Paper, Scissors, Death (8 page)

How Gracie figured out which day was Sunday, I’ll never know. I bet David Letterman would pay mucho dog biscuits to have a calendar-reading Great Dane on his show. Promptly at eight each Sunday morning, her cold nose would touch whatever body part I’d exposed during my nightly struggle with the sheets. If I ignored her gentle prompt, she’d wedge her gigantic head under my arm and jiggle me. If that didn’t get my carcass moving, she’d hop on the bed and lick me in the face.

The Benadryl gave me a medicinal hangover that made me feel like I was wearing a paper bag over my head. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. My eyes felt gritty as if rubbed with sandpaper. The bee stings were still tender, and now, as I was coming back to consciousness, little pinpricks of pain zipped their way through my nervous system.

But Gracie didn’t care. She knew her rights. Sundays are German apple pancake and bacon mornings, followed by a family romp at Babler State Park.

The late spring morning felt blessedly chilly. It was difficult to regulate the temperature inside our home. As far as I could tell, this cracker box was built totally sans insulation. My landlord, Mr. Wilson, was a crusty old coot. The house had belonged to his parents. This inheritance formed the linchpin of his real estate holdings. I’d been attracted to the low rent and the fenced-in back yard. Mr. Wilson allowed how the place needed a “woman’s touch.” He got that right. A woman wielding a wrecking ball. The place should have been razed. I worried each time I turned on my computer that I’d blow fuses to kingdom come.

I slipped on fuzzy house shoes and my blue chenille bathrobe with the yellow “rubber duckies.” Who wears all those skimpy nighties and sheer silk robes they sell at Victoria’s Secret? Maybe that’s the point: They’re to be discarded, not worn.

I’m as cold as Nanook of the North. In the winter I sleep in a thread-bare sweatsuit and thick socks. George and I had two twin beds pushed together in our master bedroom. Often, I’d look over at his sleeping form and want to cuddle. But I’d never initiate it. Occasionally he would. Mostly, we lived like roommates with a shared purpose, parenting Anya. In some ways, our arrangement worked very well. What is it most experts say that couples fight about? Money and sex? Those weren’t issues for us.

Marriages work or don’t work for the strangest reasons. We all have different needs. To find another person who’ll fulfill all those needs … well, I think that’s nearly impossible. To find a person who closely matches your needs and who has a commitment to the same goals is somewhat more likely. George and I both needed stability, a home base, a listening ear, a cooperative household, and a child-centered life.

Gracie gave me her patented, “Where is my food?” expression immediately after her good-morning piddle. I fixed her a Sunday special, a bowl of kibble, a tablespoonful of canned food, with a dog biscuit on top.

She sighed as I put the rest of the canned food back in the fridge. A tablespoon was all my budget and her digestive system would allow. Two months ago, Gracie got into the garbage and helped herself to a midnight snack of leftovers. I awakened the next morning to a kitchen floor turned toxic waste dump. The whole surface was a sea of brown and pinned in one corner was poor Gracie. I cleaned a path to her.

“Poor baby,” I soothed her. I understand food issues. Left to her own devices, she’d eat anything not nailed down and not worry about the consequences.

I felt her pain.

I’d been there myself.

Now we keep a bottle of Pepto-Bismol near the dog chow for those days when Gracie manages to steal human food. Even Anya knows how to fill a needleless syringe with the pink fluid, peel back a gooey dewlap, press the tube against teeth, and push the plunger hard and fast to give Gracie the squirt that cures. Inevitably, Gracie responds with a violent shake of the head which sends splats and splotches of pink flying.

The scent of bacon mixed with the cinnamon and apple fragrance from the oversized pancake. Gracie sniffed the air eagerly. “Poor lamb,” I said as I patted her. “I’d love to share our bacon with you, drool face, but your innards wouldn’t like it as much as your chompers would.”

Anya wandered in, wearing cute pink jammies festooned with hearts and kisses. Sheila had impeccable taste. She made sure Anya not only fit in at CALA but was a pacesetter where fashion was concerned.

My child is a slow waker-upper. Rubbing her eyes, she pushed food around on her plate. She did pick out one piece of bacon and one slice of apple. With her fork, she foraged around in the pancake for another slice or two before taking her plate to the sink.

I, on the other hand, ate every scrap of my helping. I savored the mix of maple syrup flavor, cinnamon, vanilla, and butter.

I pointed to the untouched food on my child’s plate. “What’s the matter, sweetie?”

She gave me a weak smile. “I’m not hungry.”

I didn’t want to make her a member of the clean plate club like I’d been. The portions we serve in this country are outrageous. Encouraging children to overeat in order to save starving kids in Africa has contributed, in my humble opinion, to much of our problem with obesity. I slid the rest of the giant pancake into a plastic container for later.

“Get dressed, Anya-Banana. Gracie’s ready for her run.”

Forty-five minutes later, we were on Babler Access Road, passing a sign that announced “Dimont Development Inc.’s Babler Estates. Luxury homes in a beautiful setting.” Oh, George, I thought, you worked so hard on this subdivision full of luxury homes—and now your kid is living in substandard housing.

We found a place to park and let Gracie roam the hills of Babler at the end of a retractable lead. Anya and I walked hand in hand. The earliest spring flowers—jonquils, crocus, and snowdrops—had faded on yellowing stalks. The next wave was gathering courage to burst into bloom. Bare tree branches were tipped in a watercolor wash of celery, celadon, mint, lime, and olive. In a week or two, the skyline would shout hosannah with verdant life. In spring and fall, there is no more beautiful place on earth than the hill country of Missouri.

“Don’t you just hate those mean old bees for stinging you?” Anya’s jeans stepped in unison to mine as we followed in Gracie’s feverous wake.

“Nah. It wasn’t personal.”

One side of her mouth rose in a “huh?”

“Anya, baby, those bees were trying to protect their food, their homes, and their families. I was an intruder. They would have stung anybody in that box. How can I be mad at them for trying to protect what they love? I’d do the same.”

“Makes sense. But they were still awful nasty to you.” She walked beside me quietly. We both treasured spending time together now. I worried how this might change when she became a teen.

We followed Gracie quietly and watched her joyous explorations with smiles on our faces. The big dog stopped at one point and sniffed the cup of a late-blooming jonquil, a real straggler of a flower.

“Do you miss Daddy?” She asked me this frequently.

“Of course I do.”

“I miss him … a lot.”

I put my arm around her. “I know you do.”

“But Daddy watches over us.”

“I think so.” And you’re doing a really poor job, George, I muttered under my breath. Get on the stick, pal. Or turn the job back over to a real guardian angel and find another line of work.

“Gran misses Daddy. When I sleep over, I hear her cry at night.”

Ah. Poor Sheila, I thought. Tough as nails in the light of day, but letting it all go in private. Too bad we didn’t know each other or like each other enough to share our grief.

“I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m not surprised. I can’t imagine losing a child. Losing you would be the worst thing that could ever happen to me. Nothing anyone can do to a mother is as bad as hurting her baby.”

Anya gave me a long, searching look. She made a fist and bumped my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mom. You’re stuck with me.”

“No, baby. We’re stuck with each other.”

At that moment, Gracie bounded up to us and planted her muddy front paws in the middle of my chest.

“Aw, Gracie. What have you done?”

Anya giggled. “And Gracie’s stuck with both of us, right?”

“Right.”

“We grow accustomed to our troubles,” said Dodie in Yiddish. She translated the proverb for me as she turned off the television. A real news junkie, she started each day with the
St. Louis Post-Dispatch
and the
New York Times
. While working in her office, she kept one eye on the television or her ear tuned to the radio.

“Good job at the bridal shower Saturday,” Dodie continued. “You ruined the gift box, and Mrs. Witherow suggested that I take it out of your wages. Even so, I’m betting we do a lot of business with the Ladue ladies now they’ve had a taste of your work. When we were loading up, a couple of them said they’re coming in to talk with you today.”

Mrs. Witherow thought the box should come out of my wages? Crud. Welcome to the world of the poor and powerless. The less you have, the more you owe everybody around you. When we were rich, the freebies flowed fast and furiously. Now, when I needed the help, the stream of complimentary goodies had dried up.

Life was not fair. No wonder the poor couldn’t get ahead, and the rich stayed furlongs out front.

I took a deep breath. “Dodie, what do you know about Roxanne Baker?”

Dodie gave me a long, thoughtful look. “Not a whole lot. Used to come in all the time and splash the cash. Haven’t seen her in a while.”

“Um, did you ever see any pictures of her … and George?”

“I don’t gossip about my customers.” Dodie pointedly examined her watch.

I took the hint.

No sooner had I counted the change drawer and flipped the window sign to OPEN, than Sally O’Brien burst through the front door of Time in a Bottle, chattering a mile a minute. Right behind her was Markie Dorring. Both women had packs of photos in their hands.

“What a fantastic idea! Candid photos? Our shower albums will have photos from all of us? And you loaded them so fast! We were only out of the room for a minute.” The two women took turns talking, their excitement bubbling over.

A minute? Their luncheon seemed to take ages, but then I was cold and hungry in the basement, setting up make ’n’ takes, and watching my bee stings swell to ugly proportions. Were rich people always this oblivious?

Instead of dwelling on the remark, I said, “Yes. Candid photos are super. Now you’ll have pictures of yourselves as well as each other. You don’t want to be missing in action from your own life.”

Sell the sizzle, I reminded myself. This was my livelihood. I need to keep them coming back for more.

Dodie came out of her office and greeted the women. She left me to the mundane chores of getting the store ready for another day while she answered their questions.

“You got my reminder message last night? Still got the card with the room code and site name?” Sitting at the powerful computer and professional-quality monitor, she walked the women through the selection process. While our customers oohed and aahed over the downloaded images, I worked on page layouts, being careful to leave spaces for their yet-to-come photos. Dodie had promised Mrs. Witherow a twelve-page album for each guest with fully designed pages capable of holding up to twenty-eight photos. For an additional fee, Dodie would also make available extra album pages that I would design.

The women wanted to see the strap-bound albums Mrs. Witherow had selected. “The Tiffany blue and cream covers match the color scheme Merrilee selected for her wedding. The covers can be personalized, if you wish, with a title embossed in gold,” I explained.

The women were impressed. I assured them I’d get the albums done as soon as possible. “Of course, since we already have a theme, the garden party, the pages will go together pretty quickly. Here, I’ll show you my work in progress.”

I fanned out the patterns and solids I’d chosen to work with.

“How do you know what to choose?” asked Markie. “I mean, there are scads of papers and products. How do you know where to start?”

I explained my system for mixing and matching papers. I favor the squint method. It’s highly scientific. You select a few papers, take a step back and squint. Usually you can tell right away if the patterns are harmonious.

I guess I dazzled them with my brilliance. Or I buffaloed them with my baloney. Either way, Sally and Markie signed up for one-on-one scrapbook lessons.

Seeing the women ready and raring to go tickled me. They were as enthusiastic as two little girls.

“What if we can’t do this?” asked Sally. The negative thought brought her up short. “I mean, I’m not very creative.”

“What if we mess up?” asked Markie.

“There are no scrapbooking police. No one is going to come to your door in the middle of the night and arrest you because you didn’t make your pages a certain way,” I said. “There is no right way to scrapbook! This is playtime for grownups. You decide what you want on your pages, and what you want your family to remember. Keep in mind, it’s only paper. You goof it up—pish—you buy another sheet. Your mistake won’t break the bank.”

I studied the well-heeled ladies and corrected myself. Any mistakes they made wouldn’t break
their
banks. Unfortunately, a lot of mistakes would leave me flat broke.

Oh, well. I continued, “In our one-on-one time, I can help you develop your own personal style.” I didn’t add I could also steer our conversation to their pal Roxanne when we were alone.

Markie was back to worrying about choices. “But how do you know what products to use? Which papers?”

“There’s a universe of colors and patterns that could work with any photo. There’s also a universe of design styles. Within those universes are your preferences, choices that reflect your unique self.”

They still seemed concerned.

“I have homework for you.” I handed each woman a sheet of questions I’d devised to get them thinking about their color and style preferences. I also handed over a sheet of sentence prompts to get going on their journaling, the written commentary vitally important to memory albums.

A few minutes later, Dodie rang up two large sales. Both women signed up for private classes and purchased pre-made page kits to get started.

I thanked the women for their business and told them I looked forward to our one-on-one sessions. My stomach was grumbling for lunch. The clock struck noon. But right after Sally and Markie walked out, Linda Kovaleski walked in. She asked the same questions Sally and Markie had about Snapfish. Linda, however, had trouble grasping how the website worked.

“I’m, um, a real computer idiot,” she said. “My daughter Claire uses the Internet all the time, but I don’t get it. I mean, I kinda get it, but not really.”

I made a mental note that we needed a one-sheet with a detailed explanation of how Snapfish and similar websites worked. We could hand it out and save ourselves a lot of time and trouble instead of answering the same questions over and over.

“And you keep all the photos on your computer? What if they get lost? I mean, they could, couldn’t they?”

Here was a scrapbooker as concerned about being careful with images as I was.

“They are on Snapfish
and
in my computer.” I didn’t mention the duplicate CDs.

“Snapping fish?”

I was about to explain my system for making duplicate CDs, but the doorminder buzzed. I whipped my head around to see who was coming in. Each time I heard the door, my muscles tensed. My encounter with Roxanne had made me skittish. For some reason, I half expected her to stop by the store to continue her harassment.

But instead of Roxanne, Bill Ballard strolled in. I nodded a quick hello and held up my index finger as the universal symbol for “just a minute.” He came over and stood two inches from Linda and me, all the while shifting his weight and staring at us. I could feel his breath on my arm as I tried to assure her the photos were safe.

Bill tapped his toe loudly right behind us. I could smell his expensive cologne.

“The fish place is a website?” Linda still didn’t understand exactly what Snapfish was or how it worked. I admitted the photo-processing service sported an odd name.

Bill stretched his arm to look at his watch and harrumphed loudly.

Linda got the message. She eyed him nervously and edged toward the door.

“I’ll come back, okay?”

Bill seemed proud that he’d run Linda off. Something about the way he intruded on our conversation made me uneasy. Almost like he held power over her. As she walked quickly to the door, he didn’t even try to hide the way he leered at her retreating backside. Once she was out of sight, he turned to me.

“All my wife Tisha could talk about was your fabulous albums. My, my, aren’t you the little artist? Who would have guessed? Nobody knew you were so talented. Anyway, I want a private lesson for her. Make time for her this week. It’ll be her birthday gift,” and he gave me a big wink like we were best buddies. “Got to keep the old lady happy, right?”

I noticed he didn’t ask me if I had time. He told me to
make
time. Bill’s steady gaze was accompanied by a struggle to pull his wallet from the inside pocket of his pin-striped suit.

“Is there a discount for old friends?”

I couldn’t believe he was trying to get me to reduce my fee. He had to know I was already living on next to nothing.

“Dodie sets the pricing. You’ll have to talk with her.”

“I’ll do that. Got your check.”

I had the vague sense he was pointing out that I owed him a favor.

“Glad to hear it.” I tried to be gracious. I introduced him to Dodie, and she helped him with a gift certificate. I was happy to hand him off.

Maybe I was feeling leftover discomfort about the half-a-million dollars. Even so, the twist of my gut made me wish he’d conclude his transaction and go away. The farther the better, too.

I tried to disguise my relief when he waved goodbye. I had to be gracious. He was a paying customer. And he had done me a favor. He’d kept his mouth shut about my husband’s mistake.

“Thank you, Bill. Tell Tisha I’m looking forward to working with her. Say hi to the kids, Britney and Paul.” Being so overly cheery exhausted me. I was hungry and needed a lunch break.

But it was not to be. In walked Merrilee.

The bride-to-be indicated she wanted to talk privately. I led her to the cropping area in the back of the store.

“About Roxanne … she’s had a rough time.”

I tried not to change my expression. A small voice inside screamed, “She’s had a rough time? Hello? I just lost my husband!”

Something about my face betrayed me. Rats, there went my career in poker.

“Uh, sorry. I forgot.” Merrilee had the good grace to turn red.

I took a deep breath. “So Roxanne and George were …” I couldn’t say the word.

“So romantic,” Merrilee cooed. “Like in the movies. Childhood sweethearts. Roxanne thought they’d be together forever. Even when you came between them. They were Camilla and Charles, you know? And you were …”

“Princess Di?”

She snickered. “Hardly.”

Thanks a lot, I thought. I didn’t bother to add that my character had conveniently died. Merrilee’s expression told me the faux pas didn’t register. She wasn’t exactly the sharpest pencil in the cup.

“She was really down when George … you know.”

Yes, I did know. I would have hardly described my grief as being “really down” though.

“But she was so courageous.”

Oh, goodie, a new synonym for insensitive.

Merrilee rattled on, “It took her a while, but she got involved with some new guy. They went on vacation together. Somewhere sunny with a beach. She came back with such a great tan. Really bronze and gorgeous. Lasted a long time, too. The tan, that is—not the relationship. But, I never met him. Roxanne was really secretive. I think he was married.”

No kidding. What else was new? And here stood a bride-to-be acting like this was no big deal. I wondered what her vows would be like? Forsaking all but a few others?

She sighed, “But she found out he was cheating on her. He had another girlfriend. I mean besides his wife. Can you believe it? Who would cheat on Roxanne?”

I bit my lip. Did she see the irony here? Hello?

“Roxanne was terribly hurt. She’s very sensitive. A real people person.”