Dead Letters(62)

15


Ornery and still emotionally hollowed out, I am physically much better when I wake up a few hours later. Zelda’s phone shows nothing new. I swing out of bed, almost bouncy. I’m definitely still hungover, but I’m thrilled at the improvement. I head down the stairs, feeling better prepared to face the day, which is now half over.

Marlon is reading the newspaper on the couch, and my grandmother is scrubbing the countertops. She looks vigorous and capable, with a spray container of bleach and some old rags.

“You don’t have to do that, Grandma,” I say insincerely.

“Nonsense. Just trying to be helpful.” She waves me off. I go over and plant a kiss on her soft, wrinkled cheek. She looks pleased with herself.

“Well, thanks.”

“Mom still outside?” I ask, hunting through the fridge for something to drink, maybe even something to eat. It’s a good sign that I’m hungry.

“She refused to come in,” Opal says, annoyed. “She won’t budge. I asked Marlon to set up an umbrella for her, so she doesn’t burn to a crisp.”

I peer through the doors, where I can see a pin-striped umbrella shielding Nadine from the worst of the midday sunlight. It has to be hot out there.

“What are we eating?” Marlon asks from the couch, not looking up from the paper. Opal and I shoot him nearly identical looks of exasperation.

“Don’t worry about it, Dad, we womenfolk will take care of the kitchen work,” I call. “We’ll just serve you, shall we?” Opal’s mouth curls in amusement. Marlon looks up, confused, as though he doesn’t understand what I’m saying.

“Do you want help?” he offers, several beats too late.

“Oh, no, sweetheart, we’ve got it,” Opal answers quickly. “But maybe if you could just get some plates for us?” She gestures toward the recently rearranged cupboards. We both know from frustrated experience that Marlon is not much help in the kitchen. I blame Opal, for never having inculcated in him the notion that a man should cook, too, and letting him coast through his childhood while she plated up breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

“There’s not really much to work with in this kitchen,” Opal says. I can’t help hearing censure in that comment, even though it was not me who was here to stock the fridge. Zelda seems to have failed to predict Grandma Opal’s exacting expectations when it comes to housekeeping. “But I thought sandwiches and potato salad?” she adds.

I find several bags of tuna in the pantry, the fancy, expensive kind that doesn’t come in tins. Nadine loathes canned food; it offends her sense of class. Today for lunch we will be having only upper-middle-class tuna. I upend each bag into a bowl and mix it with fancy organic mayonnaise and capers and a handful of chopped celery. I note with amusement that a batch of the pickles I made before I left home is still nestled in the door of the fridge. I’m surprised; Zelda loves my pickles, and I would have thought she would have eaten them immediately. These seem to be untouched. Maybe P is for pickle. I chuckle as I open the container, which, after some effort, comes unsealed with a satisfying snick. I sniff the vinegar solution laced with dill I grew just outside the house. The pickles smell fine, and I empty the slender slices into a little bowl.

After Opal and I assemble the sandwiches, we bring everything outside. I drink a whole glass of lemonade almost immediately, and it is among the best things I have ever tasted. Nadine looks small and shrunken in her Adirondack chair, which Marlon has rotated to face the table, and we serve everyone a plate. Nadine rumples her nose and refuses to eat anything until I bribe her with a tot of gin in her lemonade. Marlon’s eyes light up as I stir her cocktail; rolling my eyes, I splash a dollop into his glass as well. I hover over my own for a second, sorely tempted, but instead I offer the bottle to Opal, who purses her lips censoriously. There is no talk around our table as we all munch mechanically.

“So,” I start casually, “did Zelda have fun on her trip to Paris?”

Marlon and Opal look at me like I’ve lost my mind, and my mother doesn’t even acknowledge what I’ve said, just keeps staring out at the lake and sipping her gin-laced lemonade through one of the straws Marlon bought this morning.

“Zelda’s never been to Paris,” Opal says gently.

“That’s not what her credit card bill says. Or, rather, I suppose it was Mom’s credit card. I doubt even a greedy credit card company would give Zelda a chance to dig herself in deeper.”

Marlon glances at Nadine. “How did you find out about this, Ava?” he asks.

“The cops. They thought she had come to see me a few months before she died. But if she went to Paris, she certainly didn’t visit me.”

“But then why—?” Opal asks, her rumpled forehead rumpling even further in confusion.

“I thought you might know, seeing how close you two were,” I say, hoping it stings. I want our grandmother to understand that Zelda was unknowable, that any intimacy you thought you shared with her was a fiction she graciously let you maintain. Opal says nothing, though. “Nadine?” I press. “You know anything about Zelda traipsing off to France?”

“That ungrateful girl just took off, left us here to fend for ourselves,” she says waspishly. “I haven’t spoken to her since.”

“Mom, that was me. I moved to France. Zelda went to Paris a few months ago. Do you remember that?”