The Social Climber of Davenport Heights (11 page)

I dodged all questions directed my way. It was easier than trying to explain how proud I was of my Brynn, who’d never really done anything. I didn’t understand it myself. But it was true. I was proud of her. Just for being my daughter.

I finished my surprisingly tasty meal and took the opportunity of throwing my plate away to sneak out of the kitchen and check on my friends in the volunteers room.

Even before I reached the door, I could hear the merriment going on inside. I put a hand to smooth my hair from my face and felt the dampness at the nape of my neck. I must look
hideous! I made a quick detour to the ladies’ room to confirm my suspicions. I was absolutely right. The oomph had gone out of my hair, leaving my professional look limp and draggy, held together only by the stiff magic of superhold hair spray. My face was no better. My foundation had melted and disappeared, leaving the rough, slight ruddiness of my complexion visible. My dyed eyebrows and tattooed eyeliner looked good, at least, though the crow’s-feet around my eyes were no longer completely disguised. I made a mental note to give the plastic surgeon a call. After forty, life was just patch, patch, patch.

Oculoplasty, of course, would not help me today. My hairbrush and makeup were in the volunteers room. There was no way to repair the damage done. Briefly, I considered sneaking out of the building, driving to the mall and throwing myself upon the mercy of the cosmetics counter at Macy’s. I might have actually done it, but it was Thanksgiving and the stores at the mall were closed.

I stared at myself under the fluorescent glow in the restroom mirror. Just staring, not really knowing what to do. I hadn’t realized how much I had begun to resemble my mother. People had always thought that my mother was attractive. She was, in sort of a rough way. Style for her was the moderate-dress section at JCPenney. But she had a good figure and always managed to carry it off. Mom had raised herself out of poverty, and somehow that always showed.

I had raised myself out of working class and was determined that no one should ever suspect.

I tried fluffing my hair with my hands. It worked a little bit. I still didn’t look great. I decided it would have to do. I couldn’t comfort myself with the knowledge that no one would notice. Among my crowd, noticing was a sacred calling. I had the option of not seeing anyone and heading back to Cecil and
the folks in the kitchen, but I had family and acquaintances among the
No-Mess Oblige
and they would wonder about me if I didn’t show my face.

Besides, I reminded myself a bit smugly, I had nothing to be ashamed of. While they had been frittering away the day with gossip and champagne, I had been engaged in actually doing good.

As I entered the room, I heard Teddy before I saw her. She was seated next to my mother-in-law, who was talking with excited animation. Edith was wearing a two-thousand-dollar St. John’s silk pantsuit that made her look fat. She had accessorized with the jade-and-garnet Christmas-tree brooch that my comrades in the alleyway had found so amusing.

Teddy, on the other hand, looked especially chic in the institutional surroundings. She glanced up, spied me and grinned broadly.

“Jane Lofton, where have you been?” she demanded with good humor. “I talked to David an hour ago and he assured me that you were here somewhere.”

Edith glanced up and took in my appearance with obvious dismay.

“Good heavens! Is it raining outside?”

“I don’t think so,” I replied, and moved to quickly change the subject. “Has David already left?”

I knew, of course, that he had. He was in the middle of the sixth hole by now, but it was a useful way to divert questions about my dishevelment.

“He’s long gone,” Will Hyfals told me. “On a sunny day like this, it’s a crying shame to be stuck indoors.”

I smiled. Stuck was definitely what these people were up to. Besides Will and Teddy and Edith, Bob and Mimi Parton were there, along with Fayrene Ancil and Laura Martin, Pete McNally
and Sugar Van Veen. They were all crowded around one little table as if they had a wad of money riding on twenty-three red.

“Oh, Jane,” Edith said. “We’ve just come up with the greatest idea for expanding this Thanksgiving to the entire city.”

“And it was your mother-in-law’s idea,” Teddy piped in.

“Oh no,” Edith said, shaking her head. “I’m sure it was yours, Teddy, or maybe Fayrene’s,” she suggested, glancing toward one of the woman across from her.

“Well, Bob first mentioned all the seniors who can’t come,” Fayrene pointed out.

“And then you brought up the Meals on Wheels program,” Teddy said.

“Well, whoever,” Edith said. “It’s a wonderful idea and we’ve just got to go with it.”

“It’s an idea that ought to get Edith a nomination as one of Oprah’s angels,” Laura suggested.

My mother-in-law blushed to the roots of her hair, obviously pleased and hopeful that it would do just that.

“So what’s the plan?” I asked.

They all began talking at once, obviously so excited. Teddy hushed everybody in that ever-so-polite and patrician manner she had, and personally began the chronology of events.

“We were talking about what a good thing the dinner is. And what a wonderful service to the community it is,” she said.

“Yes, absolutely,” Will agreed.

We all nodded.

“Then,” Teddy continued, “the conversation drifted to those who don’t participate.”

“There are so many older folks and disabled people who just can’t get here,” Edith piped in. “Downtown is getting so empty.”

“More and more of the less fortunate are living way out in the suburbs,” Mimi said.

Everyone agreed with that, as well.

“And a lot of those people simply don’t have any transportation,” Will said. “Even those with access to the bus lines find the schedule abbreviated on holidays.”

“Edith thought it would be good if we could somehow go and get them,” Fayrene said.

“Then Teddy got the idea that we could pay city-bus personnel and cabdrivers who would normally take Thanksgiving as vacation to pick people up and bring them here.”

“It would be a good deal for them,” Teddy said, “as well as a financial incentive. And we’d be asking the people most capable of doing the job to do it.”

“So,” Edith said, “Teddy called the city manager and asked how we’d go about getting that done. He thought it was a great idea.”

“It
is
a great idea,” I told them, more than a little surprised that Teddy could even care.

“Naturally, we’ll need to raise the money,” she said. “I was thinking maybe a more relaxed version of the Chrysanthemum Ball.”

Sugar was nodding eagerly. “We’re talking Latin rhythms,” she told me. “A Cuban buffet, perhaps, and those slinky dresses like Brazilian Carnival.”

With Sugar’s short, pudgy figure, I didn’t imagine that slinky Brazilian dresses would be quite her thing, but I was encouraging nonetheless.

“You know, we could even do it as a Mardi Gras celebration,” Teddy pointed out.

“It could be masked!” Mimi almost squealed the suggestion.

The enthusiasm around the table was generous and genuine. There was nothing these ladies liked better than a party. And there was no better party than one that was for
a good cause
.

“So this is really great,” I said, congratulating them. “I’m sure it’s going to be a fabulous success.”

“But you haven’t even heard the half of it,” Will said.

“Yeah,” Pete McNally spoke up. “We were all sitting around basking in the potential of this new way to expand the program, when we started thinking about those people who can’t ride the buses or taxis. They simply can’t leave home.”

Laura’s tone was sympathetic. “It’s really sad to just leave them out completely. And some of them have no family, no one to see that they get a nice dinner on Thanksgiving.”

“I guess not,” I replied.

“Fayrene started telling us about the Meals on Wheels program,” Edith said. “Those people take dinner to the needy every day of the year. And we said, maybe we could furnish the food for this one day.”

“And then we said, hey, maybe those people would like a day off.”

“So then Pete mentioned his brother’s pizza-delivery business, you know, Corleone’s—The Pizza You Can’t Refuse.”

I did know the company. It was difficult not to. The local TV station was awash in commercials with Mike McNally dressed up like the Godfather.

“All the pizza locations are closed on Thanksgiving,” Pete said. “And Mike’s delivery fleet is just parked for the day.”

“Pete called his brother and, sure enough, he’s willing to donate the cars and drivers,” Bob said.

“Picture it,” Teddy said. “Thanksgiving dinner delivered as easily as pizza.” I did picture it. Dozens of PT Cruisers decorated like thirties mobster vehicles delivering dinner to old people who could probably still recall the days when the image of mobsters was not so benevolent.

“It’s a great idea,” I said honestly.

I continued to think about Edith and Teddy and what they’d come up with all afternoon. Even after rejoining Cecil and immersing myself once more in the “real work” of dishwashing, I thought more about what they had accomplished.

It was hard to say that what I’d spent the day doing was somehow better than what they had done. Certainly the dishes needed washing and Cecil needed help. But the money raised for transportation and the delivery to those who were homebound loomed large in comparison.

Chester had said that the little things were just as important as curing cancer or being a foster mother to crack babies. But, as I pulled the damp linen away from my skin and mopped my forehead, I didn’t feel as if dishwashing was nearly as worthwhile as I’d originally hoped. Still, Cecil seemed grateful for the help and I hung in there, determined to complete a full day’s work.

His wife, Emily, dropped by, and I really liked meeting her. She was tiny and delicate, but seemed to have no problem whatsoever keeping a big bruiser like Cecil in line.

Cecil lit up like a Christmas tree the minute she walked into the room. I watched the two of them together. Talking closely, teasing each other. They were definitely still in love. There was a part of me that envied them a little bit. David and I had never really had that. But we’d had a lot of other things. And of course, I reminded myself, that kind of romantic stuff never lasts.

“How long have you and Emily been married?” I asked Cecil after his bride left to return to her own duty of the day.

“Twenty-four years,” he answered.

So much for the fleetingness of starry-eyed adoration.

Serving was scheduled to stop at six. They continued, however, to feed people until after seven, and it was close to nine o’clock at night before we had things cleaned up.

I was more exhausted than I could ever remember being in
my whole life. And a trip to the ladies’ room revealed that I looked exactly as bad as I felt. Fortunately, all of the
No-Mess Oblige
had left the building. In fact, most everybody was gone. I saw Frederic and Mrs. Owens; the former appeared genuinely surprised to see me still there. The latter seemed to have completely forgotten her earlier hostility. Either that, or she didn’t recognize me in my current condition, and wished me a very happy Thanksgiving.

I said goodbye to Cecil and Emily, and then surprised myself by giving Emily my card and suggesting that we get together for lunch sometime.

She thanked me and said she would call. I wasn’t sure she would, but in truth, I really wanted her to.

Determinedly putting one foot in front of the other, I went to the volunteers room to get my coat. It was one of the last still hanging there. The room was a mess. Unlike the kitchen, nobody had thought to sweep up or carry out the trash.

I tutted disapprovingly and then reminded myself that there was nothing wrong with me cleaning the place. It was an easy four points.

I found a broom and dustpan and began cleaning up. It only took me a few minutes and made a big difference in how the room looked.

I put on my coat and carried the volunteers’ room trash, heavy with champagne bottles and bulky with disposable cups and plates, out to the Dumpster on my way to the parking lot.

“It is Jane, isn’t it?” he said.

The heavyset Hispanic man was about my age and was one of the people I’d eaten lunch with. I certainly didn’t recall his name and was very wary of his remembering mine.

“Yes, Jane Lofton,” I answered.

“Are you on your way home?” he asked.

“Ah…yes.”

“Let me walk you to your car,” he said. “This is not the best neighborhood to be wandering around in at this time of night.”

With his lead we headed in the direction of the parking lot.

The man seemed nervous, uncomfortable. Conversation obviously didn’t come easily for him. But he had something he was determined to say.

“I wanted to thank you for what you did for Lula,” he said.

“Lula?”

“Yeah, the woman you were talking with at lunch, Lula Alvarez. She’s my sister.”

I stared at him stupidly, trying to get my brain to function. Finally the memory of the big woman with all the hair and a mole on her cheek came to mind.

“You mean the woman with the twin daughters?” I asked.

He nodded, a little sadly, I thought.

“The girls were the light of Lula’s life,” he said. “The both of them bright and shiny as new copper pennies. They were killed by a drunk driver three years ago.”

I was stunned momentarily speechless.

“It was so good of you to talk to her about them, to let her think about them again without having to think about how they died.”

“I had no idea,” I admitted.

He nodded. “That was what worked so well,” he said. “Those of us who love Lula and who miss the girls, well, we have a hard time talking to her about them. But you, you just listened to everything and were happy and proud for her. It was more like the old Lula than our family has seen in a very long time. I just wanted to thank you.”

“It was nothing to just listen to somebody,” I assured him.

“It wasn’t nothing to us, Jane,” he said. “It was real important. You done something really good today for somebody really special.”