Killer Pancake

Julian took her hand and looked at it. His shoulders slumped.

“Thanks, Marla. I’m sorry too.”

Eventually he let go of her hand and flopped into the chair. I asked her how she felt now that she’d survived the atherectomy. She told me to lean in close, then whispered that her groin and back were still killing her. Then she told us she’d talked to the private nurse arranged to start when she came home. The nurse would double as a driver, and this seemed to relieve her. I sat in Tony’s place by the window. The ventilation unit blew chilled air out onto my calves. Outside the window, people of all ages in athletic gear walked and jogged around a paved track. They weren’t patients, I wagered, but doctors, nurses, and administrators. In any event, it wasn’t exactly the view I’d want if I’d just had a heart attack while running. I thought I could see Dr. Lyle Gordon lumbering through his laps. If Marla could have seen him, she would have made a joke about it. That was her way. But she was still flat in the bed, and every few minutes her mood seemed to sink a little lower. The three of us sat for a while, saying nothing.

“How’s Arch?” Marla asked finally.

Julian and I fell over each other saying how great Arch was, wearing his Panthers shirt and doing tie-dying, and looking for old Beatles and Herman’s Hermits records.

“I think I have some Eugene McCarthy buttons in my attic,” Marla said feebly.

We all fell silent again, the brief spark in our conversation like a fire gone cold.

“Well, show me what you brought,” Marla tried again.

Julian picked up the bag and delicately unloaded the articles and mail onto the foot of the bed. I picked up the bedclothes and folded them into reasonable clumps before stacking them on the bedstand within Marla’s reach. Marla took the pile of mail from Julian and sorted through it without interest.

“Oh, boy, the doctor’s not going to like this,” she said, holding up a postcard. She read, “From my mother, postmarked Lucerne. ‘Have found a perfectly wonderful couple to hang around with and will be going to their chateau for a month! I’ll write again when I have their address.’” She tossed the postcard on the floor. “So much for Mom coming in to lend a hand.”

“Jeez,” said Julian, “can’t you write to her General Delivery or something?”

“It’s one thing if it’s Bluff, Utah, Big J.,” Marla told him affectionately. “It’s another if it’s the entire country of Switzerland. This couple probably latches on to Americans and brings them to their rented chateau to give them a big pitch and swindle them out of millions of dollars on some stock deal in Mexico. Wouldn’t be the first time for dear Mom. I actually think she enjoys it.”

She stared at another postcard. “I already told good old Lyle Gordon all he needs to know about our family history. I got the ‘you are-going-to-die-if-you-don’t-change-your-ways’ speech.” She gave me a mournful look. “No more goodies from Goldy’s kitchen.” She sighed again and turned her face toward the window. “God, I’m better off dead.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, too quickly. “I’m going to cook all lowfat food for you. And it’ll be so delicious you won’t be able to tell it’s good for you.”

She closed her eyes. “You hate cooking diet stuff.”

“I’m going to learn to like it.”

“Oh, to be thin!” Marla said with a hoarse laugh. “I may get there after all. The hard way.”

“Don’t,” I said. Then my eyes fell on a FedEx package on the white hospital bedspread. “What’s this? Want me to open it?” She nodded. I ripped it open and handed it to her.

After a moment, she grunted. “It’s from Hotchkiss Skin & Hair. They always want to impress their customers with how they’re getting you all the latest things. You know Reggie Hotchkiss, Goldy. Don’t you? He was a big radical with the S.D.S. and got his picture in Life magazine ages ago. He went to jail for destroying federal property and dodging the draft and all that.”

“Destroying federal property? What kind?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Let me think.” She took a deep breath. “Oh, yeah. After he burned his draft card and failed to break into the CIA, he tried to drive his mother’s Bentley up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, and hit a lamppost en route. That was the picture that was in Life,” she added. “Someone said it was all propaganda from the British car maker. You must have seen him around town, he goes to everything.”

“The only time I saw Reggie Hotchkiss up close and personal, I was trying to eavesdrop on a conversation he was having with Dusty Routt about Mignon products. She said he was going to get into trouble.”

Marla sputtered, “The guy’s a genuine yuppie, Goldy. The last thing he would do is get into trouble when he’s trying to take over his mother’s cosmetics business.” She frowned at me. “Haven’t you ever had a facial at his place?”

I laughed. “No, can’t say that I have. Haven’t had the time, money, or inclination. Especially since I’ve been knee-deep in nonfat dips and chocolate tortes.”

“And ducking bleach water,” Julian interjected.

Marla ignored him and handed me a yellow piece of paper. “Well, here’s a free coupon for the facial. You have to buy fifty bucks’ worth of cosmetics from their fall line, though, so you might not want to use it. God knows I won’t be able to.”

I glanced at the coupon, then flipped through the slick pamphlet from Hotchkiss. The glossy photographs were of boxes, bottles, and jars of soap, cream, toners, makeups of various shapes, sizes, colors. What confused me was how the printing underneath each photograph was imperfectly aligned with the products. It was as if the photos had been taken long before, and the descriptions added hastily, just before the pamphlet went out….

Wait a minute. Fall into Color with Hotchkiss Skin & Hair! Hadn’t I just had those very words printed at the top of a banquet menu? Hotchkiss Magic Pore-closing Toner with Mediterranean Sea Kelp—tones skin as it closes pores! Hotchkiss Patented Extra Rich Nighttime Replacement Moisturizer with Goat Placenta—slows down the aging process scientifically! Ultra Gentle Eye Cream Smoother with Swiss Herbs—firms eye area with secret European formula! Hot Date Blush. Chocolate Mousse Lipstick. Unbelievable. The words and descriptions were virtually the same. I thought again of Reggie Hotchkiss, the man with the persistent questions at the Mignon counter. But this mailer had gone out yesterday morning. My bet was that it had been hastily printed and FedEx’d the day after the Mignon banquet, when Mignon’s latest products were unveiled.

He was there. He had been. What had Dusty said? We saw you. Maybe Claire had seen him too. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to.

I tucked the coupon into the loaned sweatpants. I had to talk to Tom, the sooner the better. I scanned Marla’s face, and saw that fatigue was finally triumphing over her desire—her need—to be with family. Julian and I made noises about leaving.

Eyes half-closed, she protested weakly. “Tony told me a friend of his played golf three days after he had a heart attack.”

“Golf sucks,” Julian observed.

The weak smile widened. Marla shifted her bulky body around under the sheets, trying to get comfortable. “Tony thinks I should go to this dinner party with him tomorrow in the club. Since I’m pressuring Gordon to bust me out tomorrow, it’s a possibility. I can’t imagine anything more depressing than being at home alone when all the fireworks go off, anyway.”

“A party?” I said, confused. “A golf party?”

“Golf parties suck,” Julian contributed.

Now Marla seemed to be having trouble breathing. But she inhaled and struggled onward anyway. The nurse in the corner looked up from her notes. The EKG machine did not seem to be registering any distress, however, so she stayed put. Marla went on. “No, no, at the Braithwaites’ big estate, do you know them? She’s quite the socialite and he’s a—”

“Scientist,” I said. “I know. Please don’t talk about it Marla, do you need the nurse to come over here?”

She pressed her dry lips together and shook her head. “Do you know the people having the party?”

“Yes, of course I know them. But I thought you knew them. I’m catering the dinner, for goodness’ sake. And Babs Braithwaite said you recommended me.” I thought back to Babs’s chatter about Marla. I said, almost to myself, “So how did she hear about me if you didn’t—”

“Oh, Goldy, for heaven’s sake!” interjected Julian in a harsh whisper. “You’ve got ads. You’re in the Yellow Pages! You’re doing the food fair. Why does it matter how she heard about you?”