Dying for Chocolate

“Goldy,” Schulz said finally with that half-smile of his, “tell me more about your general.”

I tsked and sighed. “He was in Afghanistan,” I said, “role of observer or something. Before that he was a demolitions guy.”

Schulz let out a low whistle. “It’s coming back. He’s the guy, taught the Afghanis how to blow up Soviet tanks with rocket-propelled grenades they’d captured. He was the guy! I knew I’d seen him on TV.”

I turned back to my tea. “Nobody could figure out where the Afghanis were getting their recoilless rifles and C4, which is an explosive used by terrorists.”

Schulz smiled. “Thanks. I know what C4 is.”

I shrugged. “Anyway,” I said, “General Bo wasn’t talking. Maybe the army didn’t want him to give specifics. Marla said Bo was supposedly involved with the black market for explosives. Now he’s a civilian and he consults. He experiments. If he survives, he writes about it.” I stopped talking, exhausted by the effort.

“I don’t know if I’d want to be living on the top floor of a house belonging to a former demolitions expert. Emphasis on the former.”

“Thanks loads.”

“Now tell me about John Richard Korman.”

I sipped tea, tried to think of how to put this so it wouldn’t seem like such a big deal. I had told neither Philip Miller nor Tom Schulz—until our ride over here today—about The Jerk’s behavior last month or how it had frightened me. Why discuss John Richard’s behavior? Philip would have tried to explain it and Schulz would have tried to stop it.

Philip. The name brought pain.

I said, “I told you. John Richard was driving by every night. Hassling me about money, about seeing Arch. For about a month.”

“Did you report it?”

I shook my head.

Schulz said, “Did you do anything?”

I said, more sharply than I meant to, “I divorced him, didn’t I? I moved, didn’t I? I’m getting a security system for my house, okay?”

“Look,” he said, “we’ve got a weird call and now a death. Someone you knew. You’ve got a violent ex with a bad family history. I want you to stay in touch with me. You’re not safe. Do you understand?”

I nodded, numb.

The security gate buzzed: Marla, thank God. I looked at my watch. 2:30. Hard to believe. Events and conversations were flowing together, out of my control.

Marla arrived at the front door wearing one of her sequined and feathered sweat suits. Here and there jeweled barrettes held her fluffy brown hair. She looked like a plump exotic bird. In her hands were shopping bags. These were undoubtedly filled with ready-to-eat gourmet delicacies hastily purchased to relieve me from cooking. My heart warmed at the sight of her.

“Oh Goldy, God, I don’t believe this,” she said when she had heaved the bags onto the foyer floor. Her capacious arms circled me. “Are you okay?”

I lifted my chin from her shoulder and said, “No.”

“I’ll bet. Where’s Adele?”

“At a meeting.”

From behind us, Schulz said, “I’m off.”

I pulled away. “No, wait—”

Marla, sensing discomfort in the air, scooped up the grocery bags and mumbled about getting things into the kitchen. Schulz and I walked out the front door.

Birds squawked and flitted between the pines. The sun was warm. A bird darted into a well of sunlight and flashed a white underbelly. It was getting on to late afternoon. Snow melted noisily all around us as we made our way to the car. Tree branches dripped and the earth sucked and popped in absorbing the wet. Here and there on the lawn and in the general’s new flower pots were clods of dirt that had been blown over the roof by the backyard garden-explosion. At Schulz’s car, I thanked him for bringing me home. Avoiding his eyes, I said, “You’ve been kind. Thanks.”

He waited for me to say more, to say something about seeing him again or wanting to. But I did not.

He said, “Goldy?”

“Yes?”

“Call me if you want to talk about the accident. Or anything else.”

“You need to come home,” Marla was saying into the kitchen phone when I returned. She hung up. “Adele,” she explained, rolling her eyes. “Wanted to know why I was answering the phone in her house, so I told her about you and Philip and the accident. Talk about stunned. She was speechless.”

“Where was she?”

“Still at Elk Park Prep. My sister, the storm-trooper fund-raiser. It’s like putting General Bo into one of those paint-pellet games. God help the school.” She paused for a moment, then pulled a clear plastic container filled with salad from one of the bags. “Speaking of Bo,” she said, “I bought something that sounds like a uniform. Field greens? Think you can get them on the black market, too? Anybody done a study of terrorist food?”

I turned to her with my mouth open. “Field greens?” I didn’t get it. Suddenly the absurdity of everything swept over me. I gagged. Marla reached out to hold me.

“It’s okay,” she said.

Firmly, Marla sat me down. With the efficiency I admired so much in her, she made some espresso. She knew I loved the stuff, and she even remembered not to ruin it with lemon peel or sugar. I liked it better than tea anyway. When she set the tiny cup down, she glanced out back.

“What’s the general doing? Putting in a gold mine?”

“No, a garden.”

She shook her heavy cheeks. “Too bad he’s never gone hand to hand with The Jerk.” She giggled and sat down next to me in a flurry of feathers and sequins. She said, “There are a lot of people we should call. About Philip.”

I nodded. In Aspen Meadow you had to call people in times of crisis. You had to let them know they’d be needed. She found pencil and paper and asked for numbers, which I read to her from our slender town phone book. At Elizabeth’s house she got the answering machine. Next she tried a neighbor of Elizabeth’s in the hope that we could get somebody to be with her. There was no answer. Marla then tried Aspen Meadow Health Food. She told the clerk what had happened, asked her to put up a sign closing the place for the next few days, and left our numbers to be called.

When I had finished the coffee we put away the food Marla had purchased: there was enough for several days. She asked me about the evening meal. Chicken salad, in the refrigerator. I could not imagine eating. I looked at my watch.

Where was Arch?

“Goldy.” Marla touched my shoulder. “What is it?”

“Find out where Arch is,” I said in a whisper.

Marla turned crisply and called the school, was put on hold, fumed and fussed, and eventually had an answer. She held her hand over the receiver. “Adele offered to bring him home when the general comes by later. But she’s not authorized to take him, so Arch is still there, and Adele is coming home early with somebody else. Want me to go?”

I shook my head and got on the phone with the minor bureaucrat, said General Farquhar would be by later and he had my authorization to pick up Arch.

Marla asked if I wanted more coffee or what. I shook my head as she took out lace place mats and English china for the evening meal, then searched out the general. I wanted Arch to be home. I wanted this day to be over. When Marla returned, she moved between the kitchen and dining room to set the table. I furiously began to wash the teacups. Work was always the best antidote for frustration.

Also the best antidote for . . .