The Pursuit of Alice Thrift

Ray said, “I can’t even discuss that aspect of it because it makes me shake all over with rage. Suffice it to say, they didn’t deploy.”

“You poor man,” said my mother, flexing the fingers of one hand in the direction of the powder room to mean, Someone get me a tissue.

“I insist you lie down,” said my father. “There’s a long day ahead, and lots of people wanting to discuss their own mothers’ deaths, and it’s going to take a lot out of you, sweetie.”

“That’s exactly why I didn’t bring up my own tragedy,” said Ray. “And if someone starts talking about theirs? You give me a sign and I’ll come over and I’ll be your ears so you don’t have to listen to their story, okay? Would you let me do that much?”

“Yes, I will,” said my mother. “I only wish you’d been here to answer some of the phone calls.”

“We had to let the machine pick up,” said my father.

Ray shook his head. “People. Why is it so hard for them to use their brains?”

“Exactly,” said my mother. “This has been like taking a graduate course in psychology. People you barely know send you fruit the minute they see the obituary, while some of your best friends don’t even call.”

“They don’t want to bother you,” I said. “Or maybe they hung up when they got the machine.”

My mother began her climb to her bedroom, both hands on the banister.

FREDERICK WAS ALONE in the kitchen, wearing chef’s full regalia plus striped pantaloons and red plastic clogs. When I announced the fudge delivery, his lip curled; he pointed to a remote pantry counter.

“My mother wants it put out,” I said.

“I have truffles,” he snapped.

Perhaps it was then that I felt a twinge of something for Ray—call it sympathy, loyalty, charity—born of a caterer’s condescension. “A guest brought it,” I said. “A guest who got up at five A.M. this morning so I wouldn’t have to take a bus.”

With the edge of a linen towel, Frederick wiped a drip of red goop from a platter. “And you are?”

“Alice.”

Frederick said, “The problem is, Alice, that this isn’t a pot-luck dinner. Everything is planned, down to the color of the sugar cubes. Serving fudge with truffles is like serving steak with roast beef.”

“It’s the guest’s livelihood,” I said. “And no one but you will notice if there’s a surfeit of chocolate.”

Just outside the kitchen door my father was giving Ray loud directions. “Cool,” Ray repeated after each prescribed left or right turn.

There was a pause on our side. Finally Frederick asked, “You’re the older daughter?”

I said that was correct. We’d met at my mother’s sixtieth—

“The doctor?”

I said yes.

He smiled benignly, then asked, “And where does a doctor cross paths with a fudge salesman?”

I couldn’t muster an answer; couldn’t even choreograph my own exit as I pondered what it was about me that invited caterers to condescend.

“Must be serious, judging by the color of your cheeks,” Frederick continued.

I said, “Any color on my face is utter astonishment and, and, dismay, and frankly—”

The door swung open and Ray was at my side. At first I thought the object of his survey was the grandness of the built-in appliances and the curve of the granite countertops, but he was looking for his gift.

“In the pantry,” said Frederick.

Ray popped a pastry triangle in his mouth. “Spinach,” he said.

“Spanokopita,” said Frederick. “Though not fully defrosted.”

“Not bad,” said Ray. “Not what I expected. I thought it was going to be sweet—a miniature turnover, like with fig inside.” Ray chewed, swallowed, popped another triangle in his mouth. “You Greek?” he mumbled through the phyllo.

Frederick shook his head in the smallest possible arc, and turned back to the sink.

Ray looked at me: You see that? You gonna let the kitchen help diss your guests?

I said, “Frederick? My mother wanted you to make up a nice plate for Mr. Russo.”

Frederick crossed to the refrigerator, returned with a plastic bag of some curly purple vegetal matter. “She didn’t mention this to me,” he said.

“We’ve been on the road since six A.M.,” I said.

Ray helped himself to a deviled egg, then another. “Don’t bother. I’m gonna head out so I can get a good seat.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about a crowd,” said Frederick. “She outlived every one of her friends.”

“I lost my wife at a young age,” said Ray, slipping an arm around my waist. “So good genes mean everything to me.”

I moved a discreet step away and said, “My other grandmother died at sixty-two of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.”

“I did the brunch,” said Frederick.

I said I might lie down for a short rest myself before the limo arrived, if they’d excuse me.

Ray grinned. “These doctors! They can catnap on a dime. I swear—ten minutes of shut-eye, and she’s up for a triple bypass.”

Frederick smiled knowingly.

Ray’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not saying that I’m well versed in this lady’s personal habits—if I read that smirk correctly.”

Unfazed, Frederick blinked and turned to me.

“I’ve never done a triple bypass,” I said. “I’ve never even watched.”

6 Alice Makes Up Her Own Mind (#ulink_375c4c84-3c79-5e3c-88b4-9d6ce180ac52)

COVERING FOR OUR vacationing pastor was a woman with a crewelwork stole, who ruined the funeral by eulogizing my grandmother as “Barbara.”