French Braid(67)

“No, I do not,” Lily said, and she took a big swig of wine and set her glass back down decisively. “I’ll have a lovely third-floor apartment that I won’t even need to furnish, because it’s already filled with tasteful antiques from Jeff’s side of the family. Say, maybe you’d like to buy my house! Just think: it would come completely stocked.”

Eddie smiled and said, “Thanks anyway.” He could just imagine Claude’s reaction if he proposed they move to Cedarcroft.



* * *



—

Lily did have a nice set of dishes—a complete set, not just mismatched odds and ends like Eddie’s. And two of her frying pans were cast iron, seasoned to a rich glow, and she also owned a Crock-Pot big enough to feed an army. Every time Eddie remarked upon something, not even saying for sure that he would take it, Lily made one of her crowing sounds and reached for a cardboard carton. She had a whole stack of them, the professional movers’ kind, heaped flat in one corner of the dining room alongside a stack of fresh newsprint. Each piece of china had to be wrapped in its own sheet of newsprint, which meant that one carton was quickly filled and they had to start in on another. “Hold on, there,” Eddie protested at one point. “My car’s a subcompact, may I remind you.”

“So? You can make several trips,” Lily told him.

He declined any furniture. “I’m overfurnished as it is,” he told her, “what with all that Mom and Dad passed on to me when they moved. Oh! But do you have any spare lamps?”

“Do I have lamps!” she said. “Do I! Just come with me, my boy,” and she led him into the living room, where one lamp, a crane-neck, appeared to be perfect for reading, although the other two were more ornamental.

It was then that Eddie happened to notice the recliner. “I remember this,” he said. “It used to be Pop-Pop’s.”

“Right, and Grandpa Wellington’s before that,” Lily said. She stroked the back of it affectionately—the slightly arched curve of worn brown leather. “A genuine family heirloom. You need this, I tell you.”

“But wouldn’t one of your kids want it? Robby, maybe, seeing as he’s a papa now?”

“Robby! His wife would throw a fit. She’s big on that chrome-and-glass style. And I already asked Serena, but she said, ‘Please, I beg of you, don’t bring me any more objects.’?”

Eddie sat down in the recliner and tipped it back. Pretty comfortable, all right. Although it wasn’t his own comfort he was thinking of; it was Claude’s. He could see Claude reclining in it happily every evening, the crane-necked lamp lighting the term papers he was grading.

“Morris used to claim this chair was better than a sleeping pill,” Lily said, still stroking the leather. “He’d settle into it after supper and whoops! Next thing you knew, he’d be snoring.”

“I almost think I’ve seen him sleeping here,” Eddie said, half to himself.

“You probably did,” she said. “Dear, dear Morris. You know, sometimes I imagine how it would be if he came back. He’d walk in the door looking all shy and sheepish, not wanting me to make a fuss, and I would say, ‘Oh, sweetheart, I have so much to tell you!’ That’s what I feel saddest about: everything he’s missed, just in the little time he’s been gone. ‘Robby’s got his own byline now; can you believe it?’ I’d say. ‘Serena named her baby Peter Morris Hayes. And Joan and Mel across the street are getting a divorce—the last couple you’d expect it of.’?”

“Maybe he already knows,” Eddie said. He didn’t actually think that, but it seemed to be something people said to the bereaved.

But Lily was having none of it. “I certainly hope he does not know,” she said, “because can you think of any worse hell than to look down from heaven and see your loved ones suffering without you?”

“You’ve got a point,” Eddie said.

“So you’ll take the recliner?” she asked.

“Well…” He stood up and looked down at it, considering. “I’m not sure how I’d transport it, though.”

“I can do that! I can put it in my hatchback and follow you home.” And then, perhaps believing she had worn down his defenses by now, “You should take the albums, too.”

“What albums?”

“The family photo albums.”

“Oh. No, thanks. I’m not much of a one for memorabilia,” Eddie said.

“Darn. I know my kids don’t want them; I’ve already asked.”

“One of my sisters, maybe?”

“I can try,” Lily said, sounding doubtful. “If not, I could send them to David.”

“David!”

“Just to remind him he does have a family,” she said with a wry chuckle. “Yes, I think that’s what I’ll do: wrap them up and mail them to David. He can dispose of them as he likes. Probably will dispose of them, straight into the wastebasket. Oh, what does that man have against us?”

Eddie shrugged. He had heard the subject rehashed too often to find it interesting.

“Just watch,” she told him. “It’ll turn out to be something tiny, like ‘I always got the smallest piece of cake.’ Or ‘You made me mow the lawn every week and my sisters never had to.’ I mean, nothing big. Nothing like…he was molested, or locked in the basement or something.”