Water from Stone - a Novel (10 page)

Fourteen

Mar.

Mar stands in front of the open refrigerator and groans. The light. The light is going to kill her.

“Mar? Where are you?” calls a voice from the gallery.

“Ssshhhhh,” Mar whispers as she closes her eyes and leans her forehead against the cold egg basket. That feels a little better actually. Maybe she can stand here all day.

“Oh, there you are! What are you doing in the fridge?”

“Shhhh, you’ll wake the penguins,” she mumbles.

Diane picks up the empty bottle of wine on the counter. “Hangover?”

“From hell.”

“Well, then, go sit down. Let me whip you up something. How about eggs?”

Mar’s stomach convulses at the thought. “I’d really have to kill you.”

“OK, but sit down. I know just the thing. Christ Almighty, Bart used to tie one on every now and then. He was a big man and could drink enough to drown a cow. Now where’s the Arm and Hammer?”

“Could you not move so fast?” Mar squints at her. “You’re hurting my head.”

Diane reaches around Mar and plucks the box of baking soda from the refrigerator door. “You’ll be amazed at how quickly this helps.”

Mar rolls her head back and forth and moans.

Diane reaches for a glass and fills it with water.  She then measures two tablespoons of baking soda and stirs it into the water. “Ha! Drink this.”

“It looks like sewage.” Mar moves to the island and slips onto a counter stool. She sniffs the glass Diane hands her and makes a face.

“Drink it, it’ll help. Did you take aspirin already?”

“Two. Yuck! This is disgusting.”

“Drink it. Trust me. If you live through it, you’ll feel a lot better.”

Mar holds her nose and drinks. Today, of all days, is not a day for a hangover. She lays her head on the table and is surprised to be woken up awhile later by Diane. She smiles sheepishly. “Oops.”

Diane, cradling her cup of coffee, shakes her head. “You didn’t eat again last night, did you?”

Mar tries to think back. She’d bathed Lizzie and put her to bed before going up to the studio to paint. At some point, she’d wandered down to the kitchen to wrap the presents for Lizzie’s birthday, a date chosen after much meditation and a Tarot card reading by her friend, Sioux, and confirmation from Dylan and Dr. Barnes that the date was in the ballpark, according to Lizzie’s physical and mental development. In any case, Mar hadn’t been hungry, so she had put Sade on the stereo, poured herself a glass of wine, and started to wrap. Near the end of the bottle, she’d realized that she’d probably bought too many presents. “Unh-uh.”

Diane returns from the oven and places a plate heaped high with spaghetti in front of Mar. When the scent of the garlic in olive oil hits her, Mar moans. She’s famished. “Oh, you are a goddess.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“That oughta help, anyway. Oh, here, I forgot the Parmesan.”

Halfway through the pasta, Mar begins to slow down. “I feel better already,” she smiles around another mouthful.

“Course you do, honey. Carbs is what a hangover calls for. Soak up all that crap.”

“You’re here early,” Mar suddenly realizes.

“I was afraid you were going to let her start opening the presents before the party.”

“Um, just a couple.”

“Uh-huh. A couple. You bought out the whole damn store. It’ll take that little girl all day just to get through the first load.”

“It’s her birthday,” Mar shrugs. “Besides, she’s special.”

“Don’t I know it,” Diane concedes. “Now tell me, you hear anything new on the adoption? Which way it’s going?”

Mar sets her fork down carefully. The weather has not yet turned and a light wind is blowing through the aspen in the back yard. She watches the leaves flash silver-gold, silver-gold in the early morning light. She knows Diane is waiting for an answer, but she finds she can’t speak. Finally, she shakes her head, no.

“I’m sorry, Mar, I shouldn’t have mentioned it today. Today’s for celebrating. Now, where’s the little princess?”

Mar clears her throat and wipes at the tears that have appeared so quickly. “Wow, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. This whole thing has me a little freaked.”

“I know, sugar, and I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“No, no, it’s OK. Shirley said it’s going to take a few months. The social workers have been doing the background checks on me and the Ferrins, dropping in for surprise visits, the same thing as with Max.” She shrugs and smiles bravely, “Eventually, they’ll decide who’s best for Lizzie.”

Diane puts her cup down. “Don’t you worry, Mar, it’ll all work out. That little girl belongs with you.”

“Thanks, Dee.”

“It will. Now, finish your spaghetti and go get a shower. You’ve got paint in your hair.”

“Lizzie’ll be up soon.”

“Eat. Finish. Take a nice hot shower. I’ll take care of Lizzie. Besides, she likes my cooking a lot better than yours.”

Mar smiles into her spaghetti and takes another bite.

Fifteen

Jack.

For the first time in months, Jack meets up with Mortuary John at the gym on Fifty-fourth. John, Mortuary John to his friends, owns a string of funeral homes throughout the five boroughs. Even in college he’d been obsessed with death. Not with the dying part, but with the fact that everyone must die sooner or later and, when they do, they’ll need someone to bury them. After graduating from business school, he’d taken his father’s simple funeral home and had expanded it into the largest chain in the tri-state area. He’d handled Lindsey’s funeral, the details of which Jack still cannot remember.

“You’re lookin’ good there, Jacky, my man,” John dumps his sports bag on the bench beside Jack’s and opens his locker. “You slimmin’ down?”

Jack looks down at his clothes, for the first time aware that they are hanging loosely on his wiry frame. “I’ve been walking,” he says, and he turns away to loosen his tie, concentrating on the sounds of the locker room, men laughing, their voices bouncing off of tile walls, a toilet flushing, the door of the steam room opening and closing, its seal a soft
whumpf
almost lost to the noise.

“It’s just, well, Sherri said you’re too skinny and she’s worried about you, thinks you’re not eating enough.”

Jack closes his eyes and counts. This is exactly why he avoids his old friends. It’s easier to be around strangers than with people who are always comparing him to someone he used to be, to a man he can never be again. He’d overheard one admin commenting on his “haunted eyes.” Another time, a lawyer, a man he’d once considered a friend, had told a new recruit to stay out of Jack’s way, that he “used to be a real good guy,” whatever that meant. He knows they talk about him, he understands even. He is their worst nightmare, a man just like them who once upon a time had had everything and then had had it snatched from him in the blink of an eye. He is a reminder that no one is safe, that at any moment their own lives might be destroyed.

Without consciously telling them to, Jack’s fingers begin to re-button his shirt. He does not want to be here.

“Jack, man, I’m sorry,” John’s voice speaks behind him, and he does sound sorry. “It’s just, well, we miss you.”

Jack pauses, what the hell is he going to do? This is John. Hadn’t he made the decision to try? Not to be normal, but to not be the walking dead at least? He forces his fingers to work their way back down his shirt. “You ever think about how bad locker rooms smell?” he asks.

“You think this is bad, you should see where I work.”

Jack feels the remark like a knee to the groin. His hands curl into his shirt and he tries to steady himself. All sounds stop as the air is sucked from the room.
This is it,
he tells himself,
just fucking kill yourself right now and get on with it
. Taking a deep breath, he makes his feet turn. John’s eyes are wide, his face stricken. Jack forces himself to chuckle. “I’ll bet,” he says, and then, “How’s Sherri? The kids?”

Relief washes over Mortuary John’s face and he grins widely. “Fine, fine. Things’re good. Byron’s walking. Did I tell you that?”

Jack smiles, the muscles tight from disuse. “I got the e-mails.”

“Sherri’s pissed at you, by the way,” John mentions. He hangs his dress shirt in the locker and begins to undo his pants. “She says you’re ignoring her and you haven’t even seen your godchild in months.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nah, shit, she’s not pissed. Not really. Concerned is more like it. She misses you.”

“I’ll come out this weekend. How’s that?”

“Good. That’s good. The kids’ll be jazzed. They’re always asking for Uncle Jack. Wonder why he don’t love them.”

“You’re shoveling it a bit too deep there, my man.”

A twinkle lights John’s eyes and Jack is relieved to see he’s relaxing. “Aw, am I?” John asks.

Jack nods. “You are.”

“But you’ll come, right? I can tell Sherri? I mean, if you don’t show, then she’ll really be pissed. You know she’s gonna cook your favorite food, clean the house, bring over all her single girlfriends.”

Jack freezes and the smile flees from his face. “You’re kidding, right?”

John looks up from searching for his deodorant. “Shit. Man, I’m sorry. It’s just…Yeah, just kidding.”

“I just don’t…”

“Nah, man, it’s OK. It was a stupid joke. It’ll be just us, family, no blind dates.”

Jack’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Thanks.”

“So, you ready to burn?” John changes the subject and pulls out his racquetball racquet and goggles.

Jack looks over at his best friend since freshman year at Yale, the guy who’d greeted him that first night they’d been paired as roommates with, “Sheeit. They put the farm boy with the black boy, keep us away from their tidy-white WASP asses. Well, sir, they made a mistake, yes they did.  We’re Two-J, you and me, and they can just effing bring it on!” John has two inches on him and probably a good ten pounds of it muscle. He also carries a little too much of Sherri’s good home cooking.

Jack nods at him. “You’re going down.”

Sixteen

Mar.

The party is in full swing by the time Mar and Lizzie arrive at The Center with Mar’s father in tow. Cradling Lizzie against the bitter cold, she pushes the handle down with her elbow and tries to nudge the door open with her hip.

“Here, honey, let me get that,” Don Bloom reaches around her and pushes the door open.

“Thanks, Dad,” she hurries past his tall frame. “Let’s go into the kitchen and leave the food before we drop our coats.”

The kitchen is full of people and Mar makes her way into the fray, kissing cheeks, showing Lizzie off and introducing her father, “This is my dad, Don Bloom.”

At the center island, Dylan, a holiday-inspired apron wrapped around his very fit middle, waves a spatula for emphasis as he recounts once again Shirley’s pregnancy progress.
God, what the man does for an apron
, Mar shakes her head ruefully.
Betty Crocker’d have him on the floor in a heartbeat.
“Hey there, handsome,” Mar kisses Dylan’s cheek and snatches a warm fudge brownie from the cookie sheet in front of him. She holds it up to Lizzie, who takes a big bite and grins a nasty brown smile back at her. “How goes the baby making?”

“Man, Mar, it is so cool and Shirley’s just, I mean, have you ever seen anyone so beautiful?”

Mar rolls her eyes. He’s pathetic. “You know, Dylan, if we could only find a way to clone you, I’d have women lining up for one of their very own.”

“Hell, no! Shirley’s doing all the work. That kid’s packing weight like a line backer. I don’t know how she can even walk.”

“The way I hear it, you give a mean foot massage.”

“Yeah, well I am a Very Happy Man,” his grin widens. “How about you? How’s your Dad?” Taller than just about everyone else in the room, Dylan looks over their heads until he finds Mar’s father. “Uh-oh. Norm’s got him. It’ll be awhile before he surfaces again.”

“Are you kidding? Norm doesn’t stand a chance when Dad gets started.”

“You sure we shouldn’t perform a rescue operation?”

“Nah. The man is surprisingly skilled at football-speak.”

Bored with all the chatter, Lizzie lunges toward Dylan. He lifts her off of Mar’s hip. “How’s my little girl?” he kisses her cheek and begins tugging at her coat. “What’s your momma thinking, Lizzie, keeping you bundled up like that? What’s that about? I know, I’ll bet you want some more brownie?” Dylan hands the little girl a piece of a brownie and then, grinning at Mar, turns away. “I’ve gotta take my best girl to meet the guests,” he says and disappears into the crowd. Elizabeth is too enraptured by Dylan to notice that they have left Mar behind.

“Well, same to you, kid!” Mar calls after her. Shaking her head, she picks up the knife Dylan had been using and begins cutting the rest of the brownies.

“Hey there, girl, Merry Christmas!” Shirley whispers into her ear. “How goes the flow?”

Mar turns around and gives her friend a long hug. Stepping back, she examines the huge belly between them. “Oh my god! Are you sure you’re not gonna pop tonight?”

“No can do,” Shirley replies, swiping a brownie. “I got some things to do before I take a few months off. How are you? Where’s your dad?” Shirley looks past Mar.

“He’s here somewhere. Norman Schumacher cornered him and he might not come up for hours.”

Shirley laughs and helps Mar out of her coat. “Well, that’s a few hours you don’t have to talk about football with him.”

“No kidding,” Mar grimaces and then the two women laugh.

“Come on,” Shirley says, “I’ve got a present for you.”

“No way. We said that presents would wait ‘til tomorrow. I haven’t even wrapped yours yet.”

“I know,” Shirley says, leading the way out of the kitchen, “but I want to give you this one tonight. I’ve been saving it long enough.”

Reaching her office, Shirley steps inside and turns on the light. “Man, I am beat already. Just a few more weeks and it’s over. Don’t know how I’m supposed to wait. I can’t imagine this thing getting any bigger.”

“You are, uh, huge. You sure you didn’t count the weeks wrong or something? Maybe there’s twins in there?”

“You’d think, but the damn doctor says no. There, sit down, I’m just gonna waddle over here and get me a seat.”

Mar settles into her favorite chair in front of Shirley’s desk, the one with the view. The setting sun has cast deep Magenta shadows over the mountains. If she were painting it, she’d choose Deep-Violet and Dioxozine-Purple, with a little Process-Blue around the crags of the mountain to reflect the chill. A shiver runs up her spine as her nervous system associates those colors with the aching cold of another winter night. Even so, she likes how the colors blend together, offset by the warm golden-white glow that spills from the windows of the shadow houses across the street.

Shirley lowers herself into her own chair and sits back with a sigh. “What have you been up to? I haven’t seen you lately.”

Mar pulls her eyes from the view and returns to the room. She notices how pregnancy has lent a beautiful rose flush to Shirley’s caramel skin and her eyes widen. “Um, Shirl?”

Sighing, Shirley opens a drawer and pushes a pad of paper and a pencil across the desk toward Mar. Smiling gratefully, Mar begins to sketch as she picks up the conversation, “Oh, you know, the usual. Dad hasn’t been here in awhile so we’ve been doing his thing, travelling around looking for winter-scapes and wildlife to sketch. Lizzie’s been surprisingly agreeable to stomping around in the snow while Dad goes at it. Of course, I was the same at that age. Or so Dad tells me.”

Shirley smiles at Mar. She’s heard all the stories about how Mar used to cut school in order to accompany Don on his nature excursions. When the truant officer showed up one day, Don simply waved her away and declared that Mar was getting a better education in natural history than any school could give her.