“Probably wants a window table,” I said, and walked over to the telephones at the reception area. “Hello? Mimi? Kids okay?”
“Oh, yeah, they’re fine. At the beach. Where else? Listen! I’ve got a date!”
“What?” Mimi had a date? With a man? The last time she had a date George Bush’s daddy was in the White House.
“Yeah! Can you believe it? You know my friend Maggie? Well, her husband Grant has this doctor friend they want me to meet and they want to have dinner so I thought that we could come . . .”
“What time?”
“Seven-thirty?”
“No problem. Window table for four at seven-thirty. Done!” I typed it in the reservation log, which was like carving something in stone.
The restaurant had a software program that recorded phone numbers, birthdays, anniversaries, seating preferences and, believe it or not, it had a special box for notations such as: special needs (for example, slightly deaf, mobility issues or low vision), allergies, and can you stand this, cheap tips, which of course was entered in code as ppc, punta poco costosa in Italian. There was a code for drunks—bt for bevande troppo, also Italian, a code for demanding patrons—dolore nell’asino for, you got it, pain in the derriere, and even a code for the never satisfied, which was non satified mai. I didn’t know what was up with Brad and this Italian thing, but according to Louise, by the time the hostesses learned it, they usually quit. Anyway, I entered “prefers window table” in my sister’s profile.
I decided to hang around and make sure that Mimi got the right spot. I wasn’t kidding about my sister and her dating history, which was another reason for us to move out into our own place. I mean, what if she wanted to bring someone home for a little ooh-la-la? She would have this army of estrogen flag bearers waiting for her in flannel pajamas, eating popcorn, watching An Affair to Remember for the eighty-fifth time, weeping all over her living room. Not exactly the uber-den of seduction.
In any case, I had mixed emotions about telling her about the boathouse. Part of her would be delighted that we found something suitable that was so close to her. The other part of her would not like to relinquish the control she had over us. But then I realized it was silly to worry and decided the best time to tell her would be as soon as I saw her. She would be delighted and flattered when I asked her to see it before I took it.
I got a call from the front that Mimi and her friends had arrived. I reapplied lipstick, ran a comb through my hair and made my way to their table. The late evening sun was beginning to descend and the heat of the day had broken. For the first time that day, it finally felt like the air conditioner was working. Despite the crowded dining room, it was cool. When I finally got to their side, Mimi stood up to give me a hug.
“Y’all? This is my baby sister, Linda,” she said and gave my shoulder a squeeze.
The men immediately stood. Another thing I liked about the south was that gentlemen stood when a lady was to be introduced or when one just entered a room.
“Hi, I’m Grant and this is my wife, Maggie.”
“Hey,” Maggie said from her inside seat by the window, “Mimi’s been talking about you so much, I feel like I know you already! Welcome home!”
“Thanks,” I said, “I feel very at home with this view all day long! Is the table okay?” And, who was the nice-looking man with my sister?
“Oh! It’s perfect! Linda! I forgot to introduce you to my new friend!”
“Hi,” he said and extended his hand for a shake. “I’m Jack Taylor. Mimi didn’t tell me she had such a beautiful sister!”
“Thanks,” I said and blushed. “Y’all sit! Please! Hey! Guess what?”
“What?” they all said, the men settling back into their chairs.
“I found a house! It’s adorable and Mimi, we have to go see it first thing tomorrow!”
“How wonderful! Where is it?”
“In a good stiff wind, you could stand on your roof and spit on it!” I realized that wasn’t the most feminine thing to say so I added, “Or throw a rock at it?”
They all smiled, and suddenly I felt stupid standing there with them. Mimi had a funny look on her face that made me uncomfortable. Was it because of my poor choice of words or because we were going to be moving?
“Okay! I gotta go! I hope y’all have a great dinner!”
For decades I had been the renegade little sister. Mimi was the only one who had listened and advised me all through each stage of my divorce from Fred, which was the most traumatic event in my life. If I had my own home right under her nose and a satisfying job as well, she might tell herself that I did not need her as much as she thought I did. It was very easy to make someone feel you were too busy to keep them in your daily life. Too easy, in fact.
Here she was on her first date in ages and she had come here for dinner when there were many other options. She had wanted me to see her out with a man, with other friends, doing fine. It had been natural for her to choose my restaurant because it would make it easier for us to dissect her date the next day. Being a sister came so easily for her. I had been away for so long that I had forgotten how to read the nuances of her moods.
I would take a lesson from her and make the effort to help her see that we were moving out, but not away. After all, there was a great difference between being in someone’s life by periodic long-distance phone calls and being in someone’s life in person. We had both been lonely, which next to poor health was the worst condition for the human heart. I told myself that I would remind her of her significance and that I would welcome and consider any advice she had for me or Lindsey and most especially for Gracie.
Take each day as it comes, I told myself.
SEVEN
MIDNIGHT PLANE TO GEORGIA
IT was Thursday night and I was still at the restaurant talking to Mike O’Malley, the bartender, who was a true sweetheart. He took a phone call from his girlfriend, whose eight-year-old son had broken his left arm playing football. She wanted him to go with her to the emergency room.
“O’Malley!” I said, “Go! Don’t even think about it! I can pump beer and open mini-bottles with the best of them! Louise and I can handle the bar. Right, Louise?”
“Humph,” Louise said, “go on and we’ll take it out of your hide later!”
“I owe y’all one,” he said, “thanks!”
“You take the roof bar and I’ll see about this one,” Louise said.
I grabbed an apron and climbed the steps thinking. A lot had happened that week. Most importantly, I had shown the boathouse to Mimi and the girls. Mimi thought it had great possibilities, but just as part of me clung to Lindsey, I could tell she was not quite prepared for us to leave her. Her urge to be a matriarch was Mimi’s strength and weakness. The girls had never complained about Mimi and her hovering—snickered maybe, but complain? Never. She was the kind of person who had two pillows on your bed—one down and soft and the other more firm. Each nightstand had a package of tissues and bottled water with a glass. Every bathroom had a nightlight and extra tissue under the sink. Her closets had padded hangers, skirt hangers and, well, Joan Crawford would have approved. In ways that cost so little, she injected a modicum of elegance into our lives, cluttered as they were with a surplus of worries and a shortfall of resources.
There was always a small cut-glass dish of homemade jam on the breakfast table, the ubiquitous fresh pound cake on the counter, a small nosegay of flowers, arranged in a “found object,” placed in a spot that surprised and delighted you. When she corrected her posture, you corrected yours. Mimi saw to it that everything we needed was always at our fingertips, including her abundant affection.
This summer had been the only time in my girls’ lives that they had experienced the daily benefits of extended family. I only hoped that through my relationship with Mimi and hers with me that we demonstrated to Lindsey and Gracie the importance and power of what being sisters was all about.
The girls thought the boathouse was precious. De
spite the fact that its address had a South Carolina zip code, Gracie liked it because we could see the water. Lindsey compared it to a tree house. Best of all, Brad had negotiated a ridiculously low monthly rent with the proviso that we would walk through the big house once a week to check air-conditioning, leaks, mail, and so on for the Epsteins. No problem! I was thrilled!
But there was a problem. Signing the lease put Gracie one step further away from her fantasy of returning to New Jersey. She had pitched one fit after another and I was fast deciding that if she wanted to spend more time with her father, it would’ve been fine with me. But that was not in Gracie’s cards.
I had called Patti Elliott to test the waters with her—actually, I had called Fred, but he wasn’t there so I got stuck on the phone with Patti. The conversation went something like this.
“Gracie really doesn’t want to live in South Carolina,” I said.
“Does she mean she doesn’t want to live in South Carolina or that she doesn’t want to live with you?”
I could hear her chewing on something and I think it was my last nerve.
“I’m pretty sure it’s South Carolina,” I said, fighting hard to keep the irritation out of my voice.
“Hmmm, well, what does that mean? She wants to live with us? How do you feel about that?”
How did I feel about that? Since when did Patti care how I felt about anything?
“I guess it’s a case of what’s best for Gracie. I mean, she’s got two years left in high school. All of her friends are there. I can understand that she’s not happy to leave them but life is filled with disappointments, right?”
“You can say that again.”
At least we agreed on something.
“And, I’m sure she’s a little nervous to start over again in a new school with all southern kids, and let’s face it, it’s not as culturally diverse here. I mean, she’s not as likely to have Pakistani friends or Canadian friends or friends from South Africa, right? Society here is a little more prescribed than it is in New Jersey.”
“So, she’ll teach them something about being more open-minded. Isn’t that southern bigot thing over and done?”
“Pretty much, but the pool to draw on is still shallow and I guess it all depends on who you’re talking to.”
“Well, for my part, I don’t care. I mean, I can put up with anything for two years . . .”
“Easily said, Patti. Gracie can be a handful.”
“I’m familiar. She doesn’t scare me, but listen, here’s how it is. I have a store and I work six days a week. I’m not around most of the time. I can give her a room and make sure she’s fed and all of that, but play stepmother? You must be kidding! Anyway, what makes you think she would listen to me?”
She was right. Gracie didn’t listen to anyone. And, what Patti was really saying was that she could only provide basic supervision. Fred would only do what he had ever done and that was to fulfill the most minimal obligation to his daughter.
“You’re right. She’s a knucklehead.” I sighed so hard that Patti sighed as well.
“Raising teenagers is just hell, isn’t it? Listen, after she and that kid drove that car into Edgemont Pond last winter and those other kids got busted for pot, she obviously needs more than I can offer, and Linda, I’m not trying to wiggle out of anything. . . .”
“No, I know you’re not. . . .” Remembering the afternoon I spent at the police station was all I needed to feel my pulse race. I had been devastated.
“Daughters need their mothers, no matter how difficult that may be. And, at least you have your sister there. She’s pretty straight, right?”
“She’s a regular Mother Teresa,” I said.
Patti’s voice softened in sympathy.
“Look, Linda, you and I have never been best friends but I’m going to give you my honest opinion. I think letting Gracie finish school here would be a disaster. First of all, we don’t live in Montclair, so she couldn’t go to Montclair High. And second, she probably needs a break from her old friends anyway. They were all headed for trouble.”
“Not all of them,” I said in Gracie’s defense, “just that boy she was mixed up with.”
We were both quiet for a minute and I knew in my heart that Patti was telling me the truth. Sometimes the road ahead is as unappealing as trying to shave a bobcat’s behind in a phone booth. And that, I’m afraid, was a pretty accurate picture of what it was like to raise Gracie.
“Listen, if you want to send her up here for a couple of days before school starts, we can probably work that out. I can arrange some time off and I’ll make Fred do the same thing. Maybe you need a break.”
“Some days, life between a rock and hard place just plain old stinks.”
I told her that I would think about it but I couldn’t see what possible good would come from rewarding Gracie’s poor behavior and bad attitude with a trip to see her friends. Besides, I was hoping to cash in my chits with Fred to help get Lindsey settled at NYU. Fred’s child support would end if he took Gracie, but it was so small and Gracie was so challenging that I think he would have paid me double to keep her.
I was thinking about all of these things and filling drink orders as fast as I could. By eight o’clock, the sun was setting, the crowd had mellowed and begun to thin out and I was dead tired. Louise suddenly appeared at my side. All the ruddiness of her high color was drained and it alarmed me.
“What’s up? O’Malley still not back?”
“No. I just took a phone call for Brad. Do you know where he is? His cell’s off and he was supposed to be here by now.”
“Louise! What’s happened?”
“It’s Loretta—his wife. Loretta’s dead. Oh my God, Linda, we’ve got to find Brad. Her daddy called, crying and carrying on. . . .”
“Sweet Jesus! How could that be?”
“Hit by a car crossing Peachtree Street! Big head injury and just terrible . . . oh, Lord! That child! His boy, Alex!”
“Oh, my God!”
Suddenly the thought of Brad having to tell his son about his mother . . . or did he already know? Of course. He already knew. Brad would have to raise Alex now. He would have to go to Atlanta, go through a funeral, take care of her estate and somehow manage to move Alex to Mount Pleasant. Poor Brad! Good Lord! And, what would happen to Theo, Loretta’s father? From what I knew, he doted on Loretta. He was a widower and Loretta was his only child. If Brad took Alex to live with him, Theo would have no one. Well, too bad. He was a bastard anyway.
Louise was thinking the same thoughts and both of us were getting plenty upset.
“Call Robert,” I said to Louise, “he’ll know where Brad is.”
Louise went straight to the phone and dialed Robert’s number. It rang and rang.
“No voice mail?” I asked.
“Humph. What’s the matter with you? You can’t leave a message like that on voice mail!”
“Oh, God. You’re right. Cell phone?”
“I don’t know what’s the matter with him and why they never answer the phone in that house! Come on with me! I got his cell number in my purse downstairs.”
I tossed my towel to Lisa, the other bartender, and followed Louise.
“Can I do anything?” Lisa said, calling after us.
I turned back to her and said, “Yes! If you see Brad, tell him to find us right away!”
Louise was fishing in her purse for her phone book and her reading glasses. Just as she said, Okay, I got it right here, Brad appeared by the office door.
“Good evening, ladies,” he said, chipper as usual. But then he saw our faces. “What’s the matter?”
“Steel yourself, Mr. Brad, I got terrible news,” Louise said and put her hand on Brad’s arm. “Loretta done been run over by a car and she’s gone.”
“What? Loretta dead? How can that be true?”
“Louise, give me Robert’s number,” I said, “I’ll call him.”
“Mr. Theo’s waiting to hear from you. He’s at Grad
y Memorial Hospital and here’s his cell number.”
Brad sank in my chair and pulled out his cell phone to call Atlanta. I dialed Robert’s cell number and he answered.
“Robert Rosen speaking,” he said.
“Robert? This is Linda? Linda Breland from the restaurant?”
“Oh, of course! What’s going on? I’m at Cypress having dinner with my lovely wife, Susan, and some friends . . . is something wrong?”
“Yes. Loretta has been killed in an accident and Brad just got the news. I thought you might want to know.”
“I’ll be right there. Tell him I’ll be right there. Okay? Can I talk to him?”
“He’s on the phone with her father right now. . . .”
“Okay, I’ll call him in five minutes. Wait! I’ll see him in ten! Good God! This is terrible! How’s he doing?”
“He’s okay but it’s a horrible shock. . . .”
“Of course it is! Old Xanthippe gone? Well, well. The Gates of Hell are open tonight! I’ll be right there!”
If Brad’s side of the conversation was any indication of the hysteria taking place in Atlanta, I had to help get him there. Maybe Louise and I could get him packed. No, Robert would probably do that. I decided the best thing to do was get him a drink.
Brad was choking up and any minute the tears would come.
“Robert’s on the way,” I said and slipped out of the office wondering if I should get him a cup of coffee or a scotch.
O’Malley was back, serving drinks to the crowd of patrons around the bar. I ducked under the service opening and stretched up to his ear.
“We got an emergency,” I said as quietly as possible.
“What?”
“Brad’s wife just got killed in Atlanta. We gotta get him outta here and on a plane tonight. His father-in-law is on the phone with him now.”
“You’re shitting me, right?”
“No, I’m not shitting you, O’Malley, just give me a scotch for him, okay? Better yet, give me a bunch of mini-bottles and two glasses. Robert is on the way.”
“What happened?”