Fatally Flaky

to come sit next to you?”

“No.” My voice sounded disembodied.

“I’m so sorry, Goldy.”

“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe something has happened to Jack,” I said. In the distant reaches of my brain, a tiny voice said, Yeah, but he’d had two heart attacks already, he was a smoker, and he looked like hell when you saw him. Why are you surprised? I told the inner voice to shut up. “There’s been some mistake,” my actual voice said weakly. “An error. I just saw him a few hours ago. He was getting better.”

“I know, I know.” Father Pete’s voice seemed to be coming from far away. “But he had a history of heart attacks, and—”

“Who called you?” I whispered.

“Lucas,” Father Pete said gently, keeping his large eyes on me. He leaned forward in the chair. “Lucas was with Jack when he died. The hospital staff tried and tried to revive him, but it was just too sudden and too strong an attack—”

I groaned.

“I couldn’t reach Tom,” Father Pete persisted. “But one of his associates said he’d find him and tell him to come home. Meanwhile, I called Marla, and she’ll be over here shortly. She’s going to stay with you until Tom gets here.”

“Are you wanting me to help with funeral arrangements?” I asked.

“Goldy. Eventually, we can talk about that, if you want.” Father Pete’s big, brown, Greek eyes regarded me. “I know how much he meant to you, and how much you meant to him. He often told me—”

“Please, don’t. Not now.” Tears were sliding down my face, but I was as unaware of where they had come from as I was aware of my irrational desire to get Father Pete out of our house. I made a fist and pushed it against my closed mouth.

“I will call you later.” Father Pete stood up. “Again, Goldy, please know how very sorry I am. Marla is supposed to phone me and tell me whether or not you want meals sent in.”

I took a deep breath and removed my fist from my lips. “I don’t want or need food.” Then I forced myself to say, “Thank you.”

“Goldy.” Father Pete was hovering next to the couch. I didn’t want to look at him, so I closed my eyes. “You need to take time to grieve. I will be at the church if you need me. Call anytime. If I’m not at the church, you can call my cell…”

I said, “Thank you.” I forced myself up, and wordlessly saw Father Pete out.

The front door closed behind him with a soft chook.

I waited for something to happen, but nothing did. A car rumbled by outside, then another. I went back out to the living room and sat down. When Father Pete had been here, the light in the living room had been wan, the illumination of early morning darkened by the incessant cloud cover that had marked the unending rain.

When I stood up again, I still felt as if it wasn’t quite my body that was moving, not really my own hands that were punching the espresso machine. I pulled myself four shots, added an ounce of Irish whiskey, then drank that down straight, no cream.

Then I moved without thinking over to one of the kitchen cabinets Tom had installed. I opened it and pulled out a large crystal bowl, an item I’d splurged on after Jack had sent me his generous check. I looked at it in my hands, then let it fall to the floor, where it crashed and broke into smithereens.

By the time Marla pounded on our front door, I almost had the mess cleaned up. I would have been ashamed to tell her what I was doing, or what I had done, so I took an extra few seconds to wet a paper towel, then wiped up the last of the shards. “Just a second, just a second,” I said under my breath. But Marla would not quit banging.

“Sheesh!” I said. “I’m alive, if that’s what you were worried about.”

Marla, who wore a sparkly purple sweat suit, lifted an eyebrow as she appraised my bathrobe, tear-streaked face, and, I saw too late, a cut on my foot that had left bloody streaks in the hallway.

“Barely alive, apparently.” She used her plump self to push the door all the way open, then pointed at my foot and the scarlet trail back to the kitchen. “I’ve heard of stigmata, but this is ridiculous.”

I couldn’t help myself: I laughed.

Marla, meanwhile, had made her way to the kitchen, where she was assessing the damage. “Okay!” she called. “This is interesting. What did you break?” I started to walk toward her. Suddenly my right foot hurt like the dickens.

“A bowl. A crystal—”

Marla turned back toward me and held up her hand. “Stop where you are. I’m going to get a wet washcloth, some alcohol or peroxide or something, and have a look at that foot.”

Truly, she is a great friend, I thought as I sat on the hall floor and waited for her to come back. The tears were still slipping down my face, and I was snuffling, trying to catch my breath.

“Denial, anger, bargaining, grief, acceptance,” said Marla as she inspected my foot and used the washcloth to gently remove a sliver of glass. She’d filled a large porcelain serving bowl with warm water and dipped my foot into it, then blotted the foot with—typically Marla—a cotton ball soaked with Irish whiskey. “Sorry, this was all I could find in a hurry. All right, where was I? You, o psychology major, should know about those stages of grief, brought to you courtesy of Dr. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross.” She patted my foot dry and placed a bandage on the worst cut. “I’d say the broken bowl was anger. Father Pete called my cell, as he was convinced you were still stuck in denial. You’re moving along quickly, you precocious girl.”

I couldn’t help the high-pitched giggle that escaped my lips. “Marla, don’t make me laugh.”

“No way. But what I am going to make you do is go take a shower. Go on, I’ll clean the kitchen floor, as you missed a few spots. Then you’re going to make me something to eat, because I am ravenous.” She leaned in to my face and I recoiled. “You’ve been drinking,” she accused.

“Not much. Just—”

“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. I may have to get half lit just to do some mopping. Say, how do you use a mop, anyway?”

“Marla, stop—”

“I will if you’ll just get your butt upstairs and hop into the shower. When you come back down, I’ll inspect your foot and make sure I don’t need to take you in for stitches.”

Southwest Hospital, I thought, as my throat closed again. I wasn’t sure I was up to going back there anytime soon.

I ran the hot water, took my shower, which actually did help me feel better, and got dressed in a clean polo shirt and much-laundered sweatpants. A breeze ruffled the curtain and I walked over to the window. I couldn’t help it: I looked out, across the street to Jack’s house.

He’d wanted to start his renovation on the outside, although Tom and I tried to dissuade him from doing so. It had snowed off and on all through April in Aspen Meadow, as it always did. Jack, ever cheerful, had said okay, he was willing to wait until summer to work on his house, after I’d told him for the umpteenth time that we didn’t really have “spring” in the mountains. So off Jack had gone with Doc Finn, who’d promised to teach Jack ice fishing. Occasionally, they brought their catch to us, and along with Arch, the five of us had some merry pan-fried-trout suppers, with Jack holding forth on how much fun it was to spend cold days with Doc Finn.

“We’re just two old farts who like to drink and fish, not necessarily in that order,” Jack said, with a wide smile. “We get too plastered, Gertie Girl? We can just walk across the street and sleep at my place.”

“You have beds with sheets on them for you and Finn?” I asked. “Because you can always stay here.”

“Oh, dear godchild,” Jack had said with mock ruefulness. “The things you don’t know about me.” When I’d given him a puzzled expression, he’d gone on: “Of course I have beds with clean linens.”

I sighed, not wanting to think about what would happen to Jack’s house, or anything else of his, because basically I didn’t want to think. Still, as a neighbor walked her dog up our street, I thought, How can she do that? How can she just go on with her life, as if nothing has happened?

I felt dizzy and sat down on our bed. After a few minutes, Marla came looking for me. She plopped down on our bedroom chair.

“I put something together that’s vaguely eggy, and now it’s in the oven.”