“In any event,” the general said when he had locked the cabinet, “when you see him I’d appreciate your not mentioning this room. He’ll probably think I’m some kind of wacko instead of a bona fide researcher.”
As far as I was concerned, the jury was still out on whether the general was wacko. But I just said, “It’s going to start raining. If we’re going to do the trash, we need to hustle.”
The general locked and armed the entry door.
“Too heavy for a young boy,” he observed as he tilted the garbage cart back on its wheels. I tried to help guide it and overcompensated with my good arm. The cart tipped over with a resounding crash. Coffee grounds, orange halves, bills and letters, meat trays and plastic wrap, cans and bottles spilled, rolled, broke, and skittered across the garage floor.
Two catastrophes in one day. I wondered about the Guinness record for mess-making as I gathered up soaked envelopes from Utah, rifle shells, empty bottles of Adele’s Estee Lauder cream and Julian’s peroxide, as well as bits of cut rope and empty fertilizer bags.
I said, “Why do you suppose Julian dyes his hair?”
“Probably to disguise his upbringing among the Indians,” the general said, exasperated. “Although you’d think he’d choose another style.” He scooped up mounds of fruit peelings sanded with coffee grounds, old newspapers, and empty chocolate boxes. He lifted one of these and said, “Sometimes you can’t believe you ate this stuff in the first place.”
Large raindrops had begun to splat down on the driveway when he finally towed the trash wagon to the curb. It was not until we were walking into the house together that it even occurred to me to wonder how the general knew I was going to see Schulz again.
16.
General Bo offered to let me shower first. Since one of the odd things about this luxurious house was that only one person could command the hot-water supply at a time, I told him to go ahead. I would be up after I checked on my culinary domain. I washed my hands in the hall bathroom and went into the kitchen, where Adele was deep into a phone conversation whose bad vibes were readily apparent. A crisis had erupted with a pool fund- raiser set for August, a fifty-dollar-per-seat showing of a film featuring George Rumslinger in a supporting role.
“Doesn’t anybody at that school
I wrote her a note: “I know the foreman.” She nodded, smiled, and held up one finger, as if to say, I’ll be off in a minute. I wrote, “Do you have any bandages?” She pulled her mouth into an astonished O, then shook her head. “Do you need help?” she whispered. I shook my head and walked stiffly through the pelting raindrops back out to my van, where my trusty safety kit yielded an Ace bandage. I wrapped up my arm, pulled out Marla’s copy of the
NO LOVE AT THIS FIRST BITE!
In her latest culinary adventure, Ms. Goldy Bear (yes, folks, you read that right), the divorced proprietor of GOLDILOCKS’ CATERING, WHERE EVERYTHING IS JUST RIGHT! (no joke there either), has declared herself a goddess of love. Our unmarried Venus claims to reign in the kitchen, where she supposedly prepares aphrodisiac foods.
Contrary to die advertised amorous effects, no outbreak of love was in evidence at a dinner party for six at the elegant home of Brian and Weezie Harrington last Saturday night. Quite the opposite, in fact. The hostilities between the host and hostess began somewhere between the mussels and the quiche, and continued on through the undercooked pork chops and dry chocolate cookies.
How long must Aspen Meadow endure such pain to the palate? Think if Goldy Bear had to cater a peace conference! The U.S. would be nuked before the lemon meringue pie. Since Ms. Bear obviously has no demonstrable skill in the culinary arts and no successful experience in the love department, this reviewer recommends that she try something she’s good at. Like carpool.
Until next time, discriminating diners, I am ever your
Pierre
Mussels? Quiche? Pork chops? Carpool?
Why was someone doing this to me? Who could be so cruel? My pain was like that of a fish when he’s gutted alive. A blade of agony ripped through my psyche. To be skewered so publicly, so unfairly. . . it was beyond belief. The hurt flared into rage. I wondered what my chances would be with a libel suit. Thing was, every time I called my lawyer, it cost me hundreds of dollars to hear that whatever it was I had in mind was not a good idea.
Adele arrived on the deck. The rain had turned to hail, and I had not heard her cane over the rapid-fire thudding on the roof.
She saw the newspaper in my hand. Her eyes clouded sympathetically. “I’m so sorry you saw that.”
“So am I. Who could it be? Someone who was there? Someone who heard about it and got the menu wrong?”
Line One began to ring. I rose to get it. Anything to be away from the newspaper.
“Mrs. Farquhar, please. This is the headmaster of Elk Park Preparatory School.”
Obviously he did not recognize the voice of the caterer who’d bailed him out of a sixty-plate-brunch problem only the week before. I told him to hang on and brought the portable phone out to Adele.
I closed my eyes, listened to the hail thud on the deck roof. I wished Pierre—whoever he was—were outside.
Naked! Dying! Pummeled by hail and then hit by lightning!
I groaned. The air had turned cold. I felt each thud of hail directly on my heart. You’d think that after being married to an abusive husband you would learn to take abuse. But until you find a way to pull yourself away from the abuser’s opinion of you, it still hurts. I was going to find a way to pull myself away. And I was going to find out who had it in for me.
Adele was saying to the headmaster, “I don’t understand why nothing goes right in this town. . .”
Tell me about it.
I slipped into the living room for a couple of Lindt Lindors. When I came back out to the porch I picked up the periwinkle-and-white crocheted afghan, moved to a cold but dry wicker chair, and wrapped myself up. I opened a chocolate and popped it in my mouth, then allowed the sinfully dark, soft creaminess to melt on my taste buds and make me feel much better. After a moment I took a deep breath of cool air and opened my eyes to see the hail falling in massive vertical sheets to the meadow. Here and there splashes of white speckled the lush green.
In addition to feeling things will go right in a move to the mountains, people often mistakenly believe that in the midst of such natural beauty, there will be an absence of honking traffic, backstabbing gossip, and cruelty in general. I ate the other chocolate and allowed my eyes to travel around the deck, to Adele shaking her head at the headmaster’s distress, to the table with the hateful newspaper review, to the panel of security buttons on the wall. Security, it seemed, from physical intrusions only.
Arch came out to the deck and beckoned. The hail was so loud I had not heard Julian drive up or the two boys come inside. In the kitchen I automatically began to prepare hot chocolate, Arch’s favorite drink on snowy days.
“Mom,” he said as he looked into the pan of milk, “it’s not snowing. Hey!” He pulled back and stared at me. “What happened to you?”
I gazed at him: freckles, eyes full of concern behind glasses, hair damp from being hatless in the hail. I assured him I was okay, just had a little slip in the cafe and ended up falling. I shrugged it off. With my assurance that things were fine, he pressed his lips together in a grin, opened his eyes wide, and raised his eyebrows.
Something was wrong with the way he looked. I had to keep staring at him for a minute to figure out what it was. This morning he had left without my checking his sweat suit. Now he was wearing baggy black pants and a
