Dying for Chocolate Page 22

  He said, “I don’t want a chasuble.”

  How he could remember the names of all the priestly garments when that same vocabulary eluded me was another of Arch’s amazing traits. But in this particular context, when the van again refused to turn over, it just made me angry. Why couldn’t Arch know about cars, say, instead of magic and fantasy role-playing games and ecclesiastical trappings?

  I said, “We’ll go to Aspen Meadow Drug, then. They have everything.” The van, as if in agreement, finally turned over.

  We pawed through the drugstore racks. Nothing. I told Arch to let me have one more look, and while I did he saw one of his friends from the list. The kid had just come from the doctor where he’d had an ear check. I invited him to the party. While they were chatting (“Bring a swimsuit,” Arch was saying, while the mother gave me a startled look. How can you afford a pool?) I trundled off to find a clerk, a teenage girl who was so fat my heart went out to her. Still, I was not above promising her a dozen Scout’s Brownies if she would check the upstairs storeroom for a cape left unsold at Halloween. Her eyes brightened, and after disappearing for five minutes she handed me a black satin adult cape still in its plastic wrapper. Fifty dollars. I thanked her profusely and got her name so I could leave her the brownies.

  “We’re in business, kid,” I called to Arch as I held the package aloft, headed for the checkout, and prayed that my groceries had survived this half-hour delay.

  But the van would not start. Arch gave me an impatient look.

  I screamed, “This is not my fault!”

  To my complete amazement, he said quietly, “Why don’t you just get out the jumper cables?”

  I nodded in dumbfounded silence and began to extract the jumper cables from old newspapers and cans and other things I had been meaning to recycle. Arch climbed out of the van and found his friend’s mother, who agreed to give us a jump. Problem was, she couldn’t remember which wire went where, and I was so frazzled I couldn’t either, so it was something of a relief when Arch took the wires out of my hands and commanded the woman to start her car.

  “Do you really not know how to do this, Mom?”

  “I do, I just forget. It’s like changing a tire. You have to figure it out, just like when you have a flat tire. Only when you get a flat tire you’re so frustrated it takes fifteen minutes to calm down enough to think.”

  “You have to pretend you’re an electrical circuit,” Arch said as he pinched open the toothed cable-claws and attached them to the batteries. “The cables just complete the circuit.” After a few moments he said triumphantly, “Now try it.”

  It started like a charm. Arch disconnected the cables and threw them in on top of the shrimp. I was awash in guilt for thinking he did not know about cars. I yelled thanks to the woman and her son.

  Back at the Farquhars, though, things did not go so smoothly. The phone began its incessant ringing. Aspen Meadow Florist called. Did General Farquhar really want three rare orchids on the corsage, at fifteen dollars each? Yes, I said. What could it hurt? Then Brian Harrington called. Was sweet Sissy going to be at the anniversary party? What business was it of his, I wanted to know, but only said yes. Then I heard a click and couldn’t get a dial tone. Either the Farquhars were having trouble with their phone or the person who kept picking up the line was doing it again.

  “Damn, damn, damn,” I said as I slammed the phone repeatedly into its cradle. Whoever it was, I thought savagely, that shouldn’t feel too pleasant on the ear.

  “Now what’s wrong?” Arch demanded.

  “I can’t get the phone to work,” I said crossly. After a few more receiver-slams the dial tone finally popped back, and I tried four of the names on Arch’s list. Three no-answers and one busy signal.

  “I’m sorry, Arch, I’ll keep trying once I get the pasta going for the salad. Nobody’s home, so it’s really not my—

  “Nothing is ever your fault! Whose fault is it?” He stomped out of the kitchen. When he got into the hall, he yelled, “Sometimes I just want to go and live with Dad!”

  I let cold water gush into deep pots, then set them on to boil. I gritted my teeth. All my motherly work for nothing. Go and live with your father, I wanted to yell back. But I would not. I dumped the almonds into the food processor. The blade made a huge noise, as if it were grinding gravel. It was strangely comforting. I was not going to get angry. I was not going to say what I knew to be true.

  Your father doesn’t want you.

  23.

  Adele and the general entered the kitchen. They were together, they were quiet, they avoided my eyes. I figured I was either going to get sympathy or get fired.

  To my surprise, it was the former.

  “Let’s go out on the veranda, shall we?” said General Bo in a time-for-the-staff-meeting tone. “We couldn’t help but overhear.”

  I mumbled in the affirmative. Before we could move in that direction, though, Julian padded across the kitchen tiles. Ignoring the Farquhars, he lightly touched the fudge he had made that morning before he left for school. Left without Arch, I added mentally, but was in no mood for another hostile encounter. The candy appeared to be cool. Then he peered into the blender with the almonds. Satisfied, he moved to the refrigerator, opened the door, and clanked jars around. He emerged grasping soft drinks under each arm. He said, “Could you send Sissy down when she comes? I’m helping Arch build his stand.”

  “You’re home early,” I observed coolly.

  “Yeah, I skipped my lab because I thought Arch might need some help.”

  I said I would indeed send Sissy down when she arrived. Pressing my temples with my fingers, I followed the Farquhars out to the porch. I welcomed anyone’s willingness to help Arch.

  “Goldy,” said the general once he was seated and had fixed me with his ice-blue gaze, “you’re under a lot of fire. Let us give you a hand.”

  I explained to them that I was just trying to get Arch’s party set up, the party that was going to be at the same time as their anniversary soirée. I turned to Adele. Which was your stupid idea, I almost said to her, but did not.

  Adele clucked. “Oh, and I was so hoping it would make him happy.” She paused. “I think children go through ungrateful periods. Marla had tough teenage years, I remember.”

  I looked out at the sky. It was a liquid blue that permeated the air and brought the hills, the trees, the lumps of mountain grass into sharp focus.

  I said, “I don’t want Arch to go off the deep end. You can’t imagine what a shock it was to see him walking into town today. I thought he was running away. I ended up doing a money-binge at Aspen Meadow Drug on something extravagant that he doesn’t even need.”

  The general cleared his throat. “If you really don’t want him to be going AWOL on you,” he said in a conspiratorial tone, “I can just set the perimeter alarm whenever he’s in the house. If he tries to run away, we’ll know.”

  “No. I would never. . . but thanks very much. Really.” I regarded them both, a pair of tilted heads, two pairs of empathetic eyes. “Keeping him prisoner won’t work. I’ll call his friends while I’m cooking. Maybe you two could invite him out now for a swim.”

  They beamed. They were so willing to be supportive.

  Adele sat outside on a lounge chair while the general and Arch splashed about and screeched “Marco!” and “Polo!” to each other. I began to fix the anniversary meal in earnest. The tricolored rotini bubbled merrily, a riotous, bleached version of the Italian flag. That was probably what the pasta makers had in mind. I ran cold water over it and remembered Andre’s admonition never to add dressing to hot pasta if your ultimate objective was to serve it cold. Hot pasta acted like sponges, sopping up the sauce and turning a light noodley texture into a sodden mass.

  “Not at this soirée,” I muttered as I drained the asparagus and ran cold water over it to set the color.

  I had just begun to mix the biscotti dough when Adele appeared with her cane. She was wearing a blue bathing suit and a
smile frozen with pain.

  “Pills,” she said. “I should know better than to attempt the frog kick. It always throws my back out. I would have sent Bo up, but he had to check something in his precious magazine.”

  “Oh my,” I murmured. “Just sit down and I’ll look for them.”

  But I did not have a chance, because at that moment the general appeared, fierce as a warrior in one of the heavy bathrobes given to him at his retirement by his West Point classmates. Embroidered across the back of this one were the words SUPPORT THE ACLU—CUSS IN PUBLIC.

  “I’m missing a detonator,” he boomed as he began to pull out canisters from the kitchen shelves.

  “I don’t think it would be out here,” I said in a low voice, but they both ignored me. Adele still hadn’t found her pills. The two of them began to sort through the gadgets, foodstuffs, flowerpots, and knickknacks on the counters. When no pills and no detonator turned up, they started through the kitchen desk drawers.

  “Where’s Julian?” the general demanded finally.

  “Downstairs, I think. Have you looked in the garage?”

  “What’s this?” said Adele as she leaned over the biscotti dough.

  The general and I exchanged panicked expressions. Adele looked up at me when I didn’t answer.

  “Dessert,” we said in unison.

  “I’m going upstairs to find my pills,” she announced, and limped out.

  “Did you really lose a detonator?” I asked. “Or have you misplaced the Italian ring?”

  “I haven’t misplaced anything.” The general’s voice was gritty as sand. “I have the ring. I do not have the detonator.” He stalked out.

  “Alone at last,” I said under my breath. I finished rolling the biscotti dough into loaves and put them into the oven. While I whisked together the salad dressing, I called the rest of Arch’s friends.

  First name on the list was female. Arch had put an asterisk beside her name: Andrea Coburn. She lived on Arnold Palmer Avenue. Coburn père was extremely nice.

  “Oh yes, Arch! He’s been over here. We love his magic tricks. He made my wife’s diamond earrings disappear!” At this he began to laugh uproariously. Clearly Arch also had made the diamond earrings reappear. The father agreed to bring Andrea over that night for dinner and to pick her up. One down, five to go.

  I got lucky: all but one of the kids were available. The others were all eager to come. So much for advance notice.

  The sun had begun its slow descent over the mountains and I had refrigerated the orchid corsage and set out the six bouquets from Aspen Meadow Florist when Sissy buzzed the front gate. Since I never knew what kind of mood she was going to be in, I put on a happy face in hopes that she would mirror it. Miraculously, she did, and after watching me work in the kitchen for a while, she clopped down the stairs to see Julian. I had not seen Arch since . . . when? I reviewed the cooking: two salads for the adults plus a molded lime concoction with pineapple and marshmallows for the kids, asparagus, biscotti, hamburgers. . . yes, I distinctly remembered my hands immersed in ground beef the last time I had seen Arch. When he came up for more soft drinks, I had told him his friends were coming and he could do his magic tricks after all.

  “Oh no!” he’d squealed. “I have to go get ready!” And I had not seen him since.

  The doorbell rang: the Harringtons. To my chagrin I realized that Weezie had bourbon on her breath. I sneaked a glance at my watch: five-thirty. It was going to be a long evening. I hadn’t even started the fire; I asked Brian to do it.

  He leaned in close to me. “Starting fires is one of my favorite pastimes.”

  I thrust the lighter fluid at him. “I’m so glad. Men can’t resist starting a charcoal fire. It brings out their caveman persona.”

  Between the arrivals of the Rasmussens, other Elk Park friends, golf partners, and Arch’s pals, I squawked over the intercom to the general and Adele the news of the guests’ arrival. The general reported that Adele had awakened from a nap. Would I please entertain their guests?

  And cook, too? Arch was the magician, not me. But I told him it would be no problem.

  Brian Harrington was fanning smoke madly when I stepped onto the brick patio. Weezie had helped herself to a drink from the outside bar. I tried not to think of how drunk she would be by the time the shrimp and burgers were ready. Arch and his friends milled about the pool self-consciously. All except for Andrea, that is. She was serious-looking, with straight brown hair and bangs that fell to her nose. She was giving Brian Harrington cheerful, unwelcome advice on how to start the fire.

  I hopped back up to the kitchen and made a tray of soft drinks and popcorn for the young set. Since some of them had mistakenly thought this was Arch’s birthday, there were presents to open. We occupied ourselves with this enterprise until the Farquhars made their appearance and we all sang “Happy Anniversary.” It was a good moment, marred only by the concluding hyena laugh from Weezie as the fire once more went out.

  General Farquhar offered to work on the charcoal. I rushed back to the kitchen to start the parade of food. I put the burgers and shrimp on a large tray, and prayed for balance.

  When I came back out, Sissy and Julian had appeared on the patio. Bo, Adele, Weezie, and most of the other adults were sitting on white Adirondack chairs, chatting amiably. Julian sat apart, alone. Weezie cast occasional smoldering glances in the direction of Brian and Sissy. Julian was more direct: he glared. I followed his line of vision in time to see big Bri lean forward, ostensibly to tell Sissy something important, but really just to glance down her dress.

  “Brian!” screeched Weezie. “Come over here! We’re talking about Philip Miller!”

  My heart ached. I wanted to hear what they were going to say, but I had to get the salads and asparagus. When I was almost to the sliding glass door General Farquhar trotted up behind me and caught me lightly by the arm.

  “This is a party,” he said forcefully. “I want you to enjoy it.”

  “Yes, sir! Just like the bird-watching!”

  He said, “You’re part of the family.” Behind us the hostile voices of Weezie and Brian careened into shrieking.

  I said, “You bet. Just let me go get the rest of the food.” I smiled in what I hoped was a familial manner. “Did you ever find your detonator?”

  “No. The biscotti come out?”

  “Beautifully,” I said, and turned to go back to the house.

  In the kitchen I had the sudden hollow feeling that dusk often brings. I tried to put the feeling aside as I balanced covered bowls on a large tray. I wished Schuiz were here. Arch had his friends. Among the adults I was odd woman out. Why hadn’t I invited him? You should be used to solitude by now, I told myself. I had seen him just this morning, and he had said he would be in court all afternoon. Could he possibly have some other engagement on a Tuesday night? I put down the tray and punched in Schulz’s office number.

  “Speak!” he answered gruffly. His voice flooded me with warmth.

  “Hi, it’s me, the Farquhars are having a dinner party and I was wondering if you’d like to join us, sorry about the late notice.” I ended out of breath.

  “You getting lonely or something?”

  I bristled but held it in. “Just trying to be nice.”

  “You are nice. And I miss you, too.” Wonderful words. Why should I be upset if he could read my mind? John Richard had always said I expected him to read my mind. Schuiz said, “No can do, sorry to say. I’m waiting for a couple of calls back on that background check.”

  We promised to see each other the next day and rang off. I felt much better until I hoisted my tray and reemerged onto the patio. Brian and Weezie were still arguing. Let the mood fit the food. I tried to think festive. But the squabble had become so heated that even Arch and his friends were watching from beside a stand of shrubs.

  “My family owned Flicker Ridge,” Weezie was saying. “J was the one who brought it to the,” she spat out the last word, “marriage.”

 
“Salad, anybody?” I said brightly. I proffered the tray. “I’m just about to put them out here on the buffet—”

  Weezie interrupted me, her voice still scathing. “Philip Miller and his Protect Our Mountains group got in the way, didn’t he, Bri? He had an ecological strategy for the ridge; he even talked to me about it right before he died. But he doesn’t seem to have left it to anybody. What luck for Brian Harrington Associates.”

  Adele turned a miserable face to me. Some party.

  “Let’s eat!” I cried. Grateful for a diversion, the group rushed toward the buffet. I concentrated on the grill, and shortly the shrimp and burgers threw off luscious barbecue smoke. The hostilities ceased while people ate.

  When I brought around a second tray of the mixed grill, Arch murmured to me, “Thanks, Mom, this is really great.” I told him to be ready to do tricks when the food was gone.

  When the guests had revisited the buffet for thirds and begun to look around expectantly for dessert, I said, “Who’s ready for a magic show?”

  All the faces turned to me. I looked at Arch. After a moment’s hesitation, he assumed a businesslike manner. He asked a cohort to help him carry out the stand he and Julian had made from plywood. On its front was painted ARCHIBALD THE MAGNIFICENT. Julian put a tape into his recorder and a whiny horn fanfare crackled through the air. Deck chairs scraped and screeched over brick as the guests turned their attention to Arch. I looked around nervously. Arch had never performed in public before, and I didn’t want any interruptions. Weezie was still casting murderous glances at Brian, while he in turn winked at Sissy. It was as if he were trying to say, I’m still in control of this situation. But he did look shaken.

  Arch bowed to light applause. He tossed the satin cape over his shoulders and flourished a baton, one John Richard had bought him in Denver. He began with some of the tricks I already knew: the liquid in the newspaper, the string through the neck, the disappearing/ reappearing cotton balls under plastic cups. There was polite clapping after each. I was enjoying myself so much that I almost forgot about dessert. I had dipped the biscotti in Valrhona couverture, a dense, silky chocolate that wrapped itself around cookies like a luxurious blanket. Then I had used meringue to attach them to three large Styrofoam cones. I had put a sparkler on top of each. Showmanship demanded appearing with the cones at the conclusion of Arch’s routine. Accordingly, I gave the magic show a wide berth and scuttled back up to the kitchen.