God is in the Pancakes (23 page)

As I walk to the coffee shop, I think about what I'll order: a hot chocolate with whipped cream, and a peanut butter chip chocolate muffin. If that doesn't make me feel better, at least it should send me into some form of sugar shock. I notice a Help Wanted sign taped up to the bottom of the coffee shop's window and wonder what it'd be like to work here, how the only decision you'd be forced to make is deciding which customers deserve the bigger muffins, and which deserve the runts. I think about how different my life would be if I'd just picked a harmless job like this. But before I place my order, I glance over to the tables and get another surprise. Sitting one table over from where we last sat are Eric and Natalie. She's laughing at something he just said or did and he looks down grinning, clearly pleased by her reaction. But when Eric looks up, our eyes connect and he gives me a different type of smile. It seems to be one that says “You caught me.”

“Grace,” Eric says. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I reply, trying to decide if I have to go over to talk to them.

“Oh, hi, Grace!” Natalie replies. “Come join us.”

There is no way in hell I am going to
come on over and join
them. “Yeah, thanks, but I can't.” Eric and I haven't really spoken since our last encounter about Natalie, and now isn't exactly the optimal time. “I just came to pick up a job application.” I point to the Help Wanted sign in the window as proof of my lie.

“Did you quit Hanover House?” Natalie asks. “I mean, I would've. I don't know how you've lasted this long. It's so depressing over there.”

“You quit Hanover House?” Eric repeats.

“No. Not yet.” I shake my head, which wobbles back and forth a bit thanks to the whiskey. “Just wanted to check out my options, see what else is out there. I'm sure you know how it is.”

Eric doesn't respond to this, but Natalie does. “Yeah, I think it's really important to do that. I mean, how else are you going to know what you like and don't like?”

“Right, well, I should get going,” I say. “See ya.”

“Grace,” Eric calls out as I turn, “call me later, okay?”

I nod—wanting to scream—and then grab the employment application form from the counter and stick it in the back pocket of my jeans before leaving. Unfortunately I'm still holding the money Isabelle gave me there too, and I need to lose it as quickly as possible . . .

The mall isn't close, and it's at the end of a dangerous stretch of road, but I don't care. I start walking there aggressively as if daring the cars to mess with me now. When I finally arrive, I walk right past the store where I'd last come with Eric, and I don't go into the chain stores where I normally shop. Instead I head for Cignal. It's a store where the more stylish girls at school buy their clothes, and I know this thanks to the T-shirts they wear with
Cignal
printed boldly across their chests.

I've never been inside the store before—it always seemed like one of those places where anyone not in the in-crowd isn't welcome. So as I pass through the alarm detectors on both sides of the doorway, I get a little jittery. I'm even intimidated by the mannequins. In fairness, these are no friendly mannequins; they're the kind that don't wear wigs. Like they're too cool to be burdened by hair, and their cheekbones are so sharp, they look like they could cut you. The salesgirls don't look much friendlier. In fact, they're practically all as angular as their plastic counterparts and I can feel them staring at me, sizing me up, wondering what I'm doing here.

One of the live girls, a saleslady who looks like she's probably in her mid-twenties, approaches. “Were you looking for anything special today?” she asks, then smiles, holding it until I respond.

I don't really want to explain, but I suddenly want to get a rise out of her. “I need a dress I can wear to a friend's funeral.”

“Oh,” she replies, instantly dropping the fake smile. “Well, I'm not sure we're going to have a huge selection for that, but we do have a lot of stuff in black?” She says this as if it's a question, but really it's the perfect response.

“Um, yeah, sure.”

The woman leads me over to a rack of dresses toward the back. “What do you think about this?” she asks, pulling out a simple black number with a keyhole cutout down the front of the chest.

“I don't know.”

“Maybe this?” She presents a black-and-white houndstooth print that looks like something a stylish “career gal” might wear.

“Not really my style,” I reply, as if I have some sort of defined “funeral style” that I wear to all the best burials.

Then I see it: the perfect dress. The material looks like brushed satin and it seems like something Audrey Hepburn would have worn in
Breakfast at Tiffany's
. It's a sleeveless top that gathers tightly at the waist, then poufs out like a bell in the skirt. The best part is the color: It's a brilliant, deep red. The saleslady sees me eyeing it and starts shaking her head.

“You know,” she says, “that dress doesn't really scream ‘funeral' to me.”

“Yeah, that's kind of what I like about it.” Of course I have no intention of buying a new dress to wear to Mr. Sands's funeral. But there's something about this dress that calls to me. “I'm going to try it on,” I say. “Where's the dressing room?”

She points me in the direction of a curtained-off area and even as I hold the dress in my hand I can already picture myself in it—or how I want to look in it, anyway. I slip off my shoes and yank down my jeans, then carefully unzip the delicate zipper at the back of the dress. The fabric feels cool against my skin when I put it on, and I contort my arms so I can close the zipper without having to ask the woman for help. I'm almost afraid to look in the mirror, but when I finally get up the nerve to take my eyes off my feet, I'm stunned at what I see. The dress, narrower at the top and flaring gently wider toward the bottom, looks good—looks like it was made for me, in fact—and flatters my figure in a way that I didn't even know was possible. I walk out of the dressing room and the salesgirl's face registers surprise.

“Wow,” she says, “that looks great on you, but—”

“But what?” I wonder if actually makes my butt look huge or if my back fat is somehow bulging out in unsightly lumps.

“But I'm just not sure you can wear it to a funeral,” she says seriously. “I mean, look, we work on commission, so I should probably just keep my mouth shut or try to convince you to buy this, but I think I might feel a little guilty if I did.”

Unbelievable. Who knew I'd find the one salesgirl in this obnoxious store with a strong code of ethics? And because she's being honest, I feel a little bad about continuing the lie too.

“Well, red was his favorite color, so this is sort of like a tribute.” I nod. (Okay, so it turns out I don't really feel bad at all about continuing the lie.)

“Oh.” She nods back. “Then you should get it, because that A-line really does look fabulous on you.”

“Thanks,” I say brightly. “I'm going to take it.” I walk back into the dressing room and unzip the dress, putting it on the hanger before even bothering to look at the price tag. Steeling myself for sticker shock, I'm still stunned when I see the printed price, $480. But there's a red slash through it and a blue circle sticker on top, so I call out to the saleslady on the other side of the curtain.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes?” she replies, sounding uncomfortably close to the curtain.

“There's a red slash through the price on this dress, so I was wondering if you could tell me how much it is now.” I hand the dress over the top of the curtain and she takes it from me.

I can hear her let out a little laugh. “Today must be your lucky day,” she says, before instantly retracting it with a, “Um, I didn't exactly mean . . . Well, anyway, I think this dress must have been around for a little while—maybe it was here waiting for you!—because it was marked down by fifty percent, then twenty-five percent off that.”

I do the math as quickly as I can and even though $180 was still way more money than I wanted to spend on a dress I wasn't planning to buy, I can't
not
buy it now. But I do manage to restrain myself from saying
I'll be the luckiest girl at the funeral!

I find my change purse at the bottom of my bag and count the cash I've stashed inside. Between the money I've been saving from my job and what Isabelle had given me every now and again, I have just enough to cover it. I watch with no small amount of pride as the saleslady carefully folds the dress before laying it out on a cocoon of tissue paper. She takes a satisfying amount of time creasing the tissue paper to make sure the dress won't wrinkle before she puts the store's sticker against it, wrapping it up like the present that it is. She then takes one of the large Cignal shopping bags and flutters it open with a proper flourish, and slides the dress inside before handing it over to me.

“You're going to look great,” she says with a smile. “I'm sure your friend would be really pleased if he could see you.”

“Thanks.” I awkwardly smile back at her, thinking about Mr. Sands and knowing she's probably right.

S
chool blurs the next day, and I head over to Hanover House as soon as the bell rings. It's not a work day, I just don't know where else I should be. When I enter the cottage, Izzy's holding a plate of large, moist-looking cookies. “Oatmeal raisin?” she offers, pointing me to the couch. “Esther Newman just dropped them off, so they're probably pretty good. That woman doesn't have much on the ball, but she is a great cook, which I suppose should count for something.” Isabelle lowers her voice. “Oh, and you should see the ugly dress Sarah insisted I buy yesterday. It's awful.”

“Maybe it isn't as bad as you think,” I reply, reaching for a cookie and biting into it. “This
is
good, you should have one.”

Isabelle takes a medium-sized cookie for herself and takes a bite. “No, that dress is beyond ugly. But that's what I wanted because I have every intention of burning it after I wear it on Wednesday. I have no plans to keep a memento of my husband's funeral sitting around in my closet. That's why I purposefully got the cheapest dress I could find so I wouldn't feel bad about spending Sarah's money, then throwing it away. Let people talk if they want to.”

“You think people would talk about your dress?” I ask.

“People talk about everything here. No topic too small to dissect,” Isabelle replies.

“Well, I'd try to keep those folks away from the funeral if you can. Seems like the one time you really shouldn't have to deal with people you don't want to.”

“You're right.” Isabelle hands me a cup of tea. “But part of what makes them so miserable is that they can't take the hint. Do you know when Esther came up to me that first night after Frank . . . well, she took my hand and said, ‘Isabelle, I know just exactly how you feel!' And do you know all I wanted to do was knock that horrible woman to the ground? She had
no idea
how I was feeling. How could she?” Isabelle shakes her head. “She didn't know the relationship that I had with Frank. She had no idea what we'd been through together.”

Again, I think about telling her what I did; confessing the truth. I wanted to do right by Mr. Sands, and I want to do right by Isabelle too, but I don't know if hearing this would make her feel better or worse. And the last thing I want to do is make her suffer more now . . . I already feel guilty enough for the pain I've caused her.

The doorbell rings. “Ah,” Isabelle says, “must be some of my friends. They told me they'd be coming over shortly.” She nods. “That is one of the nice things about being in a place like this. You have a big community of people who are there for you.” She sighs. “Sometimes I hate the closeness—it's like you can't escape people, almost like high school—but sometimes there is comfort in it. Grace, would you be good enough to get that? I'm going to go to the powder room to freshen up for a minute.”

“No problem.” When I open the door, two women I've seen around the grounds are standing there. “Hi, I'm Grace. I'm a candy striper,” I say, feeling like I should somehow justify my presence here.

“Oh, that's right. I'm Mrs. Thompson and this is Mrs. Savitz.” Mrs. Thompson is a few inches smaller than me, as is Mrs. Savitz, and they both have the old-lady helmet hairdo that is flattering on no one. I guess when you hit a certain age, you don't want to waste time blow-drying, so you cut it short. But it's kind of funny that as a result, everyone winds up with the same 'do as if it's a standard issue uniform, again, not unlike a trend in high school.

Mrs. Savitz is holding a plate of something covered in tinfoil. “Is she resting?” she asks.

“No, she's just in the bathroom. She'll be right out,” I say.

“Okay.” Mrs. Thompson nods. “Well, we're here now, so you can go.”

“Oh. Right.” I didn't realize that their arrival necessarily meant my departure, and I don't particularly want to leave. “Well, I'll just wait to say good-bye to her until she comes out.”

Mrs. Savitz smiles at me as the two women come in and sit on the couch. “Do you know what the plans are for the funeral, Grace?”

“I know it's supposed to be Wednesday in the late afternoon,” I say. “I think they're waiting for her younger daughter to make it in from overseas.”

“Well, that should give them enough time to do the autopsy,” Mrs. Thompson clucks.