Lost Souls at the Neptune Inn, page 20
“That stuff smells like melting tires,” said Geraldine.
“It’s the Gruyère,” said Alberto. “When I add the kirsch, you’ll sing a different tune.”
“Yeah, well, right now I’m singing ‘Ring of Fire.’”
The two of them went on: She complaining about the smell; he rhapsodizing about the ingredients. Alice and Dillard exchanged glances as if to say, “Here they go again.” Dillard whispered, “Meet me in the music room. I have something for you.”
As soon as she finished pouring the fondue and lighting the Sterno, Alice ran downstairs. Moments later, Dillard followed.
“Have a seat and close your eyes,” he said.
She closed her eyes.
“Here.” He shoved something into her hands. It was heavy and square, obviously a bunch of records.
“Okay, you can open them.”
Alice started to rip open the package, but Dillard told her to read the note first.
For Alice, who’s got Fascinatin’ Rhythm and so much more. Of Thee I Sing. Have fun at the Conservatory, but Oh Lady, Be Good.
Love, Dillard
Of course, it was the five-record set Ella Fitzgerald Sings the George and Ira Gershwin Song Book.
She unwrapped the records and rested her head on his shoulder. “I thought you—”
“Forget it,” he interrupted. “My anger had more to do with me than you.”
“Why were you so angry?” she asked.
“Memories, I guess. I don’t like it when they sneak up on me like that.”
“I know what you mean. Every time I hear ‘Someone to Watch over Me,’ I think of my grandpa. It’s the first song I ever learned with him.”
He shook his head. “Sappy song, that one.”
Dillard was weird sometimes. There were thin lines between songs he found mushy and songs he liked. Yet she was relieved that he still cared enough to make her a card and give her such a lovely present. They were friends again, thank heavens, but since that whole business with the photograph and the Swan, she felt as if she was guarding secrets, ones he didn’t even know she owned. She remembered back to when she’d gone with that awful fellow to the High Life bar and lied about having left her purse at a party. Though she never told Dillard the truth, when he found out she’d left her purse at the bar, he didn’t ask her to explain. “Doesn’t matter,” he’d said. “We all have secrets. Yours are safe with me.” Now his were safe with her.
A week after Emilia Mae and Dillard drove Alice to Boston, Reverend Klepper called Emilia Mae. “I have some sad news. It won’t surprise you, but it will pain you. Xena died in her sleep last night. I’m told by one of the women who lived with her that she died peacefully.”
When Emilia Mae didn’t respond, Reverend Klepper continued. “You know how fond she was of you.”
“Xena was my first real friend.”
“Indeed, she had the gift of friendship.”
Emilia Mae didn’t reply. She was suddenly visited by her younger self, the scared pregnant girl whose family had rejected her. God, she had come so far from that. She wondered what that girl would think if she could see her now: a wife; a mother; a daughter, having made more or less peace with her own mother. She had a family, people who loved her, people who decorated her home with crepe paper and flowers and made stupid canapés in her kitchen. She had a husband who made her linguine and clams every week and bought her presents even when it wasn’t her birthday.
“Emilia Mae, are you still there?”
“I’m sorry.” She’d been crying and tried to make her voice sound normal. “She was very important to me.”
“To so many,” said Reverend Klepper. “Ninety-six years old and never lost her faith. All in all, she had a good life.”
Emilia Mae was quiet.
“Emilia Mae, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“I know this must be hard for you. But remember, she loved you, and that will always be a blessing. The viewing is on Thursday, and I’m conducting the funeral on Friday. Call me if you want to talk.”
Emilia Mae wondered about the custom of having an open casket at the church the day before the funeral. Why look at the dead? Why not remember them as alive? She considered not going to Xena’s viewing. Then she thought, If the tables were turned and I died first, Xena would definitely come to my viewing. But I didn’t die, and she’ll never know if I don’t come. She argued back and forth with herself until she finally decided that not going would be disrespectful, which was the last thing she wanted to be.
She took Thursday morning off from work and put on the only black sheath she owned. She wore no makeup and walked over to the Baptist church. In all the years she’d known Xena, she’d met some of her church friends, but she had no idea there were so many. She waited in line and watched as people bent over the casket and whispered things to her. Some even kissed her. Emilia Mae was definitely not going to do that. Even touching her was out of the question. Who talks to the dead? Especially the deaf dead? Not her. Nope, she’d move along as quickly as she could.
When her turn came, she approached the casket slowly. Xena was laid out exactly as Emilia Mae had pictured her. She wore the same black dress with the palm fronds on it that she had worn to Emilia’s wedding. She even wore the same black velvet pillbox hat she’d worn that day. Her hands lay across her stomach and her face was as sweet and relaxed as it had been at Alice’s party. But that scarf? Around her neck was a Gucci scarf with swirling purple, pink and yellow flowers. Clearly, she was proud of that scarf and its obvious hefty price tag.
The scarf touched something in Emilia Mae. For all the years she’d known Xena, she never saw the side of her that valued designer scarves. Such a humble woman with such expensive taste. It made her want to hug Xena. More than that, it made her want to laugh. You pulled one over on all of us, she thought. Without thinking, she bent down, kissed Xena’s cheek, and whispered, “I love the scarf.”
She walked back to the bakery thinking about her friend. Though she didn’t see her often, Xena had been a cornerstone in her life. Xena was family, and when it came down to it, family was all she had. It gave her comfort to think about growing old with Dillard; his steadfastness and kindness would always right her when she felt unmoored. During the funeral, Emilia Mae leaned in close to him. Dillard was a kind man. Although he didn’t know Xena well, he’d volunteered to come with her. This was right. This was where she belonged.
After the funeral, she said she’d do some grocery shopping; he said he’d take a walk and meet her at home. She bought lamb chops, string beans, baking potatoes, and a bottle of Bordeaux. It was his favorite dinner and one of the few things she made well. Tonight, they’d celebrate their future.
At home, she changed into a pair of bell bottoms and an off-the-shoulder shirt that she thought particularly sexy. A little mascara, and some Orange Kiss lipstick. Not too much—Dillard hated too much makeup. She turned on one of Alice’s Bob Dylan records and sang along to “Like a Rolling Stone” as she prepared dinner.
It was nearly seven when Dillard walked in. The table was set with the Georg Jensen candlestick holders they’d gotten as a wedding present five years earlier.
“Smells good in here,” he said.
“I hope it tastes as good as it smells.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“Do we need an occasion?”
“Guess not,” he said, glancing at her. “Why’re you so dressed up?”
“Do I need a reason to cook my husband’s favorite dinner and dress up for him?”
“No. You look pretty.”
Dillard hung his hat in the hall closet and took his seat at the table.
She put on the same Bob Dylan record she’d listened to earlier and poured them wine. “Alice is crazy about this singer. What do you think of him?”
“I think he’s whiney and pretentious.”
“I don’t. I think some of his lyrics are pure poetry.”
“Each to his own, I guess.” He stared into space.
Damn, he could be so aloof. How could anybody not be moved by Bob Dylan? She stared at him and thought he looked different tonight. His jaw was set; his lips were thin and taut. She tried to bring the conversation back.
“We got a letter from Alice today. She loves her new roommate.”
“That’s nice, and I’ll bet her new roommate loves her. Who doesn’t?”
“Sometimes you have a way of taking a conversation and slamming it into a wall,” she said with irritation. “This is one of those times.”
“I’m sorry,” he said as if he really wasn’t.
She’d hoped for an intimate night, maybe even sex. But who was she kidding? Dillard was Dillard. A solid block of a man unto himself. For all these years Alice had made Dillard possible. Dillard, by himself, made Emilia Mae lonely.
They finished the bottle of Bordeaux in silence.
Chapter 27
Though she’d put on a good face in her letters home, Alice hadn’t been at all sure she’d wanted to leave home for the conservatory. New place. New people. New everything.
She choked the first time she inhaled a joint, but then her roommate, Carolyn, told her to not swallow but to keep the smoke in her cheeks until she got used to the taste. She didn’t do much better when she tried to get drunk. Listerine spurted through her nose after she took a swig from the bottle. Carolyn laughed. “Don’t gulp it, silly. Let it dribble down your throat.” When the Listerine didn’t get them high, Carolyn decided to go for something stronger. Her brother suggested Tab and Four Roses, and that did the trick. At night, the girls would each pour themselves a glass, buy a package of peanut butter crackers from the vending machine down the hall, eat the crackers, drink, sit on Carolyn’s bed (she had the bottom bunk), and listen to Simon and Garfunkel sing “The Sounds of Silence.”
No one listened. No one cared. Silence like a cancer grew.
The song was deep. Very deep. And that first semester at the New England Conservatory of Music, so were Alice and her roommate, Carolyn Whitman. Or so they imagined.
Carolyn Whitman wasn’t the kind of girl people would call pretty. Tall and slim, she wore her straight dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and hardly wore any makeup. She had a long, straight nose, an elongated head, and brown eyes that looked to Alice like refinished mahogany. She seemed not to care about what she wore and was always “throwing on” this or that, but in her black turtlenecks and Frye cowboy boots, Alice thought she looked like a character out of a movie with subtitles. Although Carolyn eschewed the bright colors of the day, she soaked herself in patchouli every morning. The only jewelry she wore was a pair of large hoop pierced earrings and a stainless steel men’s Rolex watch.
Late at night, Alice and Carolyn lay in their beds and exchanged stories. Carolyn came from a wealthy Catholic family in Maine, whose only purpose they seemed to serve in her life was as a dumping ground for her contempt. “Mother still wears those virginal round-collar blouses from the fifties,” she said during one of their sessions. “She’s dreadfully prudish. You wouldn’t believe how concerned she is about my virginity. Before I came here, she kept telling me that ‘men don’t like to drive used cars.’ I finally said, ‘Mother, I don’t even have a car.’ She blushed like a prom girl and said, ‘I’m not actually talking about cars, if you catch my drift.’ I caught her drift, and I’ll guarantee you that by the time I go home for Thanksgiving, I’ll have driven this friggin’ car so far and fast, it’ll be ready for a tune-up. If you catch my drift.”
In return, Alice offered up stories about Geraldine and Alberto. “They’re always touching each other and saying things that have double meanings. Honestly, they’re like teenagers that way.”
“Do you think they do it a lot?” asked Carolyn.
Alice had never thought about that, but threw out a casual “Oh yeah, I think they do it like friggin’ bunnies.”
“Cool,” said Carolyn. “How about your mom and your cute stepdad? You think they do it like bunnies, too?”
Alice thought about the Swan and what that might mean about Dillard. Determined to preserve his secret, she snapped back: “Oh yeah, I’m sure they do it all the time.”
Carolyn was at the conservatory to study the cello. Her teachers had always told her what a gifted musician she was. “Everyone assumes I’ll be a professional cellist when I grow up,” she told Alice. “But I hate to think life is preordained. Suppose it turns out that I’m equally gifted as an engineer or a psychiatrist? I don’t think at this age we should have to commit to who we’ll be when we’re fifty. Mother married Father when she was twenty-one and he was twenty-five. Twenty-three years later, she’s still mixing him two Manhattans every night and preparing his dinner. That’s my idea of hell. I don’t know how she bears it. I think her dependency on him has infantilized her. She wears those horrible granny nightgowns with little rose patterns. Pretty sexy, huh? Honestly, I don’t think they’ve had sex since they conceived my younger brother. Me? I’m not going to marry until I’m at least thirty, or even older. I’d like to see the world, grab some life before I get tied down. How about you?”
The two of them were sitting on Carolyn’s bed. Alice was wearing one of those Lanz granny gowns (hers had a moon and stars pattern) that Carolyn had just disparaged. “Um, I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about marriage. I know I’d like to be a music teacher. I haven’t been anywhere. I mean anywhere except New York City with Dillard. So yeah, I guess I’d like to see some of the world, too.”
Carolyn took hold of Alice’s hand. “I’m not one of those psychics, but I’ve heard you sing, and I’m guessing that voice of yours could take you anywhere you want to go. You could be a professional if you wanted.”
“You really think so?” Alice squealed.
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”
“Gee, thanks.” Alice threw her arms around Carolyn’s neck and went to kiss her on the cheek, but Carolyn turned her head and placed her lips directly on Alice’s. They sat for a few moments, lips to lips, until Carolyn slipped her tongue into Alice’s mouth. Her tongue was salty and thin. Carolyn wrapped Alice in her arms and was rubbing her back. It felt good, too good to stop. Alice could feel Carolyn’s breasts against hers and taste the patchouli on her neck. She was aroused by Carolyn’s attention, but confounded by the thought that if she let this happen, what would that make her? She’d never thought of herself as a lesbian. She’d always liked boys and assumed she would marry one someday. So many things in her life seemed skewed right now, she couldn’t allow this to be one of them. Gently, she wriggled out of Carolyn’s arms. “I’m sorry, I’m not ready for this,” she said in a croaky voice. “You know I love you, but maybe not this way.”
Carolyn unembraced her. “That’s cool,” she said. “I love you, too. Let me know if you change your mind.”
Three months with Carolyn had an impact on Alice. Back in New Rochelle, she decided that her mother wore too much makeup and looked gauche. Worse, she had a false gaiety about her like a sad person trying to pass for a happy one. Her mother had definitely not grabbed life. Alice also saw that something was eating at Dillard. His face was as haggard as when he first showed up at Shore Cakes.
At least Grandma and Alberto were unchanged. He still did her hair every couple of weeks, something that Alice found infantilizing, while she had embraced the miniskirt. Her legs weren’t bad for a woman her age (Carolyn said the legs were the last to go).
She found their house in New Rochelle to be déclassé.
These were the things Alice couldn’t wait to tell Carolyn.
She would not tell Carolyn about what happened when she tried to sing with Dillard on her second day home.
“I have a new favorite song,” she’d told him. “‘Paint It Black,’ by the Rolling Stones.”
“That’s bullshit,” he’d said. “They’re all about preening and yelling. You’re better than that.”
She’d wanted to tell him that she wasn’t better than that, that the new stuff excited her, took her voice to different places, but she’d been afraid of making him more upset than he already seemed to be, so she’d agreed to sing some of his favorites. The songs seemed stale. Dillard seemed old. She’d wished she were back in Boston.
Thanksgiving was at Geraldine’s house this year, with the usual crowd: the Kleppers, Dillard and Emilia Mae, and, of course, Alberto. Alice set the table and arranged it so that she was sitting next to Cora. Every year, they’d had the same traditional meal. But this year, Alberto (along with Julia Child) decided to put a French spin on the menu. Instead of turkey, he made a roasted leg of lamb with different herbs and garlic, pork and herb stuffing, green beans, an eggplant casserole, and Brussels sprouts. He had also baked an apple tart for dessert, but thank God for the Kleppers, who’d brought with them a good old American pumpkin pie.
Gigot de pre-sale roti. Farce de porc. Haricots verts. Ratatouille. Choux de Bruxelles. Tarte aux pommes. Pumpkin pie.
Alice tried to memorize all the French names of the food they’d eaten so she could tell Carolyn. When it came time to clear the table, Alice jumped up and gave Cora an imploring look. “Everybody sit. Cora and I will take care of it.”
They stacked the plates and gathered the silverware. Once they were both in the kitchen, and the dishes were in the sink, Alice closed the door. “Finally,” she said. “I’ve got you alone. Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course, ask away.”
“You see my mother and Dillard at least once a week, right?”
“Yup, I do.”
“Have you noticed anything different about them?”
“Different in what way?”
“I don’t know, just different.”
Alice didn’t mention what she knew about the Swan.
