Blue Plate Special, page 7
I rationalize that it’s a test: if it’s important information, she’ll tell me and I can trust her about the house. I further justify my actions by imagining that the very same letter is probably waiting for me in L.A. since I know Mr. Jeffries is very efficient and thorough. Because I have never even contemplated reading someone else’s mail until now, I do so with the care and precision of a CIA agent. I pull my shirtsleeves over my hands to keep from making a smudge or print. I note the angle at which the letter was left in the envelope. Just for good measure, I run to the window to make sure Constance’s car is nowhere in sight. Then I pull it out and read.
The letter says that Mr. Jeffries will not be able to meet with us on Monday due to a court obligation and that the settling of the estate, i.e. the attendant paperwork and appraisals, has taken longer than he anticipated. Also, he has discovered additional assets in the form of stock owned jointly by my father and stepmother. The stock will be split evenly between the heirs, but both Constance and I must sign an enclosed form to verify ownership. He asks Constance to obtain my signature and proposes a date this summer when we can sign all the remaining documents.
Of course she’ll tell me that the meeting is off, but will she tell about the rest of the letter? I place the letter back in the envelope, still knowing it wasn’t right but not entirely sure that it wasn’t necessary.
A minute later I hear the car pull into the garage. I pick up the rag and am swiping the counter with innocent abandon when Constance opens the door and calls, “Woo-hoo!”
“Hi, Constance.”
“Oh, Julia! I am so glad you’re back!”
I go to the door and relieve her of a grocery bag full of 7Up and Hawaiian Punch.
“I realized at the last minute that we had forgotten the drinks!” she says as she hobbles into the kitchen and dumps the other bag on the counter. “I have another case of pop in the car.”
“I’ll get it.”
“Oh no! We’ll let big strong Ed get that when he comes home from work. Well, how was the cemetery?”
“Oh, fine.”
“Did you find the graves?”
“Yes. And I stuck the markers and flags to the right of the headstones.”
“Wonderful. Pretty impressive, don’t you think?”
“They are. I think stone carving has really become a lost art.”
“I mean about the people. It’s impressive that the Davises have been on this land for so long, isn’t it?” Constance says.
“Oh yes. That’s impressive, too.”
We hang suspended in another awkward moment.
“I thought maybe we could fix a few platters today,” she says as she heads toward the cupboard in the hall where she keeps the trays. “Just so we don’t get backed up tomorrow. Maybe the meat and cheese trays. I thought you could help if you don’t mind me bossing you around a little.”
How on earth do I respond to such a statement? Oh, please, do boss me around. I’m so lost without the lash of your whip. I remain silent, looking at the pile of mail with the hope that she’ll follow my gaze and remember. It doesn’t work.
“Okay! Why don’t you start by leafing through the lettuce bin—no pun intended! I know I put some mint in there yesterday.”
I rummage through at least ten firmly knotted plastic bags before discovering that there is no mint in the lettuce bin. Constance pokes her head in the fridge and says, “That’s odd. I could have sworn … oh, here it is! It’s on the condiment shelf.”
Constance gets out the platter of lamb, roast beef, and ham. In my infinite wisdom, I lay the mint under and along the edges of the lamb, so that the herbs can flavor it, and put some fresh rosemary outlining the beef and ham just to balance things out. For a garnish, I cut carrots into curls and make roses out of radishes.
“That looks beautiful!” she says. “You really are good at this.”
“Thanks. Of course, being good at arranging meat and cutting vegetables is a dubious distinction for a fine arts major.”
“Well, it is!” Constance says genuinely, proving that either she wasn’t listening or the word “dubious” isn’t often used in bodice-ripping romance novels or unauthorized biographies of movie stars. I don’t know how long I can sustain the chatter and contemplate saying something like, “Boy, I’d rather be manicuring vegetables than signing legal documents.”
“I can’t believe everybody’s going to be here tomorrow,” she says. “It’ll be a busy day, but I think we’re ready. And then on Monday we have … oh, my goodness. I didn’t tell you yet.”
At last! She tells me everything, showing me the letter. I pretend to listen and read, but can only think of how relieved and grateful I am that Constance passed the test—although I feel somewhat ashamed that I doubted her. I make a silent vow never to be dishonest with her or anyone again. She may have differences with Trudy and me, but at least she can respect the wishes of the dead.
“I am so sorry because I know it’s an inconvenience for you to come all the way back down here,” she says.
“It’s okay. Maybe Mr. Jeffries and I can work out some arrangement so that we can do everything by mail. I don’t know. We’ll work it out.”
“Absolutely. And you know, it’s better this way because everything, except for these papers, will be signed all at once,” Constance says. “It’ll probably take them until the end of summer to get everything together.”
After we finish cutting and arranging, we sit down to sign the documents. Constance takes out a Mont Blanc fountain pen from her purse, dabs its nib with a Kleenex, and smiles at me.
“I just love fountain pens. Ed gave me this one for my birthday last month. He couldn’t believe how much it cost, but I told him it was the only thing I wanted. I figured if I was going to be signing all these papers, I might as well do it with style.”
I watch the dance of hand and pen as she makes her capital letters swirl and tower above the illegible scrawl of the rest of her name. It’s a celebrity signature, as stylish and grand as they come.
I take my turn and then say, “Well, I guess that’s it.”
“For now. They’ll be a lot more papers to sign before we can settle the estate.”
“Right,” I say, thinking I had better ask now while we’re on the topic. “I had a question about the estate. Well, it’s not at all about the estate, really. In fact, it has nothing to do with it.”
Constance gives me an exaggerated look of confusion, scratching her head and making a goofy sitcom face. I get to the point.
“I’d like to go inside the house before the appraiser does.”
Her expression is neither disapproving nor enthusiastic. As far as I can tell, it’s somewhere between curious and amused. Her eyebrows, plucked and honed to tadpole shapes, raise a bit and she blinks her eyes once.
“I don’t want to touch anything or move anything. All I want to do is just look at the place without a stranger standing over my shoulder,” I say.
“Well, you’re going to have to touch a few things,” Constance says with a coy smile. “You’re going to have to touch the doorknob to get in.”
“No, I mean … you know what I mean. I don’t want to take anything from the house. I just want to look at it before it begins to change, before people start tagging things and talking about what they’re worth. I just want to take the time to remember. I know it’s technically illegal, but would you mind if I went in?”
Constance looks at me as she licks the envelope and then averts her eyes as she seals it. She pauses a moment and then faces me squarely, putting a hand on my shoulder.
“Of course I wouldn’t mind. And I didn’t mean to make light of it. The fact is it doesn’t matter whether going in the house is legal or not. What matters is that you do what you need to while you’re here.”
“I’m so glad you feel that way,” I say.
“Of course I do. In fact, I’d like to go too if you wouldn’t mind.”
She has as much right as I do to see the house. After all, her mother’s things are there, too. So I say, “That would be fine. I just don’t want strangers around.”
“I agree. It’s a very personal time, and I think it will be a very healing time.”
I look at her and smile, nodding my head. Once again, her eyes begin to well with sudden, mysterious tears. I know better than to try to find their origins with condolences or tender inquiries—and after what I did with the letter, I don’t exactly feel worthy of her trust. So I simply touch the arm that now encircles my shoulders, as if to say, whatever it is, I understand. She looks away, pats me on the back, and then walks to the sink where she turns on the faucet full blast and rinses out the rag from the table.
She faces me, cheery again, and says, “Well. We have a big day tomorrow. I’ve got to get the vacuum going now that the food is done.”
“I think it will be a great reunion,” I say, still riding the wave of charity.
“I hope so,” she says as she hefts the monstrous machine out of the closet.
“Let me know if I can help with anything else,” I say as I head up the stairs.
“All righty.”
The words follow me up the stairs and linger in my mind, carefree and warm, like sunlight that slips miraculously through dark, stormy clouds.
5
The Final Four
8:00 A.M. on Saturday morning and the first thing I hear is a thudding sound outside my window. I part the curtains and see Constance in the driveway, surrounded by patio furniture cushions on the ground. Raising a tennis racquet over her head with both hands, she swats the dust out of the fat, flowered shapes. I watch as she spins herself in a slow circle, like some crazed mechanical doll escaped from its place in a German clock tower. With each hit, she knits her eyebrows and clenches her jaw—like she’s trying to kill the cushions instead of clean them. It’s overcast and I wonder if she’s venting her anger about having a sunless sky on her special day.
I promised her I would be downstairs by 9:00 to help the food brigade. I shower and throw on a drop-waisted T-shirt dress—long-sleeved with a jewel neck. It’s the dressiest thing I brought. I had intended to wear it to the lawyer’s office. The color is jade and goes perfectly with my new necklace.
After I make my bed and put away my suitcase in the closet, I walk down the front staircase and am stunned by the antiseptic grandeur of living and dining rooms—cleanliness that almost upstages godliness, an immaculate reception. The French provincial tables shine under their coat of lemon-scented wax. The rose carpet still holds its wide, vacuumed ribbons of welcome. And everywhere, in centerpieces and bud vases, are arrangements of orchids, gardenias, lilies, snapdragons, and pink roses. Constance must have been up at 4:00 A.M. to create such a presentation.
I walk into the swirl of kitchen activity, which momentarily stops with my arrival.
“Don’t you look pretty!” Aunt Lucy says.
“She looks like an angel!” Nana says.
Constance stops chopping tomatoes to look at me. “That is a fabulous color on you! Not everybody can wear that color. I know I can’t.”
Even Eugenia pokes her head from behind the morning paper to say, “Great dress.” I’m not used to such attention and am embarrassed by it, but maybe slightly pleased. It’s been a long time since I was complimented on how I looked in a dress. I smile but avert my eyes from them, feeling a bit breathless and nervous as they admire me.
“And look at that necklace,” Nana says as she moves toward me. “That’s a pretty thing.” She fingers the necklace and takes her glasses off to inspect the beads. “I reckon it’s handmade.”
“Yes, it is,” I say.
“Where did you get it?” Constance asks as she starts chopping again.
“A friend of mine gave it to me.”
Aunt Lucy winks at me. “A friend? What kind—male or female?”
“Now, don’t you pry, Lucy,” Nana warns.
“Female,” I say. “A very kind woman.”
Constance hands me a full-length apron and says, “You need to put this on so you don’t mess up those pretty things.”
“Thanks,” I say as I tie on the apron, eager to focus the attention elsewhere. “Constance, the house looks beautiful.”
“Well, thank you!” she sings, drawing the “thank you” out from high to low pitch.
“Okay, Constance. Eugenia and I are going home to change and then we’ll be back to heat up the barbecue,” Aunt Lucy says.
“All right. But try to be back no later than eleven o’clock. I told everybody to get here around eleven-thirty and that lunch would be at twelve-thirty.”
We say our good-byes to them, and I turn to Constance.
“So how can I help?”
Constance debriefs me. When the time comes, I will help her supervise the order of how the foods are placed on the table. I think she figures food styling also gives me knowledge of catering, but I don’t protest. I keep playing along, trying to remain supportive.
“I’m ready to layer the Mexican nacho dip,” Constance says. “My main dilemma is what to do about these olives that my cousin Henry from Mt. Olive gave me this Christmas. I want to use them but don’t know how.”
“I didn’t know they made olives in Mt. Olive,” I say.
“They don’t. It’s a biblical name. But he likes to give olives as gifts anyway.”
“Oh.”
“The problem is that they’re stuffed with garlic,” Constance says and makes a grotesque face, as if the olives were stuffed with meal worms.
“They’re actually considered a delicacy. I mean, if you like garlic,” I say.
“Well, that’s just it. Henry’s a garlic lover, but nobody else is. I know I’m not.”
I decide against informing Constance that I adore garlic-stuffed olives.
“I think the olives just need something else besides garlic, you know? I was thinking cream cheese might be good, but I don’t know how you could serve it,” she says.
“If you have something like a frosting bag, you could soften the cream cheese and squeeze it on or around the olives,” I say.
“Ooo, sounds yummy,” Nana says.
Constance nods her head and stares for a moment above her, like she’s choreographing some intricate dance and is trying to work in my suggestion.
“Yes. That will work. If you can find something to squeeze with. Yes. Great.”
She turns back to her Mexican dip preparations and I set about my task. The best I can find is a gravy syringe. I zap the cream cheese in the microwave and take my project into the dining room to begin work. Constance pops in after five minutes.
“How’s it going?”
“Fine, I think. Care to sample one?”
“Oh, I would if it weren’t for that garlic,” she says with another facial contortion. “I thought you might be able to do something with these pimentos. I don’t know what, but I thought they might add a little extra taste and color.”
She hands me the jar, and I tell her it’s a perfect touch. The very thing these olives needed along with garlic and cream cheese.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” she says.
I give it my best effort. Since they’re large and heavy enough to lean on each other and stand upright, I make four clusters of olives and place them at the corners of the tray. In the center, I place the remaining olives, outlined by a swirling cream cheese and pimento design so that people have the option to dip. On the sides I place red-leaf lettuce for decoration, along with a few cream cheese sconces, just enough for a little flair.
The process takes me about a half hour. I carry the tray into the kitchen and set it on the breakfast table, next to Nana. She looks up from the pie she’s slicing and gasps.
“What a beautiful creation! We should take a picture of that. Constance! Come here and bring the camera.”
Constance rushes in, ripping the disposable camera out of its package, and says, “Is someone here already?”
“No. I want you to take a picture of what Julia made. Look at it. Isn’t it stylish?”
“Yes,” Constance says. She puts down the camera. “It’s, well, it’s quite unique.”
“I hope I didn’t overdo it,” I say.
“Oh no! I think it will add…” She pauses, searching, and then lights upon an idea. “I think it will add some history to the proceedings.”
“Do what?” Nana says.
I’m just as puzzled as Nana, but I let her do the talking.
“I see history in this,” Constance says.
“How do you mean?” Nana asks.
“Because, well, you all might think I’m a bit eccentric, but it looks like a battlefield to me.”
“Constance! That’s hardly a thing to say!” Nana cries.
“It’s a compliment, Nana. Look here.”
Constance quickly explains about how the olive clusters could be forts, and the cream cheese and the pimientos in the center represent the swirl of fighting.
At this point, I think Constance is more than eccentric. I think she’s chugging around the loony bend on the DAR express.
“Fine,” Nana says. “Whatever. I still think it’s a lovely tray of olives. Nothing more than that.”
“Oh, Nana the naysayer! I bet Julia can see it. Can’t you see it, Julia?”
“I’m not sure. I mean, what battle are you talking about?”
“It doesn’t have to be that specific,” Constance says. “It could take place anytime in history. We could say it’s during the Revolutionary War or the Civil War.”
“You might need some miniature burning oil wells if you want to make it the Gulf War,” Nana says as she takes her apron off and walks to the door.
“How amusing. Are you gonna go on the Tonight Show?” Constance asks her.
“Never know when I’m gonna go,” Nana says as she walks out the door.
“Well, good-bye, then, you old bug,” Constance says.
She waves good-bye in the air without turning around and says, “Don’t call me that.” She takes one step at a time as she makes her way down the side steps. I watch her from the window and smile.
