Balancing Act (26 page)

“I’m at the damn airport. Will you kindly tell me how in the living hell I get to the boonies where you live?”

“You’re early, aren’t you?”

“Only by two weeks. Will it be a problem? If it is, you’re stuck with me regardless. Just give me directions. The cab driver hasn’t been born yet that I’d trust.”

Dory issued brief, concise instructions that she knew Pixie would never remember, “I’ll have a hot toddy waiting. Shouldn’t take you more than twenty minutes. You’ll beat traffic by at least an hour.”

“Never mind the toddy. I don’t want any garbage clouding up my drink. You just get the bottle out and make sure you have a long-stemmed glass.”

Dory laughed. “You haven’t changed a bit. I’m dying to see you. Hurry and hang up and get here so we can talk.”

Forty-five minutes later a whirlwind with six suitcases and a trunk sailed through Dory’s kitchen. “I take it you’re staying awhile,” Dory grinned.

“Three days. I’m on my way to Hong Kong,” Pixie said as she uncapped the squat bottle of Scotch. She poured the amber liquid into the long-stemmed glass and drank it neat. “What do you say we get sloshed?” she said, tilting the bottle a second time.

“Sounds good to me,” Dory agreed, getting out a glass for herself. Pixie tossed her sable coat over the kitchen chair and Dory hugged her enthusiastically. “Watch the wig, watch the wig!” Pixie squeaked as she tried to adjust the precarious pile of red-gold curls.

“Oh, God, Pix, I forgot. Sorry. You look . . . great.”

“I know, I know. A real pity you and I are the only ones who think so. People actually turn around and stare at me and it’s not always with admiration.” She sipped her Scotch approvingly. “Now that I’ve taken the edge off a little we can do some serious drinking. All they served on that miserable flight was Diet Pepsi. Diet Pepsi. I told that stewardess what I thought of that, let me tell you. All that saccharin. My God! A body isn’t safe anywhere anymore. By the way, you look like something the cat dragged in, took a second look and then dragged back out. What’d you do, sneak back in when he wasn’t looking?”

“Thanks,” Dory said dryly. She sipped at her drink.

Pixie fumbled in her handbag and eventually found a pair of granny glasses. She propped them on the end of her nose and stared at Dory. Her mouth dropped open as she regarded her favorite niece. Her only niece. “Pudgy. God, I envy women who have the guts to be pudgy. I have to work at staying this thin,” she said proudly as she stuck out a long, skinny leg clad in a white leather boot. Dory wouldn’t have been surprised to see a pom-pom attached to the top.

“I know you do,” Dory agreed as she watched the glass tilt again. There was no stopping Pixie. She drank like a fish and had no intention of stopping. She also smoked incessantly.

“What time will
Grit
be home. I’m anxious to see him. I’m sorry I won’t be able to spend Christmas with you two but I got this offer”—her voice dropped to a hushed whisper—“from this gentleman I’ve been corresponding with and he invited me to come to Hong Kong for a visit. He makes shoes. Hand-made shoes. He’s Chinese, Japanese, one of those nationalities. He said he has Western eyes. Shoes. Imagine, Dory. If he works out, we can get all our shoes for nothing. Just tell me what you want. Do you still have some kind of fixation about shoes? Or maybe it’s a fetish.”

Dory giggled. It was just like Pixie to go traipsing halfway around the world in the hopes of getting something free. It wasn’t so much the shoes as a man that Pixie hoped to get.

“I’ll be seventy-two next year. It’s time I thought about settling down. I always liked Hong Kong. I can see me settling down over there. I’ll get manicures and pedicures. Those people love to do that. I can have all the help I want. I don’t think Mr. Cho lives in a rice paddy. He sounds well off. Anyone in shoes has to be well off—think how many feet there are in Hong Kong. My dear, you can count on me sending you a pair of shoes at least once a week. Isn’t it wonderful?” she trilled.

Dory’s mind raced. “Pix, reassure me. You didn’t tell this Mr. Cho about your money and all those blue chip stocks. Tell me you didn’t.”

“But I did. I believe in honesty.”

“Did you tell him about your drinking and smoking?”

“Bite your tongue. Do you think I want to scare him off? This is the closest thing to an offer of marriage in twenty years. I’m not a complete fool!” She emptied her glass with a loud slurp.

“What exactly is Mr. Cho going to bring into this relationship! Besides his shoes?”

Pixie’s eyes glowed like marbles. “His body and his country home. I see you’re skeptical. Let me put it to you another way.” More Scotch found its way into her glass. “God, I have a headache. I know it was that damnable Diet Pepsi. As I was saying, my dear, I’m seventy-two years old. Life is whizzing by. Just whizzing. You as well as the world must be aware of my frailties, I’ve made no secret of them.”

Dory tried not to laugh. “I try not to think of them,” she said.

“Flatulence . . . that’s the worst. God, it strikes at any time and any place. I have four partials in my mouth, and that horse’s rear end that tends my teeth now tells me my gums are receding. Receding! On top of that, my skin has lost its . . . its . . . zap. It just hangs. This turkey wattle under my chin is not something I try to show off to its best advantage. I have varicose veins that reappeared at the same time my tonsils tried for a comeback. My boobs are not up and out; even after the last lift they’re more like down, down, down. Just yesterday I counted my hair. I have thirty-seven strands. I’m addicted to booze and cigarettes. No one loves me but you and your mother, and I think she just pretends. Now, if you were me, what would you do?”

“Go to Hong Kong.”

“Right. Right, that’s exactly where I’m going. I do, however, have two traits that drive men out of their minds.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m not discriminating and I put out!”

Dory shrieked with laughter. Dabbing at her eyes and gasping for breath, she felt better than she had in months.

Pixie stared at the young woman across the table. Something was wrong. This wasn’t the Dory she knew. Not this frowzy-looking hausfrau . . . this creature clad in blue jeans and rubber boots. She glanced around the homey kitchen. Christ, the child had become domesticated.

“When are you getting married?” Pixie asked bluntly.

“It’s not that I disapprove of living in sin, it just seems that with all this . . .” She waved her stringy arms about “. . . that you should have something that says half is yours.”

“It’s a rental,” Dory said soberly. “What do I need half a rental for?”

“You certainly don’t look like yourself, and I can see that something is bothering you. Want to talk about it? If you do, you better replenish this bottle; I think we just killed it.”

“Yes, no . . . what I mean is yes, I want to talk about it, but no, not now, but before you leave, and I don’t have any more Scotch. How about some wine? Neither Griff nor I are much for drinking. I didn’t know we were so low. The wine is a good California chablis.”

“As long as it’s at least a month old I’ll drink it. Remember the time we built the still on the farm? By God, I’d sell my soul for a bottle of that white lightning.
That
would certainly kill this headache.”

Dory laughed. Pixie was just what she needed. The farm, as she called it, was a two-hundred-acre estate in upstate New York. The “we” she referred to was her fifth, or was it sixth, husband whom she had rescued from the clutches of the law for running shine across the line as she was driving through Tennessee in her Rolls-Royce.

“He did sing a mean ballad after a few sips of our ambrosia. God, that was an experience. Pity he had to die. When a man can’t hold his liquor, he isn’t much of a man. I may be dissipated, but I can hold my liquor. Mr. Cho says he’s fond of rice wine. I think we’ll get along very well.”

“Better be careful. You know what they say about white slavers in those foreign countries. Pray Mr. Cho isn’t a procurer.”

“I’m praying. Now, tell me how school is going. I’m impressed, sweetie, that you decided to go for your doctorate. It’s about time someone in our family did something serious. I’m sick and tired of carrying the ball for everyone. All your silly mother wants to do is play golf and get her nails done. I love her, she is my baby sister, but she doesn’t know the meaning of the word fun. Don’t you believe a word she tells you about our last visit,” Pixie said, wagging a bony, purple-tipped finger at Dory. Outrageous false eyelashes fluttered wildly as Pixie made her point.

“Let’s not talk about that now. Later. With you leaving, I just want to spend time with you before Mr. Cho gobbles you up,” Dory said lightly, hoping to divert Pixie from her questions.

“My life is an open book. I’ve told you my news.” Pixie’s eyes were sharp and questioning. “What is a safe topic of conversation with you? The weather? What happened, Dory? Is this . . .” she waved her bony arms again, “. . . is this a mistake? Do you want out and can’t find a way? All I have to do is look at you to know your world is upside down. What can I do? Is it money? Is it Grit, or is it you? Maybe you need to talk to your mother.”

“It’s Griff, not
Grit.
No, I don’t need to talk to Mother. I’m working on it, Pix.”

“How long is that going to take?”

“What?”

“For you to work on it? A week, a month, a year? Do you even know what it is you’re working on? What is it, baby, you can tell me. We’ve never had secrets before. Don’t close me out now.” Pixie slapped her forehead so hard her wig tilted to the side. “Don’t tell me you’re pregnant.”

“I’m not pregnant. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, though.”

“Well, stop thinking right now. Parenthood is something to be taken seriously. It’s not something you go into to make something else work. If things aren’t working now, a baby will only compound the problem. Why don’t we get comfy, slip into our lounging clothes and find something better to drink than this . . . grape water. I’ve had apple juice that tasted better. Do you have any vodka? How about brandy? I really don’t want to open my trunk. Would you believe Mr. Cho demanded a dowry. Since he wasn’t specific, I’m bringing my favorite drink that I’m sure he’ll learn to love. A dowry yet, for God’s sake. Did you ever hear of such a thing?”

“Sounds like a good idea. Would you like to help me decorate the house?” Dory asked, pointing to all the evergreens dripping on the kitchen floor.

“I would not. Point me to the bathroom so I can get out of these clothes.”

Dory showed her the way and then headed upstairs to her bedroom to change.

Pixie felt every year of her age as she watched Dory climb the stairs to the second floor. She disliked problems of any kind. How in the living hell could she go off to her fates while her beloved niece was having problems? She tried to look at it philosophically as she struggled to pull off the high, white boots. She rubbed her aching feet. She was getting old, and from the looks of things, she was also getting a few callouses on the balls of her feet. What next, she grumbled. She rummaged in her overnight bag for a Dior creation that swirled and swished when she walked. Now, if she just didn’t trip and kill herself she would be all right. She wished she had remembered to ask Mr. Cho how old he was. The Oriental nature surely would prevent him from expressing comments about the ravages of time. If he refused to be a gentleman about the whole thing, she would simply pack up and leave.

She had three days to straighten out her niece. If she kept her wits about her, she might pull it off. Dory always listened to reason. She was bright, quick as a fox and razor sharp. At least she used to be. Now she appeared dull and listless. Oh, she laughed and talked, but all the sparkle, all the life, all the zest was gone from her. She had to get to the bottom of it. She also had to remember to ask what the red X’s on the kitchen calendar meant.

Pixie rummaged some more in the cavernous bag and withdrew a pair of beaded Indian slipper sox. She pulled them up to her knobby knees with a flourish. She straighened her wig, patted the curls into place and then added a spritz of perfume that smelled like vanilla. She needed a drink. The headache was still with her. By God, that was the last time she was going to drink Diet Pepsi and read a magazine on a plane. Why couldn’t that cheapo airline serve liquor like everyone else? She gulped down three aspirins and a sip of water. She coughed, sputtered and cursed out the Pepsi Cola Company, along with various cigarette manufacturers. Her language was ripe, colorful, and to the point. She hoped Mr. Cho would understand her penchant for choice words. If not, he had a problem. There were some things she wouldn’t do for shoes.

Dory, attired in a flowing rainbow of silk, was uncorking a bottle of brandy in the living room. The fire was hissing and crackling and sending sparks up the chimney. She wished Griff were here to enjoy her aunt Pixie. Nothing was working right. She had been looking forward to the Christmas holidays with Pixie and Griff, the people she loved best in the world. Now, it would just be Griff and his mother.

Dory could feel Pixie’s eyes on her, assessing her, judging her. No, Pix would never judge her. Assess her, yes, but she would never judge. She fixed a bright smile on her face and held out a three-quarters-full brandy snifter.

“The fire is nice,” Pixie said, staring into the flames.

“That’s one of the reasons I picked this place. Later I’ll show you around the upstairs. There’s a fireplace in the master bedroom. Cozy.”

“I hate that word,” Pixie grumbled. “Cozy is for old people who have to snuggle to keep warm or for youngsters who are necking in the backseat of a car. Cozy is not a word I like.” She sniffed at the brandy and took a healthy swallow.

There was a hint of belligerence in Dory’s tone. “I like to be cozy. I find it restful and . . . and . . .”