Cut, Crop & Die (30 page)

Nettie paused. “Maybe.”

“I hope so. I haven’t seen your pages, but I’d like to.”

She wavered. “How about I come in tomorrow? I’ll bring my favorite layouts.”

The off-duty officer lingered by the front door while Dodie and I cleaned up. I could tell Dodie was feeling more like her regular self. It seemed as good a time as any to ask her again. “What’s been going on? It can’t just be Yvonne’s death and Horace’s job. You’ve been through tough times before. Maybe it sounds like I’m prying, and you’ve been evasive, but I care, Dodie. I know you’re my boss, but I consider you a friend.” Perhaps I sounded a tad manipulative, but what I said was true.

She pushed a pile of small odds and ends of paper into her palm and stared at the random pattern. “I found a lump in my breast.”

For a moment, my heart contracted in my chest. A chill spread over my body. The big “C.” Oh, no! I forced my voice to sound conversational. “And you are going to the doctor, right? Tell me you have an appointment.”

She rearranged the pieces of paper. “No. I can’t.”

“What? You have to!”

“Not until we get this thing with Horace’s job squared away. If we can get his old employer to pick up our insurance, great. If not, and if I go to someone now, the new insurance company will call it a pre-existing condition and refuse to cover me.”

A slow, painful understanding crystallized. “You mean to tell me Horace doesn’t know? Dodie, we’re talking your health. You can’t worry about insurance. You need to get to a doctor as quickly as possible. My Lord, Dodie. Don’t you realize the longer you wait—”

“Stop!” Her face was agitated, fierce. Her hairy brows formed storm clouds. “Don’t start. I know exactly what the complications are. My mother and sister died of breast cancer. I am not sending my husband and my daughter to the poor house over this. Especially if it isn’t curable.”

I sputtered. My voice rose to such a pitch that our security guard turned to stare at me. “Are you nuts? Breast cancer isn’t a death sentence anymore. We aren’t living in the dark ages. And as for going to the poor house, Horace would … would … well, he’d just curl up and die without you. And your kid can put herself through college. Your priorities stink, Dodie. Money isn’t everything—”

“The heck it isn’t! You of all people should know that. I can’t get proper treatment without do-re-mi. Loads of it. And I won’t do that to Horace!”

“Then I’ll tell him!”

“You better not!”

“I will do exactly that.”

“And I’ll fire your scrawny butt.”

“That’s fine because I’d rather be unemployed than sit here and watch you die. Your health means more to me than my job. I can live without this place, but I can’t live with myself if you get cancer—if you’ve got cancer—and … and …” I couldn’t go on. The fright with Gracie, the news about Detweiler, the strain with my daughter, being second to Bama, all snowballed inside me. I’d had enough. I started to cry. “Please, Dodie, please. Don’t do this. Don’t make me stand by and watch.”

“That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you. But you wouldn’t leave it alone, would you?” Her voice was ragged.

We glared at each other, speechless, both shocked by the violence of our disagreement, and by the passion in our voices. I was the first to turn away, which meant, I’d lost. Something in that willingness to blink gave Dodie permission to calm down.

She put a heavy arm on my shoulders. “Don’t cry.
Oy
,” and she rattled off a Yiddish saying.

When I said, “Huh?” she translated, “They bury better-looking ones. Hey, scout, I didn’t think you’d take it this way.”

“How did you expect me to take it? You aren’t making sense. You must have thought I’d be upset or you would have told me sooner.”

She stepped back to an arm’s length. “I didn’t know. I guess … I guess I thought, well, I’m your boss, and that’s it. I figured you’d try to fix it. That’s what you do.”

I had no idea what she meant by that, and my face must have shown my confusion.

Dodie gave me a gruff hug. “It’s one of the things I like about you, Kiki Lowenstein. You really believe you can fix things … even when it’s clear they are hopelessly, irrevocably broken. You just keep trying, don’t you? You’re the
tikkun olem
queen, sunshine.”

Tikkun olem
. Repair of the world. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Yeah, she was right. I set for myself impossible tasks. I was a real idiot, through and through.

She sighed. “Here’s the plan. We’ll find out Friday what the attorney thinks about a settlement. Horace has been job hunting and has an interview in Chicago next Wednesday. Give me until next Thursday. That’s not long. Promise me you won’t say anything to my husband, okay?”

I nodded, reluctantly, and we went back to picking up. We were nearly through when she said, “I have a confession to make. Sheila called me about Detweiler. I didn’t tell you, but I knew what she was planning.”

I stared hard at her, unsure of what to say and not trusting myself. So she was in on it too. The perfidy of my inner circle amazed me. What was that old joke about it isn’t paranoia if they’re really after you? Life is a series of solo experiences made bearable by the comfort of friends. Now I saw my support net differently. I was surrounded by arrogant do-gooders manipulating me. I responded with a disgusted sound and shoved chairs up to the worktable hard. I wanted out of here, to pick over my sore feelings in the company of my dog. At the very least, I needed to change our bandages—my psychic ones and Gracie’s on her ear.

Dodie sighed in response. “Detweiler’s a good man. I have no idea why he led you on. Sheila and I talked it over.”

Without me, I supplied mentally and angrily. It was my turn to share a pithy little saying: “Better a good enemy than a bad friend.”

“Maybe we were wrong, but we thought if you felt like a million bucks, at least you could walk away with your head held high.” Her face sagged. “Sorry, but you had to know. You deserved to know. I hope we did the right thing.”

I grew hot under the collar. “It doesn’t matter. After all, you two made your decision without consulting me. Why care now about how I feel? What if I told you I knew all along he was married? You two could stuff that in your little red wagons, huh?”

I was well and truly peeved. I’d had my limit. Their internecine plotting was as painful as Detweiler’s deceit. After all, he was a man. What was Dodie and Mert’s excuse?

Treelike and immobile, Dodie planted herself next to me, her bulky polyester shape blocking my path. Her voice was soft. “You care about me. You think you know what’s best for me and Horace.” She ran a shaky, thick hand through her porcupine hair. “And I care about you. And Anya. We both have good intentions. Maybe we’re equally right … and wrong.”

Put that way, I couldn’t maintain my irritation. “I guess you two did the right thing. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll never know. But it sure is hard.” I paused to bite my lower lip. “I really, really liked him.”

Her voice faded out. “I know. So did I. Life sure can stink.”

KIKI’S TIPS FOR BOHO (BOHEMIAN) STYLE PAGES

Boho is a state of mind where anything goes. Mainly, it’s about mixing rich textures and funky found objects with abandon. Here are some tips for making your own Boho page:

HORACE CAME TO GET Dodie, and they followed me home. He walked through my house to make sure I was safe. I wanted to tell him Dodie’s secret, but I held back even as I waved while they pulled out of my driveway.

I’d made her a promise.

Sheila called bright and early the next morning. She and Anya had driven past a few rentals after science camp the day before. I agreed to go house hunting with my mother-in-law over a long lunch hour. We decided Anya’s involvement should be minimal at the outset. She was so emotional these days, and we didn’t want to add more uncertainty to her life.

At half past noon, Sheila pulled up in front of Time in a Bottle. I climbed into the back seat of her silver Mercedes. In the passenger seat was Abigail Thorgood, a real estate agent who belonged to the same country club as my mother-in-law. I’d dressed up for the look-see, wearing neatly ironed navy slacks and a lacy white blouse. Through my belt loops ran a pretty scarf in colors of blue, purple, and white. This was part of my new gussy-up policy. The enchanted evening at Opera Theatre taught me nice clothes and makeup constituted a modern suit of armor. I needed all the external fortification I could get. My whole ensemble came from Target—or Tar-Gzay—but as long as Sheila didn’t shop there she would never know. From the driver’s seat, my mother-in-law handed me a sack with an Einstein Brothers salad inside.

“You eat. I drive,” she said, sending back a tall iced tea. “Abigail navigates and narrates.”

Sheila pre-empted the need to think or fully participate. My job was to obey. I was glad she didn’t know about Gracie getting shot in the TinaB parking lot, or we’d have been job hunting as well. I had no idea what sort of employment she could find for me, but given her resourcefulness, I was sure she’d find some poor soul who owed her a favor and call it in. I munched the lettuce quietly, imagining how bored I’d be spending eight hours in a cubicle.

Since Sheila doesn’t allow Anya to eat in her car, my meal was a big concession. My housing problem obviously mattered greatly to her. I wondered how far apart her idea of suitable places and mine might be.

Her short list was three houses, one located a few blocks from her home. On a small spit of land sat an older home that should have been—and one day would be—demolished for resurrection as a McMansion. Anya could walk to Sheila’s from this place, which was a plus. We mentioned this to each other as though we’d actually let my child wander the open streets. Ha! Oh, the deception we shared. We both knew her walking anywhere alone was impossible. But still …

The teardown’s price was outrageous. The lot alone was worth a million bucks, so the house was just lagniappe. Welcome to Ladue, where everything—including egos—is inflated. The second house was farther away, on a quiet street in Rock Hill. My excitement about the big yard and a more reasonable price tag disappeared with one sniff of the damp, dark, mildewed interior.

Mrs. Thorgood noted my disappointment and said quickly, “Not to worry, dear. Don’t scowl. I saved the best for last.”

House Number Three was a barn-shaped, converted garage in Webster Groves. Exuding charm, this house sat on the grounds of a larger home owned by a local author. I’d heard his name but never read his books because people call them “gritty.” I think that means the story features blood, guts, and truths about life I’d rather not face. Mrs. Thorgood and Sheila wandered around with me, as we inspected the large, fenced-in yard. From the outside we could see that the high windows would allow a lot of light. Inside, a serviceable neutral carpet complemented plain walls. I loved the place because I saw a blank canvas. Best of all, Anya and I could stroll with Gracie to the small old-fashioned downtown in Webster Groves. Another plus, the house’s overgrown garden hid tangles of herbs, wild blackberries and strawberries, plus climbing roses. I was eager to get my hands on those plants, and I knew someone who could help tame them. However, the price was the highest of the three we’d visited.