Life and Other Inconveniences(23)

“Holy guacamole,” my daughter breathed. “It’s even prettier than the pictures!” In the rearview mirror, I saw Charles smile. Beside me, Pop stiffened. He’d never been here, of course.

There it was—my grandmother’s twenty-room cottage, pristine and gracious and lit up like the fires of hell.





CHAPTER 8


    Genevieve


I’d been waiting for them to arrive all day, and had busied myself pretending I wasn’t. I reframed this summer as me doing them a favor, welcoming all three of them to Sheerwater, the most beautiful home in Connecticut, or at least in the top ten.

And yes, the three of them. That supercilious Paul was coming, since he didn’t consider me trustworthy, despite the fact that I was the one who’d taken in Emma, thank you very much.

All day long, I’d prepared, dressing carefully, plucking hairs from my chin, taking even more time than usual with my hair and makeup. We’d readied the house; the dogs were impossible to keep up with, their fur everywhere, the occasional clump of vomited grass that had gone undetected, and so we’d requested a bigger cleaning crew than usual. I’d given Donelle the list of things to be done, and she, once a moderately competent domestic, had relayed the information to the various crews. She forgot so many details when giving orders . . . but I’d had another episode the other day, and the idea of my blanking while talking to the help was . . . intolerable.

Oh, it was a small thing. We’d been watching a movie last week, Donelle and I. Unlike Donelle, I didn’t also tap-tap-tap at a computer while watching. Why watch a movie if one really wanted to shop for magnetic eyelashes, her latest and most bizarre online purchase?

At any rate, we were in the den, an oak-paneled room with leather couches and an enormous TV on the wall. Once, Garrison and I read in here in the evenings, back when reading was a given, not something destined to make my eyes strained and tired. Even so, this was usually my favorite time of day—my work, such as it was, finished, dinner over, no one in the house except Helga, Donelle and me. Charles had his own apartment over the garage, and Helga never joined us in the main house, preferring her own living room in the servants’ wing.

Minuet lay in my lap, enjoying the worship I was lavishing upon her. Valkyrie sprawled next to Donelle on the other couch, shedding on the leather. Maximilian, who was a touch senile, was woofing softly at his reflection, confused as to who that other Great Pyrenees–golden retriever mutt was, also afflicted with patchy fur. Allegra, the pug, had found her spot next to the couch and was snoring softly through her poor, tormented airway—her pinched nostrils and elongated palate making her sneeze and gasp like a Channel swimmer. Carmen, the miniature poodle, was sulking in the corner, as I had just raised my voice at her for expressing her anal glands on the carpet.

I wasn’t sure when I’d broken down and acquired so many dogs. One day I’d been asked to speak at a benefit for the Stoningham Animal Shelter, and the next day, I had three dogs—Carmen, Valkyrie and Allegra, none of whom I adored. Maximilian came next. (At the time, he’d been quite beautiful and regal, though regrettably, that didn’t last. His breed aged quickly.)

Minuet was my most recent acquisition, and favorite, I’ll admit. She was flawlessly behaved, unlike the other dogs, and her coat was heaven. Though my wrist was stiff and achy these days, I loved stroking her, her fur impossibly soft against my palm. I paused for just a second, and Minuet raised her tiny head and looked at me with those adorable brown eyes. “Yes, yes,” I murmured, resuming. “Forgive me.” Then I glanced back at the television.

Suddenly, I had no idea what the movie was about. None. Granted, Allegra had just sneezed and coughed again, but it was as if the previous moments were gone, eaten by the brain tumor. There were men on the screen, and they weren’t modern men, it seemed. The African American man and the white man were special friends. They were in one of those . . . My mind reached for the word and kept groping. What was it called? A house? A cellar? A locking house? That was almost right, but not quite.

“Why are they in the lock house?” I asked Donelle. She knew about my diagnosis, of course.

“In jail, you mean? Because they’re murderers. Well, Andy’s innocent, Red isn’t. Still, I like him best.”

Jail. Andy. Red. Red was a famous actor. God. He’d played God in something. His face was very kind. I hoped God looked like him, in fact. I supposed I’d find out soon.

“You having one of your spells?” Donelle asked. Valkyrie let out a long hiss of noxious gas.

“What have you fed that dog?” I snapped. “And yes.” I looked down at Minuet. What if the brain tumor made me forget how to care for my little dog? What if I hurt her somehow?

Donelle came over and sat next to me on the couch, dressed in ridiculous pajamas with monkeys on them. “Don’t worry, Gen. It’ll pass.”

The sting of tears surprised me. Mac woofed at his reflection and pawed the glass, reminding me of what was to come if I let this . . . this tumor get out of control.

“I’d like to practice tomorrow,” I said.

“Sure thing, hon.”

Because Emma was coming soon, and I had to be ready.

The Shawshank Redemption, that’s what this was. Morgan Freeman and what’s-his-name. The one who’d been Susan Sarandon’s common-law husband. Not knowing his name didn’t concern me, since, to be honest, he had peaked early in his career. Not like Paul Newman.