Edgar and Lucy Read online

  Edgar took a step back, considering a dash for the lobby.

  “But then, of course, Little Miss I-Can’t-Make-Up-My-Own-Mind discussed my proposal with her father, and with Pio. And the fools discouraged her. He was a real knucklehead, that Pio. Cute as all get out, but a knucklehead first-class.”

  Cute? His grandfather? Edgar thought of the hairy grumbler who’d once lived with him. He took another step back, accidentally igniting his sneakers.

  “Oh, ha ha ha,” Honey said. “Aren’t those adorable?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Edgar—and though he knew there was no way to turn them off, he attempted to do so by tapping them several times against the floor.

  “I can see from your choice of footwear that you, too, are a person of style. Sneakers with a suit—very modish. I still keep up with the trends, you know. In fact this dress is in again. Girls stop me on the street when I wear it. Oh, how amazing. How cool. Where can I get one? And I love telling them, well, ha, you can’t.”

  Honey turned from camera #1 (Edgar) to camera #2 (Florence) to deliver the final bit of this particular dramatic arc. Edgar had seen the technique before on the soap operas his grandmother used to watch.

  “And I always say your name. I say this dress was made by the designer Florence Alba Veronese. I never call you by your married name. Never.” The woman sighed loudly. “Such a pity to end up like this.” Another quick turn to Edgar: “Has she been obese for a while?”

  The word filled Edgar with a rush of heat. He blushed.

  “When I started to get chunky a few years ago, I went straight to my doctor and he gave me the most wonderful pills. Completely banishes your appetite. Plus, they give you a nice burst of energy.” The woman bumped her hips. “Pio always liked his women skinny.”

  Edgar thought of the photo of his grandmother—the one with the cigarette in her mouth and a fox around her neck.

  “You know, when I ran into your grandfather on one of my summers back from Bryn Mawr, I gave him a piece of my mind. ‘How dare you stop your wife’—because they were married at that point—‘how dare you stand in the way of Florie’s destiny.’ I really gave it to him. ‘Did you not notice how talented the woman is?’ And he said, ‘She sews.’ She sews! As if what she did were the equivalent of making a pot roast. ‘It’s a great deal more than that,’ I said. ‘She’s an artist.’ But the more I sang her praises, the more he laughed at me. ‘Are you trying to seduce my wife?’ he said. Oh, he was horrible. I don’t know how we ended up en coït. And it was only that one time. But somehow Florence found out. I think it was that dwarf Angela Carini, little bitch with a big mouth.”

  “I have to go,” said Edgar.

  The woman turned to him and miraculously fell silent—a silence so thick it prevented any movement on Edgar’s part.

  “Of course you do,” said Honey. “Would you like to see my face?”

  Edgar was crying now.

  “Here, don’t be afraid.” She lifted the black veil and gingerly laid it over the pink crown of the hat. “Just so you know who you’re dealing with.”

  Edgar wasn’t sure what he was looking at. He’d never seen a face like this before. It was old and young at the same time. A taut upswing of wrinkles around the eyes, as if someone were pulling Honey’s hair. The rest of the face was strangely smooth, but lumpy, like there were mashed potatoes under the skin. Her large pink lips were frozen in a greedy pucker. She had the look of someone who’d been waiting for a kiss for so long that it had turned her into a monster.

  “Will you remember me? Will you remember Honey Fasinga?”

  Edgar wiped his eyes and nodded.

  “Good,” Honey said. “I’m glad.”

  When Edgar turned, he did so carefully, wary of his sneakers.

  “Wait!” Honey cried. “Shall we try a little hand cream?”

  For what? thought Edgar. He wondered if she was going to put it on her face.

  “I think I have some in my purse.”

  “No, thank you,” said Edgar. No candy from strangers (Florence’s rule) probably also meant no hand cream.

  “Come on, come on, you only live once.”

  Edgar was petrified now as Honey unclasped her little pink purse and pulled out a small plastic tube. “Here.” She extended it toward him.

  “I don’t need any,” he said.

  “What? Do you want me to do it for you?” asked Honey. “Stop crying or someone will hear us. And wipe your nose.”

  Edgar did as he was told.

  Honey glanced toward the doorway to check for intruders. “Okay, let’s do this.”

  She took up Florence’s hand. When she squirted the cream, it made a horrible prolonged fart sound. “Excuse me,” said Honey, as if she’d made the sound herself.

  Edgar felt sick as he watched the old woman lube up his grandmother’s fingers.

  “Make sure no one’s coming,” she said.

  Edgar pulled at his tie, panicked.

  “Do you want both of them?” asked Honey.

  “I don’t know,” said Edgar.

  “Well, decide, decide, we’re not exactly in the realm of legality here.”

  “Just the diamond,” Edgar said.

  “Wise choice,” said Honey.

  “Hurry,” whispered Edgar.

  “Ooof.” Honey yanked and stumbled back a little. “Jackpot.”

  When she opened her palm, it held the wedding band and the diamond engagement ring.

  “You got both of them,” the boy said, astonished.

  “Beginner’s luck,” said Honey. “Take them, take them. Put them in your pocket.”

  Edgar hesitated.

  “What, you don’t want them now? You were quite the little thief when I came in here.”

  Edgar took the diamond. “Put the other one back.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Honey said. “You really want to get us arrested, don’t you?”

  “We should leave her one.”

  “She’ll make do without it.”

  Edgar groaned in frustration.

  “If we get caught, I’m blaming you.” Honey, more wobbly than before, turned to Florence and snatched up her moist hand.

  “Stop,” cried Edgar.

  “Make up your mind,” Honey said. “Am I putting this back or not? Well?”

  “Let me do it,” said the boy. He stepped forward.

  “Yes. Of course.” Honey softened as she transferred the dead woman’s hand to Edgar. “It’s only right that you should…”

  Edgar took the wedding band and slipped it back onto his grandmother’s finger.

  “It’s all right, it’s all right,” Honey said. “Shhh.” She touched the boy’s exquisite hair. “You must never feel bad about what we’ve done, do you understand me? Child, child, look at me. What is your name?”

  “Edgar.”

  “Edgar, ha, perfect. Edgar, tell me … did you love her?”

  The boy nodded. His vision blurred.

  “And she loved you?”

  Again, he nodded.

  “Then, there’s no problem here. Okay? Because if what you say is true, then you deserve that ring. A person can steal things that he deserves. So, that lets one of us off the hook.”

  Edgar stifled a sob and wiped his nose.

  “Enough of that. Stop sniffling. And don’t use your sleeve. I’m sure your mother tells you that all the time.”

  “No, she doesn’t,” Edgar said, crying some more.

  “Well, then I’m telling you. A person of style does not use his sleeve. Here’s a tissue. Goodness gracious. Are you generally a crier? It doesn’t do any good, you know. You won’t get far on an ocean of tears.”

  Edgar dried his face with Honey’s pink, perfume-scented tissue.

  “Because no matter what has happened, you’re still here. I mean, after what I read about you, I would have thought you’d be covered in scars. But your skin is flawless. And with that floppy hair, you’re quite beautiful, quite angelic really. Yo
u rather look like a girl. Oh my goodness, are you blushing?”

  “No,” said Edgar.

  “Aren’t you priceless? Listen to me, darling: if anyone ever tries any funny business with you again, you know what you do? Look, watch me. You take your knee and you—well, it’s hard for me to lift my leg in this dress. Here, pretend this is my leg.” She lifted her cane and swung it. “And you jam it right smack into their balls.”

  Edgar covered his mouth.

  “Aha!” Honey cried. “Now I know how to make you laugh. Balls!”

  Edgar laughed again.

  “Ha ha ha,” said Honey. “Balls, balls, balls.”

  She was so different from his grandmother. But maybe this was what his mother would be like when she was older. Except with a nicer face. But he didn’t want his mother to get old. Because then she’d end up in a butter dish, too.

  “Uh uh uh, what did I tell you about the tears?”

  Edgar sucked them in obligingly.

  “Anyway, from what I’ve heard, it’s nothing like we imagine. Death, I mean. One of my spiritual mentors once told me it’s quite a trip. The darkness is apparently quite lively. I wouldn’t be surprised if this one here”—again she tapped the coffin with the cane—“came to pay us a little visit now and then.” Honey smiled and her face trembled a bit as she looked at Florence. “Thank you for the dresses, dear.”

  “She has other nice ones,” Edgar said. “In her closet.”

  “Does she? Well, I should like to see them sometime.”

  “My mother says my gramma has no fashion sense.”

  “And who is your mother?”

  “She has red hair.”

  “The woman I saw in the lobby?” said Honey. “With the strappy black dress?”

  Edgar nodded.

  “Darling, your mother is the one with no fashion sense. Listen, let me give you my card. It has my number on it.” She dug again in her pink purse. “Voilà.”

  Edgar looked at the small white rectangle with pink lettering: Honey Fasinga, Bon Vivant. “What does that mean?” he asked.

  “Bon Vivant? It’s French. Literally: a person who lives well. Loosely: a loose woman, ha. No, but seriously. I should like to see those dresses … if your family ever feels like parting with them.”

  “We might want to keep them,” Edgar said, trying his best to represent the Finis’ interests.

  “Certainly, young man. I completely understand. But do feel free to call at any time, for whatever reason. I would welcome the opportunity to speak with you again.”

  “Okay,” said Edgar.

  “Honestly, anytime. Whenever the mood strikes you. And please don’t hesitate if the hour is late.” Honey gently replaced the veil over her face and sighed. “I rarely sleep anymore.”

  14

  Flow-Rinse

  After the initial burst of ecstasy, there was a long haul through other less appealing states. Irritation came first, as if she were moving through a cloud of sharp-beaked birds that hungered for something inside her body—though she had no body, as far as she could tell. Still, things were being taken from her. Irritation swelled into anger, which collapsed into confusion, and then panic. She was traveling very fast, deafened by echoes that possessed the eerie familiarity of her own voice. A ghastly cacophony of a life bowed by emotion and regret. Overwhelming anguish, a dense black curtain of it, and then—as if some unseen hand were playing a game of peek-a-boo with her—the complete lifting of anguish. A deadly amusement that continued for several rounds, until, at last, the black curtain did not fall and she peered directly into the face of her master, which was nothing more than her own unmasked joy. It was incomprehensible, really. The birds were gone now, and though their work had been violent, the old woman felt nothing but an enthralled gratitude. The panic was happening somewhere else. Below her, it seemed, there was a terrific commotion, a nervous storm composed of pinpricks of light. One was particularly insistent, with the power to pull her attention from what was inevitable. She willed that some of what the birds had taken from her be delivered to the boy, hoping the creatures were intelligent enough to separate the wheat from the chaff. Perhaps there was something there the child could use, should he find himself in danger again. Let it fall now, she thought, suddenly aware that she might never be able to return. As she continued forward, there was no music, there was no one to greet her—not even Frank or Pio. But she did not wish it otherwise. The solitude was a triumph—as was the silence.

  15

  Save for Later

  On the drive home, it hit Edgar like a bird against a window.

  Something was wrong with time.

  It had been wrong for years; maybe since the day he was born. His life was unfolding too slowly—more like a book, when obviously life was a movie. He could see how his grandmother lay at the root of the problem. The way she’d made weeks out of minutes, and years out of days. His mother did it, too—falling into silences that had the bleak ardor of black-and-white photographs. The error with time was something he’d learned from them. And it seemed that today, the saddest day of the boy’s life, time might stop completely.

  In the car, Edgar felt something like panic. The air itself was turning to cement. He didn’t understand that this imprisonment was an illusion, a phantasm of grief. He truly believed that life might be over, that all stories would unfold only in the already-lived, the sole place in which his grandmother was not dead.

  But as he looked out the window, he saw how the landscape moved by so fast that it blurred. Trees and billboards slapped past his consciousness with the clicking intensity of a roulette wheel. Edgar felt a desire for something else. Perhaps there were other arrangements a person could make with time.

  His grandmother was gone—and, sad as that was, it might be less sad in the future. He pressed his foot against an imaginary pedal. A race-car growl rose from his throat.

  “What are you doing?” asked Lucy. “Singing?”

  “No,” replied Edgar.

  “You’re not crying, are you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re probably tired, huh?”

  Edgar shook his head. “No.”

  “Brilliant vocabulary you got there, kiddo.”

  She’d meant it as a joke, but the boy didn’t smile. He pressed harder on the imaginary pedal and unlatched his seat belt.

  “What are you doing? Put that back on. Edgar.”

  “I don’t need it.”

  “Do you want me to stop the car? Put on your goddamned seat belt.”

  “Why should I?” the boy said. “You’re not wearing yours. You never wear it.”

  Lucy reached for the buckle and pulled it across her chest.

  “You’re just doing that for now,” the boy said.

  “Meaning what?”

  “You’re just pretending to be safe.”

  “I’m stopping the car.”

  “No, don’t. I’ll put it on.” Edgar pulled and clicked. Then, after some time: “How come I don’t have any scars?”

  “From what?”

  “I don’t know. You have them. On your leg.”

  “We’re different people, Edgar.”

  “I know that. I’m just saying, I should know things.”

  “What things?”

  “If something happened to me. If I was in the newspaper.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, baby. Did your grandmother say something to you?”

  Edgar turned to his mother in horror. “How can she say something?”

  “I meant, from before. It doesn’t matter. Listen, from now on, we wear our seat belts, okay?”

  The boy sighed, gripping the diamond in his pocket. “I’m not getting married,” he informed his mother.

  “I didn’t know you were engaged.”

  “I’m not,” replied Edgar. “Not everyone gets married.”

  Lucy reached out her hand and touched the boy’s head.

  “I don’t have a fever. Besides, you
can’t tell like that. It has to be done with a thermometer, to be accurate.”

  “Okay, Doc.”

  “Mom, you’re slowing down.”

  “Sorry. You in a rush?”

  “Yes,” said Edgar. “I am.”

  * * *

  “Did you make all this yourself?” Netty Schlip asked the butcher, helping herself to some Chicken Carciofi.

  “My sister Izzy helps out. But I made the sausage and peppers and the eggplant rollatini. Oh, and the cavatelli and broccoli.”

  In addition to the promised cold-cut platter, the truck from Salvatore’s Meats had delivered several enormous trays of cooked food, along with the racks and Sternos to heat them. This surprise attack of generosity put Lucy on edge. It was a tricky business, accepting Ron’s feast in Florence’s name. She hardly knew the man, and to what extent she wished to become entangled with him she couldn’t say.

  For Edgar, the catered fare was upsetting for more haunted reasons: its disturbing similarity to dishes regularly prepared by Florence. Plus, cavatelli and broccoli was his favorite. It was impossible to look at it and not feel a kind of nauseous hunger. The little party of five was sitting in the dining room—a narrow, ill-lit rectangle with a faux-candle chandelier that offered the greater part of its light to the ceiling, while leaving the under-gatherers in a cloud of luminous neglect. The dining room was used exclusively for holidays, when the wedding-dress tablecloth was unfolded and the special plates with the little purple flowers came out of the china closet. And yet, today—the very opposite of a holiday—he and his mother and three guests were scattered around the large oval table, eating off Styrofoam plates with plastic forks—all supplied by the butcher. “No fuss, no muss,” he’d said. Even the napkins were the butcher’s: thin paper squares printed with the message “Let us MEAT your needs!”

  Lucy sipped wine from a plastic cup. “I didn’t know you did catering, Ron.”

  “It’s a new thing,” he said. “I like to cook, so…”

  “Who doesn’t like to cook?” Netty Schlip said.

  Edgar looked at his mother, who met his eyes and made a funny face. He adored her again. Love was so exhausting, the way it spun you around. Edgar made a funny face back at her. Maybe she’d let him stay in her bed tonight.