Chapter Twenty
The next day, I kept thinking about Ellen—a woman I had never met, but somehow I felt as if she was now a part of me. I tried to play dominoes with Wesley and sing lullabies to Esther, but I couldn’t concentrate. At naptime, I downed a few aspirin and told myself to rest, but then the phone rang.
“Mrs. Mayfield?” That voice. That cheer. The faint whistle of each s. She called enough that I knew her voice by now, the way she elongated may, nearly adding an extra syllable to it.
“Hello, Alice.” I attempted to imitate her whistle.
“Henry wanted me to let you know that he has invited Mr. Ellis over for dinner tonight.” Not tonight. “He apologizes that he can’t call for himself, but he wants to make sure dinner and drinks will be ready at six?”
She ended the last sentence as a question, but that was only out of courtesy. We both knew she wasn’t asking on behalf of Henry; she was telling me the arrangements that had been made and that my afternoon would now be spent prepping for this dinner. A nap would not be possible.
“Yes, of course,” I told her, though I wanted to say, “What the hell is he thinking?” She and I didn’t have that sort of relationship. Instead, I had to pretend as if I had everything under control, that as Henry’s wife, my days were spent anticipating his needs and I was happy to oblige, because if I didn’t, someone like her was waiting and willing. Maybe she believed my performance, but I didn’t.
“Mr. Ellis is hoping for one of your famous salads,” she told me before
disconnecting.
I slammed the phone onto the cradle. If only I hadn’t stayed up all night, then maybe I could do this. If my head didn’t constantly throb. If my hands didn’t ache. If I could be like the rest of them, then I could do it all and smile, too.
I poured myself a drink and second-guessed my decision to not take Miltown that morning. No, I didn’t need that fog on top of everything else.
What I needed was to figure out how to pull off this dinner for Henry and his promotion. For us, he would say.
Even still, anger burned in my chest. I couldn’t believe Henry hadn’t called me himself. He hadn’t asked if it was possible. He assumed I could put it all together, and he asked the office girl to inform me. But why would he question if it was possible? His mother would be able to pull off a last-minute dinner party, but he seemed to forget that we didn’t have help like she did.
My mother would’ve been able to do the same, though without help. She had a way of always having extra food on hand for those helping in the fields during planting and harvesting. Somehow there always seemed to be enough fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and corn bread. She always had fruit on hand for fresh-squeezed lemonade—her special elixir that quenched even the most extreme of thirsts.
But I wasn’t like either one of them. I didn’t have extra hands to prepare a meal, nor did I know how to stock root cellars and make servings stretch. So I did the only thing I knew how to do. I checked the pantry and the freezer.
By the time I settled on the menu, I knew even a quick set would not get the Jell-O in shape by dessert, so I needed to improvise. The last thing I wanted was another flop like when I’d tried to make the welcome dish for the Betsers. I had mandarin oranges, pineapple, and cottage cheese on hand to make an orange gelatin salad and, thankfully, enough cream that I could whip up. If I needed this to be done quickly, I would have to use the freezer, which
just so happened to be where I found the main course.
My mother knew how to be resourceful, and apparently, I did as well.
Henry had left me with little choice. Plus, if I had learned anything in my time in Greenwood Estates, it was that these people would eat about anything you put in front of them. That night I would test that theory with the three beef TV dinners I had stowed away in the freezer. Surely if I hid the packages and meticulously plated the food, no one would know the difference.
At six o’clock, I met Jack and Henry at the door with a Tom Collins and a smile. Henry’s eyes sparkle when he saw me in the magnolia-leaf green pencil dress—his favorite color on me. I had even put on the pearl necklace and earrings he gave me on our first anniversary.
“Thank you,” Henry whispered in my ear after he pecked my cheek.
I wanted to tell him “you owe me,” but I would save that for later. He had no idea what it took for me to pull together this evening, get the kids situated, and zip myself into that dress before they arrived. But when I saw that sparkle, I knew he was thinking about me and not her.
The kitchen timer dinged right on schedule. I had already plated the food, but I needed the appearance that what I was about to serve had been home- cooked.
“It smells wonderful,” Jack said. He was either kind or a good liar.
“Thank you,” I replied. “Tonight’s menu is tender slices of beef roast with rich gravy, little browned potatoes, corn O’Brien sautéed in butter, and garden-fresh peas with a pat of creamy butter on top.” I had memorized the description on the packaging. Thankfully, Henry didn’t question where the “garden-fresh peas” came from, since we did not, in fact, have a garden.
“Sounds wonderful,” Jack said. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a home- cooked meal. I’m looking forward to it.”
Little did he know, he still wasn’t having one. I flashed a smile and looked
downward, attempting to be demure. “I’m sorry Mrs. Ellis couldn’t join us tonight.”
“Yes, well…” Jack took a sip of his drink before continuing. “She’s off getting her nerves in order.” Then he turned to Henry and elbowed him. “You know how women can be.”
The doorbell rang, saving Henry from having to respond. I wanted to ask Jack what he meant, but of course I wouldn’t. Instead, I went into the kitchen to get the dessert from the freezer so it had a chance to thaw. As I was about to carry the plates of food into the dining room, Henry came into the kitchen.
“We need another plate.”
“What?”
“Someone else is joining us.”
I looked from Henry to the three plates on the kitchen counter.
“I thought it was only going to be the three of us. That’s all I prepared for.”
“I know. I did, too. But Gary just stopped over. Jack saw him and asked him to stay.”
My mind raced, wondering why Gary—the man who had lobotomized his wife—had stopped by. Did Henry know what Gary had done? Did Gary know what I had done? Surely he didn’t know that I had snooped around their house. I had tried to be so careful, putting everything back where I had found it. Bitsy hadn’t seemed to suspect anything. Or so I thought. I lowered my voice. “I don’t understand. Isn’t all of this about the promotion?”
Henry closed his eyes and shook his head. “Yes, I’m trying to figure out where Jack is. I thought this might help, but I didn’t plan on Gary.”
“Why did he come over?” I hesitated to ask. Henry looked toward the living room, not answering me. “Couldn’t he see the car in the driveway?
Surely he figured we had company.”
“He wanted to give me something.” Thank God he wasn’t there to tell
Henry about me. But then he continued, “Something he mentioned the other night. It’s nothing.”
I scratched at the rash on my arm and tried to stop the room from spinning.
“He had to come now?” I asked.
“Geez, Lulu, I don’t know. Just find a way to make it work.” He pointed at the plates, walked into the living room, and left me alone in the kitchen as my heart felt like it was about to beat out of my chest.
As much as I wanted to tell Henry to get Gary out of our house immediately, I took a deep breath. I couldn’t say anything while Jack was there. Henry needed this promotion. He had worked so hard for it, and I couldn’t mess this up for him even though the fox stood in our living room.
So I cut, sliced, and scooped, repositioning and reproportioning the food to look like four full servings. They all ate it as if they enjoyed it, while I wished that Luna was under the table so I could give her my pot roast.
“You’re a peach, Lulu,” Jack said as he wiped a glob of gravy from the corner of his mouth and sat back in his chair. Peach. If only I’d had time to make a peach pie. It had been months since I had made one. My mouth began to water from the thought of it. “Can’t wait to see what you’ve cooked up for dessert.”
“You should try my wife’s cooking,” Gary felt the need to share as I reached by him to clear his plate. He went on about all the amazing dishes she concocted, and I couldn’t help but notice that he had practically licked his plate clean.
“I’m sorry,” I began. And I probably should’ve stopped with that, but it was nearly seven o’clock, and while it was still a few hours from my typical bedtime, I was tired. I had spent the last few hours sprinting around that house, making everything right for this evening. And then here came Gary, interrupting it all. My eyes felt heavy. My legs hurt. My hands ached. All I wanted was to get out of this bullet bra, draw a bath, and sink within it, but
instead, I needed to clear the table and get the dessert ready. So I suppose I was too tired to know what I was saying or to even realize I was saying it aloud. I didn’t stop with that apology. I said the rest softly: “You felt you had to eat this instead of the meal your wife had prepared for you.”
“Lulu!” Henry scolded, and that was when I realized I had said it out loud for all to hear. We both looked at each other in surprise. I stood beside Gary, suspended in the moment like a bit of fruit cocktail in one of my salads. I didn’t know if I should apologize or cry, but before I could do either, Jack began to laugh.
“Not only can she cook,” he cackled, “but she can razz, too.”
Using his approval as a chance to leave, I did a little curtsy and excused myself to the kitchen, where I discovered that my shortcut perhaps hadn’t worked as planned. The salad had deflated since I had pulled it from the freezer. As I began scooping it out, I realized the consistency wasn’t typical.
Instead of bouncy and springy, it was sticky and soupy. With each spoonful, it plopped into the bowls, a mess of electric-orange liquid and chunks of cottage cheese. But what could I do? It was all I had other than Twinkies, and I was pretty sure Henry wouldn’t approve of those cylinder sponge cakes serving as the final course. Plus, I was too tired to whip up something new.
And nearly too irritated to care. So I scooped the orange mess into bowls, spooned a dollop of whipped cream on top, and served it as if it was meant to look like a bowl of sunshine vomit.
To his credit, Jack ate the entire bowl, while Henry choked down half of it and Gary ate only the whipped cream. I’ll confess I didn’t even try it. I left the men to their shoptalk as I loaded the Mobile Maid.
I stood at the kitchen sink, sipping a cup of Sanka as I looked out the window. I didn’t look into the backyard. I wasn’t even checking to see if Luna was there yet. Instead, I watched a moth that had gotten stuck in a
spiderweb. The web had been there for a few months now, evidence of the fact that I hadn’t washed the windows in quite some time. When I’d first spotted the spider, I considered getting a broom and removing it from the window, but the more I watched it, the more I didn’t know if I wanted to destroy what it had built.
That night, a moth had landed in the web. First, its feet stuck, but it could pull them off, one at a time, only for each one to get stuck all over again. If the feet had been the only things to get trapped, perhaps it could’ve made it out. I had seen that happen before. But this time, the moth made a critical error. In its struggle to loosen its footing, it moved to the side so that one of its wings came into contact with the web. It began to try to move its body sideways. It no longer worried about its feet in the same way. Instead, all focus and panic went to unsticking its wing. Without that, it would never break free.
And it didn’t. The spider sat to the side, feeling the moth’s struggle vibrate its silken web. But it didn’t move. It didn’t react. It waited until the struggle ended and the moth quieted.
I felt Gary’s presence behind me before I heard him.
“I brought you a few dishes,” he said when my attention was on the spider.
When I startled, he didn’t apologize. He walked up beside me and placed the dishes in the sink, his bowl still full of the orange disaster. He stood so close that I could smell his English Leather cologne, the mossy fragrance so strong that my sinuses ached.
“Thank you,” I said as I stepped to the side to give him room. He slid in my direction and turned on the faucet. With my back against the cabinets, and thanks to the Mobile Maid, I had little room to move.
“That was quite a meal,” he said as he reached for the towel that I had left wadded up on the counter beside me. I slinked into the corner of the cabinets, feeling the countertop push into me. I attempted to take a drink of coffee, but
my hands shook.
Suddenly hearing the silence of the house, I asked, “Where are Mr. Ellis and Henry?”
“Henry’s walking Jack out.”
“Oh, well, I should go say goodbye.” I made a move to step around him, but he wouldn’t let me pass.
“Begging your pardon, Mrs. Mayfield.” He ran his finger through a trail of water on the counter. “I can’t help but wonder if there’s something you need to tell me.”
“No.” The word shook out of my throat as I feared that they knew I had been in their house. I thought I had put the papers back into the boxes. I tried to think back to what the room looked like when I left it, but I had been too concerned about Bitsy and Katherine in the kitchen to take a close look on my way out the door.
He drew his index finger through the water and then dried it. “Hmm,” he said as he tossed the towel onto the counter. “I don’t think I have to tell you that stray cats don’t last long.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t know I had been in their house. He was only talking about the cat that—if he was observant enough—he might even be able to see outside the window right at that moment.
“Yes, I hope Bitsy finds her cat soon. We’ve all been looking for her.”
“You know, I’ve never been much of a cat person myself, but one thing I have to give them credit for is the way they sniff out a rat among us.” He smiled at me, revealing crooked teeth the same color as his yellow Formica countertop. “I know it sounds silly, but my wife is about in hysterics over this thing. And one thing you should know about me is I do not appreciate hysterics. In fact, I’ll do just about anything to make sure my family, my neighborhood, my life, remains calm.” He stood still for what felt like minutes. Perhaps in reality it was only a few seconds. Had Henry walked into
the kitchen at that moment, he might not have noticed anything out of the ordinary. He would have seen a pause in a conversation between neighbors as a spider outside the window wrapped up its prey.
As I stood cornered in my own kitchen, the hairs on my arms rose. I refused to look away from him, so in those silent seconds that stretched for what felt like hours, I looked through his glasses and into his insipid eyes and begged my body to not tremble.
“Good night, Mrs. Mayfield,” he said as he finally moved away from me.
“I’ll see myself out.”
I held myself together until I heard the front door close. Then my body trembled, releasing the energy it had bound up when he had me cornered. He needed a calm life. Didn’t we all? And look at Bitsy. Hysterical was not a word I would use to describe her. But maybe she had been. Maybe that’s how he justified doing what he did to her.
The couple bites of dinner I had choked down threatened to come back up.
I needed something else to focus on, so I grabbed the dish towel and scrubbed the counter dry, counting down the time to when I could escape into a bath and feel clean again.
