Simple Riches (5 page)

“This,” he said, “is Hot Ed.” A plump, shiny sausage glistened in a white sub roll, resting on a bed of peppers and onions, sautéed to near transparency.

And the smell… it reminded Alex of the only carnival she’d ever been to—she’d been thirteen and her friend’s cousins had been visiting from upstate New York. There was a carnival about ten miles away in a neighboring town and she’d gone with them, tagged along actually, so eager to join in, be a part of something other than Uncle Walter and Aunt Helen’s golf lunches at the country club and Saturday afternoon museum tours. She’d snuck away after lunch, told Aunt Helen she was going to play tennis with Eileen and would be back by dinnertime. And she would have to, if the car Eileen’s cousin was driving hadn’t blown a tire. Unfortunately for Alex, it had also blown her cover. Uncle Walter was waiting for her in his black Mercedes when they rolled into Eileen’s driveway two hours late.

It was the last time Alex did anything that might disappoint her uncle. It was also the last time she had a sausage sub smothered in peppers and onions.

“So, should I wrap it up for you? It’s a real treat. Let me tell you, one bite and you’ll be back for more.” Bernie held it a little closer.

Alex took a step back, shook her head. “I’ll have one later. Right now I have to find the Lubovich’s. 564 Abbington Road,” she repeated, getting the address in her head. “Through town, left on Center, two blocks straight. Chuck and Edna.” She waved, started to leave. “Thanks, Bernie. Thanks, Alice.”

She was halfway out the door when Bernie called to her.

“Hey!”

Alex turned around, waited. “What’s your name?”

“Alex. Alex Chamberlain.”

***

Abbington Road was a cozy street, small and cluttered with trees stretching their limbs into neighbors’ yards, shrubs and bushes poking out in all directions, bullying for number one position. The homes were all shingled two-stories with side porches and planters bulging with petunias, geraniums and impatiens. Most of the driveways had been poured with cement, a few were blacktopped, none graveled.

The Lubovich’s house sat on the right side of Abbington Road, halfway down, between a dark green one and a canary-yellow one. Their home was white with green trim and in bad need of a coat of paint, perhaps two or three coats, but not until after someone or rather, several someones scraped the chipped and peeling remnants from the two-story dwelling. Alex pulled her car into the driveway behind a Chevrolet Caprice Classic, green with a bumper sticker that read “In God We Trust.”

There were two pots of fuchsia and white petunias and a pot of red geraniums sitting at the foot of the steps. Alex climbed two wide steps to the front door. A gold cross hung several inches above the doorbell. She pressed the bell and waited.

So far, this was pretty much what she encountered in small-town life. There was always a person like Bernie, a place like Hot Ed’s, even a behind-the-scenes woman like Alice. And the streets were the same, too. Small houses, tucked away, partially hidden behind foliage, trees, bushes, shrubs, all green, all dense, all the same.

Alex took a deep breath, pressed the bell again. Restalline was just another small town and she would not let it intimidate her, just because she needed this deal to restore her uncle’s faith in her abilities. She’d get him to acknowledge her skill and talent. All she needed to do was convince the people of this town that life was better, sweeter, richer outside of Restalline.

And from what she’d seen so far, could it really be that difficult?

The front door squeaked open and a woman dressed in a yellow housedress smeared with bright red poppies stood in the opening. She was in her late fifties, perhaps even sixty, it was hard to tell with the quarter-inch eyeliner and red lipstick she wore. Her hair, what was visible of it beneath the yellow kerchief and pink rollers, was red, the bottled version, and her cheeks were two circles, same shade as her lipstick. And her eyebrows, well… they were there, sort of, drawn in with a dark brown pencil.

“Hello?” She slid on a pair of red half glasses hanging from a crystal chain around her neck. “Do I know you?” She squinted, adjusted the glasses. “Are you Rita’s daughter, the one from Albuquerque?”

“No. No, I’m not, Mrs. Lubovich. My name is Alex Chamberlain. I just got into town.” Alex held out a hand, waited for the older woman to take it. “I’m looking for a place to stay and Bernie from Hot Ed’s gave me your address.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” Mrs. Lubovich’s hand inched out of her pocket.

Alex nodded. “Actually, it was Alice who mentioned you first.”

That made her smile. Then she threw back her head and laughed, exposing a mouthful of bridgework. “Alice runs the show, she does. Bernie’s nothing but hot air and a lot of it.” She laughed again, grabbed Alex’s hand, squeezed it hard. “Come on in, Alex Chamberlain. Let me get you a cup of coffee and I’ll show you around.”

This was not the time to tell Mrs. Lubovich that she only drank coffee before 7 a.m. and after 7 p.m. “I’d love some,” she said and followed the older woman inside. They passed through a narrow hallway, dimly lit, with pictures covering large sections of pink rose wallpaper. Black and white photographs, touched up portraits with painted lips and soft white skin, snapshots, family gatherings, all done in gold frames, antique white and brass. The kitchen was beyond the hallway, a tiny nook of cabinets and clutter, and … yellow. Yellow cabinets, yellow curtains, yellow Formica table tucked in the corner, yellow cushions on the wooden chairs, yellow ceramic canisters with white lettering, yellow wastebasket…even a yellow water dish in the corner. Cat or dog? A flash of tan and white with black paws flashed through her mind. Daisy. She’d loved that cat, dressed it up, talked to it, slept with it, and then it was gone, taken away from her…just like her parents.

“This is the kitchen.” Edna took a coffee mug from the cupboard, yellow, of course.

“It’s… very bright.”

“Didn’t used to be.” Edna poured a cup of coffee from an electric percolator. “Three years ago it was dark and dingy.” She handed Alex the cup, pointed to a bowl of sugar and a can of evaporated milk. “Then Chuck had his heart attack.” Her voice lowered, quivered on the last word. “He almost didn’t make it. If it wasn’t for Dr. Nick, he would have met the Good Lord, right there on the floor of NK Manufacturing.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Lubovich, I didn’t mean to get you upset.”

The older woman sniffed. “Edna, dear. Call me Edna.”

“Edna.”

“Talking about Chuck’s heart attack just makes me remember how lucky we were, how lucky I am.” She pulled a wad of tissues from her pocket. “You know, sometimes, you forget, especially when your husband does something that drives you crazy. Then, you forget about him lying in the hospital with tubes sticking out of everywhere and machines beeping and buzzing.”

Alex sipped her coffee, said nothing. Death had come to her three times, twice when she was only eight and then three years ago, when Aunt Helen lost her battle to the god she worshipped most, nicotine. But there had been time to prepare for the inevitable, time to adjust to the sight of tubes in her nose, the way her skin turned gray when she couldn’t get enough oxygen, the fits of wheezing, gasps for air. It was a horrible thing to witness, but at least it was there, in front of their faces, no denying or pretending it would dissolve with a few pills or treatments. It even had a name, emphysema, and it plagued her for six years, forcing her in and out of the hospital, fighting for every breath, until one day she sucked in her last gulp and closed her eyes forever. It was a sad but anticipated ending, and in Aunt Helen’s last month she became almost… what was the word Alex wanted? Approachable, that was it. Almost, but not quite.

And the other two deaths, her parents’, well, they still left her cold and empty. They’d gone for a morning swim and never come back—their bodies had, of course, days later, but they were just shells, bloated and deformed receptacles of Peter and Nadia Chamberlain. Her parents were gone, their souls swept up by a wave and carried out to the ocean, together, without even a good-bye.

“How long are you staying? And why are you here anyway?”

It was so typical of small towners to just accept and question later. Edna Lubovich knew less than nothing about her and yet she was already spilling half her life story over a cup of coffee and Alice’s say-so. “I’ll be here about two months, I think. I’ve been traveling around the country, researching small town life for a documentary I’m doing.”

“For television?”

“Possibly.” It might be a lie, but it was only a half lie. If she really were doing a documentary, it
would
be for television.

“Well, honey, you’ve come to the right place. I can tell you anything you want to know about living in a small town.” She lowered her voice, “And everything you want to know about
this
town.” She set her coffee cup down, smoothed both hands over her yellow kerchief. “Been here thirty-nine years in September. Moved to Restalline right after Chuck and I got married.”

Alex nodded. Now this was someone who could give her the background information she needed to find out who the powerhouses were behind the community, and who could be persuaded to sell. “You must know everyone.”

“Sure do.” A quick smile spread over Edna’s long face. “Everybody and everything.”

“Edna! Edna!” It was a man’s voice, booming from another part of the house.

Edna Lubovich shook her head. “That’s Chuck.” Then she raised her voice several decibels to match his. “What?!”

“Where’d you put my slippers?”

“Check behind the bathroom door! And don’t come down in your underwear. We’ve got company!”

“Who?”

She turned to Alex, “He’s as bad as our Tracy used to be, yelling from all over the house.”

“Who?” Chuck Lubovich shouted again.

“Never you mind,” Edna yelled back. “You’ll see when you get down here.”

“I hope your husband doesn’t mind my staying here,” Alex said, wondering if the next two months would be a barrage of shouting matches between her landlords.

“Nah, Chuck don’t care.” Edna took out another cup from the cupboard, set it next to the coffee pot. “It’s just his way sometimes, that’s all.” Her voice softened, dipped. “We been together a long time, been through a lot.” She paused, spooned a teaspoon of sugar into the empty cup. “You married, Alex?”

“No.”
Not anymore
.

She poured a generous amount of milk over the sugar and began stirring. “Hmm. Marriage teaches you a lot about a person, teaches you a lot about yourself, too. Chuck always puts his milk and sugar in first before he pours his coffee. Been doing that for as long as I can remember.”

Alex sipped her own coffee, thinking about how nice it was that Edna Lubovich fixed her husband’s coffee for him. No one did things like that for Alex, mostly because she wouldn’t let them, but watching Edna stir sugar and milk for her husband made her think that once in a while it might be nice to share something like that with someone.

She was still thinking about Edna and Chuck’s coffee when the door separating the kitchen and the living room opened and Chuck Lubovich walked in. He must have taken Edna’s words to heart because he was wearing a tan short-sleeved shirt, tucked in, with a brown belt and brown pants. There was a pair of brown corduroy slippers on his feet, probably the ones behind the bathroom door. For all the noise he’d made yelling to Edna, Chuck was a small man, standing no more than an inch or two taller than his wife. His build was medium to slight, maybe leaning a little more on the slight side and his coloring was pale like he hadn’t seen the sun in a long time. His gray hair was slicked back, thinning on top, and he wore thick black glasses that distorted his eyes, making it difficult to tell what color they were.

“So, you’re the visitor,” he said to Alex, looking her up and down.

“Nice to meet you Mr. Lubovich,” Alex said, walking toward him, hand extended.

“Mr. Lubovich was my father,” he said, his voice deep, “and he’s been dead over twenty years.” He held out a hand, grasped Alex’s. “I’m Chuck.”

Alex smiled. “Chuck. Pleased to meet you.”

He ignored the pleasantry. “What brings you to Restalline?”

Edna interrupted. “She’s writing a story on small towns. It might be on TV.”

“Oh?”

Alex worked her lips into a smile, the same one she used every time she gave this pitch.
Make them believe, make them believe. It’s for their own good
.
Nobody wants to be stuck in a town that doesn’t even have a mall
.
And I need this project. I really, really need it
. “Yes, that’s right,” she said. It had all been said so many times before that it sounded true. “I’ve been traveling around visiting small towns, trying to get the feel of them, find out what makes people want to live there, stay there, sometimes from generation to generation.” This part
was
true.

“That’s Restalline, all right.” Chuck rubbed his jaw, nodded. “We got a lot of families like that. Androvich’s for one. Dr. Nick was the only one who left, but he came back.”

Edna made the sign of the cross. “Thank God for that.” She turned to Alex. “He’s the one who saved Chuck’s life.”

“Damn right he did. Best thing that ever happened to the town was when he came back.”

Androvich?
Alex listened with heightened interest. Androvich was the name of the people who owned the lumber business and a substantial amount of land in the town. And there was a doctor? He’d obviously gone away to school, lived in or near a city, maybe come back more out of duty than desire. She needed to meet him, talk to him, maybe work through him to persuade the rest of the family they could cash out of Restalline, buy a condo in the suburbs, drive a Volvo. But he’d come back? Why?

“The… Androvich’s is it? They’ve been around a long time?”