The Wedding Party (22 page)

“You're proposing to take this on? As some way of repenting for being resentful of your wife's ill health?”

“Don't be silly, there's no possible way to make amends for that now. Don't you understand? It turns out this is what I
do.
”

The front door squeaked open and Lois came into the kitchen with a laundry basket in which she had a little more than laundry. In addition to clothes that smelled of soot and ash, she had a houseplant, a calendar, a bottle of perfume, a shoe, a winter coat and a collection of plastic hangers. Also, she seemed to be wearing at least four sweaters, one over the other. Charlene squinted in confusion. Pink, red, blue, white.

“You have quite a collection there,” Jasper said, as if this were completely normal. “A plant for your room, some essentials, some laundry. Let's see if we can throw these sweaters in the wash or if they have to be sent to the dry cleaners.”

He took her by the elbow and escorted her down the hall toward her room and the washer and dryer. Momentarily he was back.

“I don't want to mislead you, Charlene. I'm not licensed as a caretaker, but I'm thinking of looking into that. I'm not a rich man by any means—I have only the post office pension, and my social security
hasn't even kicked in. So, I'll be happy to look after Lois for a while, to see how it goes, but I'm afraid she'll have to pay me rent. Something to cover the food and utilities. Maybe a couple hundred a month. And bear in mind, if this experiment goes in the direction I hope, I might consider taking in a couple of elders. It just depends.”

“It just depends,” she repeated.

He sighed and sought the answer from the ceiling, then looked back at her. “I'm sorry for your misfortune, but when I discovered I could be of some use to your mother, I began to feel needed again. And I won't lie. Happy.

“Let's be clear about this, Charlene. I'm not doing you a kindness. It may seem so, but it's not. Care workers are in business, and while I haven't worked this end of the business before, don't think I don't know it well enough. I had to use every agency in town, hire every kind of helper from nurses to aides, been through it all right up till the hospice people came. I do know what I propose.”

“Yes, I suppose you do,” she relented. He had lived next door for thirty years; it was almost certain he wasn't dangerous or larcenous. Besides, what did Lois have to steal but a few old books?

A crash from the back of the house brought Charlene bolting to her feet, while Jasper calmly rose, moved to the pantry for a dustpan and broom and said, “There will be a few adjustments to make, but everything is going to work out just fine. You'll see.”

“Allllllbbbbberrrrrrt,” Lois called from her bedroom.

“I imagine that was the flowerpot. She wanted it on the bed of all places.”

“Are you going to tell her your name?” Charlene asked.

“What's the point? The only important thing is that I answer. Coming, Lois,” he called. “Go home. Change into some comfortable clothes. Call your daughter and Lois's insurance company. Maybe even consider a little nap—I know you didn't get much rest last night. I'll make us a nice casserole for dinner. I have nearly mastered the art of casserole.”

“On the one hand, I feel like I'm only just getting to know you after having you next door for so many years. On the other, you seem like an old friend. Honestly, Jasper, I don't know how I'd manage without you. You're a godsend.”

“Well, Charlene, it's going to be nice to have some company for a change.”

 

Stephanie cried for almost two hours. She was just winding it up when her mother called and explained about Peaches moving in with Mr. Conklin. “Stephie, are you all right? Your voice sounds…thick.”

Ordinarily Stephanie would have explained that she was crying her heart out because that asshole, Grant, had walked out on her. Then would come the laundry list of everything he'd done wrong. But instead, inexplicably keeping her problems to herself, she said,
“Maybe I'm coming down with a cold or something. Or maybe I'm just exhausted.”

“Did you get some sleep?” Charlene asked.

Here was another chance to unload on her mother. “Not very much, no. Did you?”

“I'm afraid not. You didn't go to work today either?” Charlene asked.

“No. I wasn't up to it. I'll take something for a headache and lie down for a nap.”

“Well, do. We can't let ourselves fall apart now when Peaches needs us most. And if you're completely sure you're not coming down with something, you can come over to Mr. Conklin's for dinner. But only if you're completely sure. I don't want Peaches getting sick on top of everything else.”

“I understand, Mom,” she said, her voice grave. “But she is all right?”

“She's a pistol, but all right. I think she had one of her little spells this afternoon. She was wearing four sweaters and one shoe. But she snapped right back to her old self. She's in a lousy mood, but then I guess I would be, too.”

“Are you going to get her in to the doctor soon?”

“I made an appointment before leaving the hospital. Day after tomorrow I'm taking her for a consultation and probably some neurological testing. Dennis gave me the name of someone he thinks is good.”

“Can I go? Hear what he has to say?”

“Of course. Can they spare you at school?”

“They'll have to spare me…if Peaches needs me.
Tell her I love her, and if I don't think I have a cold or flu, I'll see you guys.”

“Good. If I don't see you later, I'll call.”

After that, Stephanie stopped crying and stood under a steaming hot shower for a long time, till the water started to run cold. When she dried off and stepped out of the shower, she decided she wasn't going to cry anymore. She wasn't going to be a big stupid baby. Everybody but Peaches called her spoiled and immature. Well, not everybody, but three of the most important people in her life.

She stepped out of the steamy bathroom into the master bedroom and critically eyeballed the wreckage. Oh, she knew it was disastrously messy. She wasn't an idiot. It's just that she had no talent for housekeeping, and no aptitude for keeping it so. Then there was the interest factor—zero.

But she began to clean, filling bag after bag with refuse from the bathroom, bedroom, kitchen and living room. In between gathering up clutter, she turned on the dishwasher and began doing laundry. She had done three loads of clothes before she realized that all of Grant's clothes were gone…and that none of the mess on the floors belonged to him. Even with his schedule he was able to keep his laundry in check. She cried a little more. What was the matter with her? Why hadn't she figured out even the most rudimentary of household chores?

In two hours time she had put a substantial dent in the squalor. At first it was all about Grant, about proving she could change and get him back. While she
worked, she fantasized about how impressed he'd be, then how sorry and remorseful he'd be that he'd walked out on her and hurt her so. And they would turn over a new leaf…and he would make a few compromises, too.

She stopped cleaning just long enough to call the school district and leave the message that she'd be out the rest of the week, due to a family emergency. Then it was right back to work, hauling the trash out, emptying and reloading the dishwasher, folding and putting away clothes. She ran the vacuum, dusted the furniture, polished the glass and scrubbed the little kitchen floor. The sticky, grimy, brown-tinged kitchen floor. And slowly, remarkably, she became sympathetic toward Grant.
She
became sorry and remorseful. In fact, as she broke her fifth nail digging the crusty buildup out of the corner, she muttered, “I think I'd have left me, too.”

And she wasn't done yet. The stove and refrigerator weren't cleaned, the laundry wasn't finished, there was ironing to last through three movie rentals and the bathroom was tidied but she needed special chemicals to handle the scum on the tiles and tub. But the improvement was obvious enough to make her actually feel proud. She was starting to feel that this was not about bringing Grant home, but about proving that she was an adult, capable of adult responsibilities.

She looked at her watch and saw that it was nine o'clock. She had missed dinner with Peaches at Mr. Conklin's house, but that was okay. There was time enough to check out that situation tomorrow. But it
wasn't too late to clean the refrigerator and go to the grocery store.

Hours later she was carrying two armfuls of grocery bags up the stairs, bags filled with bread, soup, fresh fruits and vegetables, and a couple of rented movies. Also included was a notebook, she intended to start keeping a journal. Halfway up the stairs to the second-floor apartment she paused, feeling that familiar prickle on the back of her neck. Danger. She felt watched. Stalked.

She slowly turned and scanned the parking lot but saw no one. Ahead of her, just a few steps away, were the apartment doors—hers and the next-door neighbor's. There was no hallway to contend with, no dark entry. And most importantly, no one there. But she stayed on her guard as she balanced the sacks of groceries and opened the door. Once inside, she locked it and put a dining-room chair against it, just for insurance. That done, the nervous prickles went away. She wasn't going to let him scare her.

The message light on the phone was blinking—two new messages. She pressed play.

Charlene: “Well, honey, I guess you didn't feel well. I hope this means the ringer on the phone is turned way down and you're sleeping. Give me a call tomorrow and let me know how you're feeling.”

Freddy: “Hey, Buttercup. Just wondered what you were doing, if you were bored or hungry for pizza or lonely, because I'm available for anything. Made a lot of money on the exchange today and just looking for someone to share my good luck with, you know? So,
call me and I can be there in no time. The number is—”

She hit the delete button and called her mother. He hadn't said anything scary and she wasn't going to let him get to her. Instead, she was going to try out Grant's suggestion, that she think about what kind of life she wanted. And what it would really take to make her happy.

 

Stephanie ate a small salad and microwave burrito at nearly midnight and fought the urge to call Grant at work. He'd be getting off at 1:00 a.m. There was a huge temptation to tell him she'd cleaned the apartment from stem to stern and was turning over a new leaf—no more slovenly habits, no more whining and complaining, no more trying to change him. She was going to change.

Instead she got out her journal and made her first entry.
Today Grant left me.

Outside her apartment, in the after-midnight shadows, a figure crept along the windowless side of the apartment building. He wore dark clothing and stepped lightly. The front of the sixteen-unit building was lit by parking-lot and building lights, so he sprang out onto the sidewalk. With hands in his pockets, he walked quickly and purposefully down the concrete toward Stephanie's unit. He took the stairs two at a time. He pressed himself up against the door as if to listen, and stayed that way for a long time. Then he carefully and quietly began to descend the stairs while pulling his cell phone out of his jacket.

Before his foot could touch that last step he was grabbed by the arm, whirled around and slammed against the building, in the dark, under the staircase. The noise was loud enough to have disturbed the occupants of the ground-floor apartment opposite Stephanie's had they been at home. The cell phone flew from Freddy's hands and he looked up into the enraged eyes of Grant Chamberlain.

Just in size alone, Freddy was doomed. He had been exercising his fingers on the computer keyboard while Grant had been training for the police academy fitness test.

“About to make a call, Freddy?” Grant asked, keeping his voice low so Stephanie wouldn't hear.

“I…gee…I was just in the neighborhood and thought maybe Stephanie was, you know, waiting up for you. Or maybe wanted some company till you got home.”

Good, Grant thought. He doesn't know I moved out.

“You get off early?”

“No, Freddy, I've been waiting for you. You've been giving my girl some trouble and she wants you to stop calling her, to stop leaving little notes at the door. You with me, pal?”

With that last, Grant gave him a nice hard slam against the stucco wall.

“Don't know what you're talking about, man!”

“Yes, you do, you little shit. You're a weirdo who slinks around after dark to sneak up on women who've told you to stay away.”

“Bull—”

Grant gave him another meaningful shove. “I'm only going to tell you this once, Freddy. Don't mess around with my girl. You hear me? Because you will pay so big if you ever pester her again.”

“Look, man, I—”

“There are a few things you don't know about Stephanie, Freddy.”

“Let me go, Chamberlain. We both know you out-size me. We both know you can fight and I can't.”