| the paper came in the mail, she’d be so excited looking to see if—” “You didn’t see him, Gladys? You didn’t see anyone in the car?” “I—I don’t think so. I don’t see that well, dear. If I did see something, I might not have known what it was. Shapes are just blurs, sometimes. It’s like my grandchildren ‘surfing’ the TV channels, I can’t see to keep up. But if I’d looked harder! if I’d seen a man driving your mother’s car, a strange man, I would—I might—I don’t know what I would have done but I—I might have done something. I might have called Gwen—I might have gone over, to check. I might have called 911.” Gladys paused, pressing both hands against her bosom. She was breathing heavily. “I’ve never called 911 in my life! Not once. Until you came to use my phone, I’d never even known anyone who had. So maybe, I would not have called 911. I’d have been afraid, I think. Walter, too. ‘Don’t get involved’ is what he’s always saying. Like, you’re a witness to a traffic accident, if you give your name to anyone you can be called as a witness, you have to show up in court, or they can arrest you! So Walter would not have called, or wanted me to call. And if I’d seen a man, I might have thought it was some repairman. Like that exterminator man who’d come by, Gwen had had |
and her lipstick was Revlon Fire Engine Red, she’d been wearing since high school. Beside Clare, I was looking like a disco casualty. Not-new but still serviceable black “silk” (i. e. silk-seeming) trousers with flaring cuffs, a three-quarter-sleeved smoke-colored see-through designer shirt designed (of course) to be worn over naked breasts but, in this case, worn over a tight black T-shirt top with no pretensions other than sexy. Nikki’s signature smear of purple lipstick but no makeup otherwise. I’d tamped down my hair so that it lay almost flat on my head, a punk chicken with wetted feathers. On my bare luridly white feet, smoke-colored leather-and-Plexiglas platform shoes with a hint of glitter. Clare’s swift assessing gaze took me in, wetted-head to shoes, pitilessly. However I looked, I was on. “Oh, Clare. I just don’t think…” “Then don’t! Don’t think. Like me.” After a funeral service, after a cemetery trip on a bright windy chilly spring morning, mourners are naturally hungry. Food is their reward, and they deserve it. Still I was stunned by the quantity of food on Clare’s beautifully decorated dining room table. Mom’s baked things were a small part of it, really. The caterer had set out lavish platters of smoked salmon, cold sliced meats, deviled eggs, stuffed mushrooms; there was creamed chicken to be served over biscuits; there were rice, pasta, vegetable salads. There was even a huge bowl of Waldorf salad, prepared from Gwen’s recipe. And there were desserts. Many. Always set out more desserts |
