Chapter Twenty-Five
At the beginning of the reception, after the long black limousine slipped away and Elizabeth and Jon situated Mrs. Hubbard in her cushy armchair by the fire, Elizabeth tried her best to remain the central figure of the day. She moved from mourner to mourner, graciously accepting their condolences and compliments, and, when the situation called for it, showed the appropriate amount of grief and gratitude. Her personality seemed tailor-made for this type of event. She was even more alive and vibrant than when playing the role of Mother-in-Charge at her children’s preschool events. However, when she bumped into her high school classmate and sometime-teenage best-friend, Shelly Harrison, now Shelly Dorsey by marriage, she found herself in a conversation that challenged this role as star hostess.
When Elizabeth and Shelly first saw each other in the entrance hallway, they shrieked in a girlish fashion that made the Dorsey children, Teddy and Tammy, gawk in awe at their mother and stick their fingers in their mouths for comfort. When Shelly introduced her “blessed little darlings” to Elizabeth and then explained to them that she’d known Elizabeth, “practically my whole life,” the children’s eyes grew even wider. Though the two women’s relationship was incomprehensible to them, they knew that something important had just happened for their mom.
After the introductions, Elizabeth hugged Shelly, somewhat stiffly, and Shelly, somewhat reluctantly, allowed her to do so. They delayed a longer conversation until later, as Shelly thought it more appropriate for her family to speak with Mrs. Hubbard first. Elizabeth thought Shelly’s idea “brilliant” and said they could catch up in a bit.
At least an hour and a half passed before they saw each other again. When Shelly finally sashayed up to Elizabeth in the dining room, Elizabeth was in the middle of telling the caterer, Arnaldo, that it was his responsibility to keep an eye both on the portions and on the number of guests lining up to eat, and that even though the turn-out was larger than had been anticipated, if he paid closer attention there would be enough, as she had certainly, most certainly, ordered ample food. Shelly, standing next to Elizabeth, emphatically agreed and then, with a flip of a wrist and cock of the hip, fell into a conversation with her old high school friend.
Elizabeth, who hardly drank, filled two glasses with Chablis, one for each of them, and then she and Shelly leaned against the glass door cabinets in the access hallway between the kitchen and the dining room. They became tollbooths on a thoroughfare between the two rooms. The wine loosened their tongues, and as mourners passed back and forth, they celebrated their private conversation in a public arena. Like a high school clique of two, they shot intimidating glances at anyone who contemplated the rudeness of eavesdropping. And when they finished their first glasses of wine, it was Shelly who suggested they refill them.
Halfway through their second glass, however, the romantic memories that had so quickly rekindled an old friendship were swiftly swept away by the divisions that had kept each of them from contacting the other for wedding celebrations, children’s births and parental deaths. The topic slid into dangerous waters—childrearing. Shelly, trying hard to sound intelligent, spoke about the important influence a safe community and a strong church membership had on her and Ted’s decisions regarding raising their kids.
“When it comes down to it,” Shelly said, lowering her voice for impact, “we want Teddy and Tammy to have the same opportunities that we had as kids. Newbury’s a good town; the schools are good, our family’s around. Over all, Elizabeth, I know you didn’t go to church much when you were younger, but you have to admit, our church and Father Hilliard are a good influence on the children. Think of it, Liz, he and the church and the town all turned out today to support your family—and for Tom, of course.”
“Give me a break.” Elizabeth sipped her wine. “I’m sure. They came because they were curious and because we put out a great spread. And we’re paying plenty for it.” She tipped her wine glass to indicate their hospitality. “And this town—ha!” she said with breathy disgust.
“‘This town’?” Shelly repeated, insulted by Elizabeth’s tone. Then, composing herself, she tried to speak in a more dignified manner: “This town’s grieving for the loss of your brother, our hero.”
Elizabeth looked at Shelly, cock-eyed. “Pa-lease, Shelly, you don’t really believe that, do you?”
“I do.” Shelly stepped back and placed her glass of wine on a narrow wedge of shelf. She postured herself as if she were about to set Elizabeth straight. “When Father Hilliard got the word out, and the newspaper got the word out, we came together as a community to support you and your family. That’s what I’m talking about.”
Shelly tried to remain calm as she defended her hometown, yet old resentments were being dusted off in her mind and she couldn’t help but think, Those damn Hubbards, same as they’ve always been—ungrateful! “No matter what you think, Elizabeth, people do care.”
Elizabeth gasped before she spoke. “Father Hilliard?” she exclaimed. “The newspaper? Look—” she shoved a polished finger in the air in Shelly’s direction, “when Tom left this town—after our father drove him away—nobody gave a shit then. Did Father Hilliard rush out to help Tom then? Did ‘the community’? The only way he was coming back here to stay in this oh-so-supportive town was just how he did, in a fucking box. And,” she added under her breath, “a box compliments of the U.S. military.”
“I can’t believe you just said that,” Shelley replied, horrified. “Elizabeth, you are so jaded. What your brother did was heroic, and if you are too fancy and blind to see that, then too bad, but you shouldn’t take it away from the rest of us. This town is proud of Tom Hubbard, our hero. And like your brother did, some of us believe in America and God.”
“My brother! What do you know about my brother?” Elizabeth hissed. “My brother simply liked to play army—ever since he was a little boy.”
Shelly backed down, growing frightened of Elizabeth’s rage. Yet she was also satisfied; she had sufficiently offended her old friend. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth. I don’t know, I don’t know. This must hurt and I’m sorry.” Shelly opened her arms and body to Elizabeth, readying herself for a show of affection, perhaps even a genuine hug this time. “This must be so hard on you.”
Elizabeth’s face turned to stone. Only her eye shadow and perfectly-lined red lips showed signs of color. America and God, she fumed to herself. What God? Shelly’s much adored priest? The asshole who touched me when no one was looking … Who gave a shit then? Is that what God wanted? And my father, who regularly beat my brother— was that God’s doing, too? Everyone knew what was happening in our house and no one did anything. Is that a caring, supportive community? As for America, America and its fucked up war killed my brother. She held herself tight, but she wanted to scream, How’s that Shelly Dorsey? Good enough for you and your fucking “community”?
“Elizabeth,” Shelly said quietly, still waiting for a response to her open arms, “I’m so sorry if I offended you during this time of mourning. Can you find it in your heart to forgive …”
Elizabeth looked past Shelly and stared at a stack of pasty old blue plates on a shelf in the cabinet in front of her. She studied the thick grime on the glass in the corners of the inside frame of the cabinet doors and wondered if it was new grime or if it was the exact same grime that, as a girl, she had focused on so deliberately when her mother pleaded with her drunken father not to beat her brother. She’d hide in this cut-through between the dining room and the kitchen, as it was rarely used, and wait for the inevitable—the distinctive snap of a belt or thump of a fist.
Elizabeth’s eyelids fluttered. She moved her mouth, about to speak, but stopped, hesitated, then tried again. On her third attempt she spoke softly, “I think I’ll check on my mother.”