Bob at the Plaza (16 page)

Bill, Katie’s early-rising husband, grabbed the phone after the first ring. “Hullo,” he said, in a low-pitched, borderline-threatening tone.

“Bill, it’s me, Roz. We’ve got a situation on our hands.”

“Roz? Are you at the lake? Are you okay?”

“Where else would I be, Bill?” I said impatiently. “I’m trying to deal with a very tricky situation up here right now. Is Katie awake?”

“She just got out of the shower a minute ago.” He yelled up the stairs, “Katie, it’s Roz. Something’s going on at the lake.”

I heard the clicking of their upstairs extension and Katie’s tense voice said, “What’s going on, Roz? Are you all right? It must be serious if you’re calling this early.”

“Yeah, it’s serious all right. I’m sitting out on the deck stairs at six in the morning because I don’t want Terri to hear me. She fell last night and dislocated her shoulder, and I had to take her to the hospital. She’s upstairs sleeping.”

Two voices on the other end muttered in stereo, “Oh, crap.” Then Katie continued, “Poor Terri. How’s she feeling?”

“She’s in a splint for a few days, on heavy-duty painkillers, so
she’s
feeling just fine. More to the point, though, is how
I’m
feeling about all this. Guess who gets to take care of her for the next few days until she’s off her meds?
Me!
The innocent bystander in all of this. I never invited her to the lake,” I concluded crabbily. “You know I don’t like the woman.” A long silence weighed on the conversation while Katie and Bill absorbed the enormity of my news.

“Plus,” I started up again, apparently unable to stop my cup of indignation from running over, “I’m supposed to chauffeur her around and wait on her hand and foot for the next few days until we can figure out how to get her, and her car, back to Chicago. You
know
how I feel about Terri! I’m going to wring her neck until that goiter pops off, after I fix her shirred eggs for breakfast.” I took a big gulp of air. “I had to bring her toasted English muffins on a
tray
last night when we got back from the hospital!” I blurted out. Somehow toasted muffins on a tray was the ultimate indignity in a long line of past and anticipated indignities. “And now she expects me to shir eggs and I don’t have a clue how an egg gets shirred.”

“Oh, Roz,” Katie said, trying hard to hide the undercurrent of laughter in her voice. “Oh, honey, that’s so terrible for you. I know how much you dislike Terri. This must be just awful.”

“It sure is! Now, what are we going to do? I really don’t want to drive hundreds of miles to Chicago.”

“No, no, of course not, sweetie,” Katie said, trying to calm me. “I invited her to the cottage. Bill and I need to fix this. It’s just that the timing couldn’t be worse. Give us a few minutes to talk it over and we’ll get right back to you.”

“Hurry. I’ve got to go in and figure out how to shir eggs before she wakes up.”

“You have to do what to eggs? What eggs? Oh, never mind. Roz, we’ll call you right back. Just give us a minute.”

The three of us clicked off, and I started to pace the deck. For the first time in a week the sun broke through the heavy clouds. It had been months since I’d seen the sun come up―the best time of day on Crooked Lake. Streamers of high-flown jet trails shot from the horizon straight into the sky like spokes in a fan and the sun, rising behind them, gilded them in flaming colors of gold and rose, fanning up, flaring against the bright blue of a rain-washed sky.

All around me, the lake woke. Boughs of newly budded trees swished through the cool air. Birds chirped. For once, the waves lapped gently, mildly against my new, screamingly orange sandbags. Sheesh, they lit up the morning like traffic cones. Why’d they have to make the bags in orange? What ever happened to demure, blend-with-everything boring beige burlap? More to the point, how could Penny Mae ever put a good spin on this situation? I looked at my new lakefront of glow-in-the-dark orange sandbags. Maybe now was not the time to put the house on the market.

My phone beeped. “Hey, Katie,” I said into it quietly.

“Roz, Bill and I talked about it and we had a couple of ideas. First, do you think Terri’s son could pick her up and drive her back to Chicago? That’d be great if Sammy could do that.  Of course we’ll reimburse him for all his gas, hotels, everything. If Sam drove his own car, Bill could drive Terri’s car to Chicago in a few days and fly back here. Or as a second option, maybe Bill and I could drive her home next weekend. I could drive her in my car and Bill could follow in hers.

“Sweetheart, I’m really, really sorry, but we can’t do anything today.” Katie continued in an apologetic tone. “I have the state auditors in at the college, and Bill’s leaving to speak at a greenskeepers’ conference this morning. I know it’s asking a lot, but could you please, please deal with Terri for a while? I’ll owe you big time.”

“No way, Katie.” I said bluntly. “There is no way I’m going to be at that woman’s beck and call for a week. She’s already got me chauffeuring her to the farmers’ market and the bulk store this morning. No way can I put up with her for that long. If I have to, I’ll drive her out to Chicago myself and then fly back. I might even stick her on a plane by herself.”

“Whichever way you decide to go, we’ll cover all expenses,” Katie repeated. “Oh, Roz, I feel awful about this. It’s probably the worst thing in the world we could have dumped in your lap. I’m so sorry, sweetie. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

Just then I heard “Ro-oz? Oh, Ro-oz,” as Terri stumbled into the kitchen in a short red nightgown trimmed with lavish black lace that revealed far too much of that particular woman way past a certain age.

“She’s up,” I muttered into the phone, “I’ve got to go.” I clicked off and dropped the cell into my pocket, then wandered with nonchalant ease into the kitchen from the deck.

“Outside at this hour?” Terri asked in surprise. “In your pajamas?”

“Absolutely,” I answered. “It’s the loveliest time of day on the lake, and I wanted to take advantage of it.” Much as I didn’t want to, I examined Terri more closely. “You look chilly. Can I get you a robe?” I asked, as she plunked down at the table in my usual chair and craned her neck searching for coffee.

“No way. I’m too hot-blooded for a lot of layers. I usually sleep in the nude but when I travel I pack a nightgown.”

Shuddering at the thought of a naked Terri sprawled on my clean sheets, I hustled to start the coffee.

“Oh, darn.” Terri patted herself, searching for nonexistent pockets in her barely existent nightgown. “I forgot my pills. Could you be a dear, Roz, and run upstairs for them?”

Gritting my teeth, I made the first of many trips up and down the stairs that day. Terri popped a pain pill. At least it might keep her drowsy and somewhat malleable, I hoped.

But no. Instead of dozing off, Terri chugged her coffee and began outlining her day. “We have to do the farmers’ market this morning, don’t we, Roz? This is the only day it will be open while I’m here, and I don’t want to miss Harvest House. Remember? You told me about it at Thanksgiving but we never had a chance to get there.”

“I’ll make you a deal, Terri,” I answered. “Why don’t you call your son after breakfast and see if he can take a couple of days off school to pick you up and take you back to Chicago? After you talk to him, I’ll call Katie and let her know what we’re doing, and then we can go to Harvest House.” 

I couldn’t blame Terri for wanting to see Harvest House. People drove for hours to visit it. A popular blend of Mennonites, farmers, artists, crafters and other vendors sold everything from just-picked fruits, vegetables, and flowers to local cheeses, baked goods, handicrafts, and honeys.

“If we’re going to Harvest House, we might as well stop in at the bulk store while we’re on the far side of the lake. But we need to get you home, Terri. I’m sure you want your family and friends around you so they can help out in the next few weeks.”

“Roz, you know I’m on my own in Chicago. My sons are away. Sam’s in college and Peter’s still in Denmark. Even though I have friends around, they all lead busy lives. I can’t impose on them. It’s very kind of you to keep me here and take care of me in this crisis.” She hugged her sling to her chest and looked at me with sad, mascara-smudged eyes. “I’m not sure there’s anywhere else I can go,” she continued, playing the pity card.

“Let’s see what Sam says and we’ll go to Harvest House and the bulk store today,” I agreed reluctantly. “I could always book a flight for you and then Bill can drive your car to Chicago in a few days.” My mind whirled with travel options―I really did want to get this woman out of my house.

“Oh, such a fuss, Roz. Let’s deal with it later. Were you able to make those shirred eggs for breakfast? Aren’t they fun?”

Turns out shirred eggs are basically just baked eggs, with a little milk on top to keep them from drying out. We both dressed while the eggs baked so that, right after breakfast, Terri was free to phone Sam, her son. I knew they had a rocky relationship, but surely, once he found out how much his mother needed his help, he’d drop everything so he could be here for her. Wouldn’t he? (While we’re at it, do you have any bridges in Brooklyn you’d like to sell me?)

Terri sat at the kitchen table in her jeans and the same caveman-cobbled sandals she’d had on in November. Did she wear those things all winter? She must be really hot-blooded. I could only hear her side of the conversation while I cleaned the breakfast dishes, but I have to admit, it kind of broke my heart.

“Sam, it’s your mother. How are you doing today, dear?” She must have gotten a terse answer on the other end, because she got to the point very quickly. “Look, I’m in trouble and I need your help. I fell down yesterday at your Aunt Katie’s cottage in New York and I dislocated my shoulder. I’m taking pain pills so I can’t drive and I need to get back to Chicago. Could you take a day or two from your classes and fly up here to help get me and my car home?” Another short pause full of squawks on the other end, and then Terri rushed in with, “Oh, I see. Sure, sure I understand, dear. Yes, of course you have to keep plugging away studying for those finals. No, I wouldn’t want a whole semester’s worth of work to go to waste.” She tried one more time to get his help by saying, “But, Sam, don’t you think your professors would understand you had a family emergency and they’d cut you a little slack?” More squawks, then Terri surrendered. “No, no, of course I understand, dear. Don’t worry about a thing. Roz and I will figure this out in no time. I lo―”

Sam must have hung up, because Terri clicked off mid-sentence and took a silent sip of coffee. As much as I disliked her, that conversation plucked at my heartstrings. Imagine someone―your own son, for Pete’s sake―disliking you so much that they wouldn’t help you in a genuine emergency. What the heck had gone on between the two of them that had brought their relationship to such a pass?

Chastened by the thought that Terri really didn’t have anyone to help her, I tried to be a kinder and gentler person as we drove to Harvest House. I’ll let you guess how long that resolve lasted.

Fortunately, we arrived early and found a good parking spot before the market got crowded. All told, I’d say Harvest House stretched over a couple of acres. Five different cement-floored buildings joined together into a country shopping mall of sorts, with each building featuring stalls run by numerous business owners. Terri and I browsed through the fresh fruit and vegetable area first, earmarking those vendors we’d stop at later so we didn’t have to pick up all that heavy produce until we left. I noticed some local apple honey, a favorite I rarely saw on grocery shelves anywhere, and Terri suggested I add some artisanal cheeses to my customary stores of yellow American. Then we wandered into the bakery area where I tried, without much success, to ignore the goods for sale. One bakery stall featured a local specialty, grape pies, which had a filling with a texture similar to that of cherry pie but consisting of deep-purple Concord grapes. Avoiding the pastry, I chose instead a Mason jar full of homemade grape juice, full of the resveratrol that supposedly makes red wines so healthy for their drinkers. I’d mix up the grape juice with seltzer when I got home for flavorful spritzers.

Homemade jams, soaps, penny candies, quilting supplies, and pickles of various sorts filled another shed at Harvest Home. For once I bypassed the pickled Brussels sprouts, which I usually couldn’t resist. 

I talked Terri out of buying a number of items by harping on the difficulties of getting them home with her, especially if she needed to fly. I discouraged her casual suggestion that ‘maybe you could pack everything and send it to me’ by pointing out the very breakable glass preserve containers and the perishable nature of many of the other things she wanted. When we hit the bunny eggs, though, I couldn’t talk her out of them. Egg cartons full of white egg-shaped smooth pieces of wood, each decorated with a different face, hat and ears. For the life of me I couldn’t see the point, but Terri fell in love and bought four dozen. Which I proceeded to carry through the crowds for the next hour.

After a while, four egg cartons of wooden eggs get to be pretty awkward to carry, especially when you add in glass jars of grape juice, apple honey, and a hunk of artisanal cheddar. ‘Crabby’ doesn’t begin to describe my mood after juggling those purchases, with the additions of fresh asparagus, strawberries and new potatoes for dinner. After far too long, and far too many minutes looking at handmade lawn furniture Terri would never have shipped to her Chicago McMansion, we made it back to the car. The best thing about our shopping excursion? The way it hardened my resolve to get Terri on a plane west at the first opportunity.