but I was practically on top of the mountain. Do not think, however, that I took my placement there for granted; I knew at any moment I could go tumbling back down into the abyss. But not wanting to sour the sweetness of my life, I was trying, as a book Beth had given me suggested, to “be here now.”

My wife, of course, was thrilled that Flora wanted to play the flute, seeing as that was the instrument she played.

“I’d love to give you lessons,” she said as she maneuvered herself and her big belly onto the couch, “but I’ll understand if you’d rather take from someone else.”

“Toi,”
said Flora.
“Je veux que tu me l’enseignes.”

“Merci,”
said Jenny, patting the hand Flora had slipped through her arm.
“Nous bons passerons des moments.”

But she was wrong—we were
already
having a good time.

Fifteen months after Darva’s death (I had kept track of the weeks since Darva died, but somewhere around thirty, I switched to months) I was in my office, looking over my order from a vendor who specialized in foreign chocolates and cookies. Thanks to Beth, who’d been ahead of the curve as far as her international pantry went, I had a very popular section (half an aisle and a refrigerator case) stocked with foods from all over the world. The previous week there’d been a run on Swiss chocolate, and I was trying to figure out if it represented a trend or some school or language club had bought them for prizes. Thinking I’d ask Eileen if she’d had any single purchaser of a large amount of Lindt and Toblerone bars, I got up and went to look out the window to see if she was busy. She wasn’t at her register, and, figuring she was probably taking her break, I was ready to go back to my order when I saw Jenny Baldacci in aisle 7. My heart quickened as if my desk was fifty yards from the window and I had sprinted the whole way. I switched on the mike, my mind racing as much as my heart.

“Welcome, shoppers,” I said, and there was an immediate buzz on the floor.

After Darva’s death, there hadn’t been any contest giveaways until my customers, after waiting what they thought was a respectful time, politely enquired as to the possibility of their return. Still not having the heart for it, I had turned the job over to Stan, who might have had the heart but not the talent; he was not one to improvise, and he got nervous behind the mike, sometimes blurting out contests inspired by whatever his eyes landed on in the store. Once he announced that if anyone had feminine hygiene products in their cart, they’d win half a case of beans (we were having a hard time moving a new generic brand). Despite the presence of at least twenty female shoppers, no one fessed up.

“A special contest today for anyone shopping on this beautiful morning in November. Anyone who can sing the song ‘Alfie’ will win”—I thought quickly what Jenny might like—“an arrangement of her choice from our new floral stand. Meet me at Banana Square.”

“All right,” said Eileen, as I cut through the break room. She was reading
Woman’s Day
and eating a little packet of crackers. “It’s about time.”

The store hadn’t been very busy, and there were only seven people standing by the six-foot banana. I was pierced with a flare of disappointment when I didn’t see Jenny—had she left?

“Hi, Joe,” said a voice, and my heart, which had just returned to its normal pace, stepped on the gas.

I turned around and pretended to be surprised.

“Jenny Baldacci!” I said. “Did you come back to Minneapolis to bake another lemon meringue pie?”

I took a mental picture of the smile she offered.

“Wow, you’ve got a good memory. Actually I’m just picking up a few things for my mom.”

“Hey,” said Swanny Swanson, a big barrel-chested guy whose grocery basket contained a couple of bottles of Geritol and a head of iceberg lettuce. “Let’s get this show on the road. I know all the words to ‘Alfie.’”

“All right,” I said to the small gathering. “Who else?” I raised an eyebrow at Jenny.

“Don’t look at me,” she said.

“But you played it in the junior high concert!”

“It was an instrumental, Joe,” she said. “I didn’t learn the words.”

“Okay,” I said, turning toward the others. I was disappointed I wouldn’t be giving Jenny a bouquet of flowers. “Just Swanny?”

No one else took the bait, and so the old Ford plant foreman began to sing “Alfie,” his hands splayed out at his sides. It wasn’t Dionne Warwick, but it wasn’t bad.

“All right,” I said after he accepted his applause. “Get yourself over to the Floral Cart, Swanny, and pick out your flowers.”

“You said the winner would pick out an arrangement of
her
choice,” he said with a hard little chuckle. “Didn’t think a guy would win, huh?”

“Guess not,” I admitted. He and the other shoppers dispersed, and I was more relieved than I could say to see them go.

I put my hands in the pockets of my apron so I wouldn’t be tempted to put them around her.

“So,” I said, suddenly shy. “Jenny Baldacci.”

“You seem to like to say my name,” she noted.

A schoolboy blush stained my thirty-five-year-old face.

“It’s a pretty name. I’m glad you didn’t take your husband’s.” Saying the words
your husband,
I felt some of my buoyancy deflate, and I smiled extra hard, trying to raise it again.

“I…I’m not married anymore.”

If the buoyancy I thought was waning had ballooned any more, I would have been floating around the ceiling light fixtures.

“You’re not…married anymore?”

The lovely Jenny Baldacci shook her head. “He decided he needed his ‘freedom.’”

“What is he,
nuts
?”

She smiled at the fervor of my question, but the happiness on her face muted quickly.

“No…just not in love anymore.”

“Then
for sure
he’s nuts.” I picked an apple off the display cart, and after polishing it on my shirt, I gave it to her. “We just got these in from Washington. They’re an especially good crop.”

“Thanks,” she said, and bit right into it. As she chewed, she nodded, and after she swallowed (me watching her throat move, entranced), she asked, “How’d you know apples are my favorite fruit?”

I felt like I’d broken the plate with the first ball at a state fair game booth.

“Because I’m an intuitive sumbitch,” I said, and she laughed. “Also sensitive like you wouldn’t believe. So how long are you here for? When can I take you out for dinner?”

“I’m here—” The merriment in her eyes pooled into seriousness. “I’m here to stay. At least for a while. I just moved back. I’m at my parents’ house now, but I’ll be moving into my sister’s apartment when my stuff gets here.”

“That answers one question,” I said.

“Hey, Joe,” said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, adjusting a hair curler above her ear. “How come those mixed vegetables you’ve got on sale aren’t in aisle seven?”

“They’re not canned,” I said. “They’re frozen.”

“That would explain why I couldn’t find them,” muttered Mrs. Kirkpatrick, turning back to her cart.

“The other question—”

“About dinner?” asked Jenny. “I’d love to.”

“Good. How about tomorrow night?”

“Is this a consolation prize for not knowing the words to ‘Alfie’?”

“No, it’s the grand prize for looking the prettiest while eating an apple.”