On Turpentine Lane(83)

She didn’t take a second sip. She put her glass down and said, “I might as well tell you now. It’s over.”

“Of course it is! I knew it was over from the minute we packed up his brushes and drove away from her house. Actually, from the minute I met that awful woman.”

“Not Tracy. I was referring to your father and me.”

“Over? When he’s just returned? I thought it was what you wanted—you were so miserable when he left.”

“My life changed. I developed a routine. I swim three mornings a week. I’m in a book group. Dinner can be one lamb chop, or scrambled eggs, or a bag of potato chips. I’m content. Everything on the DVR playlist is mine.”

“But that’s all so . . . nothing. You can still have all of that.”

“That may be true, but I saw who your father really was. I didn’t like it then, and I don’t like it now.”

“Now? When did you decide this?”

“Actually, today. At the funeral, as the whole dysfunctional scene played out. Here was a woman who had to be miserable in her marriages, but she couldn’t admit it, couldn’t hire a lawyer, couldn’t file for divorce, couldn’t leave. She wanted out, so she killed them. What kind of life is that even if she wasn’t caught for fifty years? And she didn’t want to keep her black babies for fear of what people would say, but she couldn’t cut that thread, either. So I sat there and I asked myself, What do you want, Nancy? Henry or no Henry? The insurance salesman turned Romeo turned Hank? Suddenly, it was crystal clear.”

“But, Ma—there’s a middle ground between staying married and pushing your husband down the stairs.”

“Correct. You ask him to leave.”

“So Anna Lavoie is your reverse role model? She died in prison so you don’t have to? And what’s stopping you from swimming three mornings a week and having potato chips for dinner with a husband around?”

“Please, Faithy. Your father will be fine. He might even be relieved. We’ll stay friends. We’ll dance at your wedding. And you know who else inspired me? You! Wedding bells ahead! That’s my second epiphany of the day. Because you’re so happy, I can do this.”

Rolls arrived, capturing too much of my attention to please my mother.

“Faith! That was me looking for a confirmation. I was hoping to hear You’re right, Mom. I’ve never been happier. Can you do that for me? I mean if it’s true.”

“Of course it’s true. Ridiculously true.”

“I knew that. If it weren’t for the Catholic part . . . Well, never mind. I’m on board. I’m fully embracing my role.”

“Good,” I said. “I think.”

“Mother of the bride. MOB . . . finally! I’ll be fabulous at that, don’t you think? It’s just what I needed right now. So thank you.” She asked what time I had to get back to work.

“No time,” I said. “I’m sleeping with the boss, remember?”

She smiled. “In that case, do you want to peek into the ballroom after dessert?”

No, I did not. Nor did I want to taste test the red velvet and the lemon poppy seed and the banana layer cake with coconut drizzle that she was ordering with an eye toward a future dessert table. Had I thought about attendants? Flowers? Colors?

Not yet. Not once. But she was looking so engaged and so professionally fulfilled that when she exclaimed, “Violets in mason jars! Low-key and very you!” what else could I say but “Perfect!”





49





“Dearest Nick . . .”


THERESA’S MANSLAUGHTER trial required a change of venue. How was it possible that every potential jury member polled had either read about the case in the Echo, had gone to the same high school as the defendant, or had a parent at ManorCare? My mother said she would represent the family at the future trial and could probably get Aunt Elaine to keep her company. She fully understood that I had more pressing, personal things to think about.

Our dogged reporter kept the story alive. He asked if I’d like to write my own so-called mood piece, sharing with readers the experience of living in a house where people had died, some at the hands of previous residents. I said, “Really? You’d like that?” Five minutes later I sent it. Old bungalow on newly congested street. 2 bdrms, 2 cellar floors, cement & plywood (needs work). Original kitchen. Steep stairs. Interesting history. Best offer.

The reporter called right back. “Is this supposed to be a joke?”

I said, “I’m not sure.”

The Echo ran it, with a picture of me filched from the Everton Country Day website, explaining in parentheses that this had been my response to a request for a first-person account of owning an alleged crime scene. “Note: not intended to be a classified ad.”

Nevertheless, I heard from Tammy McManus, real estate agent. May she show the house if a serious buyer came along? Some people—not saying they had the healthiest of motives—love the idea of a murder site. Sick or not, how about Saturday morning, eleven a.m.?

I told her I’d have to think about it. But please know this going forward: if anyone is going to make an offer on a house that’s not for sale, they’d better make it worth my while. This house has gravitas now. It’s got heat. I’d want real money for it.