The Next Best Thing (15 page)

“Lucy? Where are you? Are you still sick? I’ve been trying everywhere.”

A cold sweat breaks out over my body. “I’m two blocks from the bakery,” I tell her. “What’s wrong?”

My mom pauses. “You’re okay? You’re not still throwing up?”

“I’m fine, Mom! What’s wrong?”

“It’s Boggy, sweetheart.” She sighs. “Are you sitting down?” Without waiting for an answer, she drops the bomb. “She died this morning.”

“I
DUNNO
. I
T WAS LIKE SHE WAS FINE
one sec, then she just started coughing and the next thing I know, she’s dead.” Stevie, unaccustomed to a tie, pulls at his collar as we stand next to the open casket at Werner’s Funeral Home, gazing down on our tiny great-aunt. “Maybe it was one of your scones.”

I look at him in horror, guilt punching my stomach with a cold fist. “Was she eating a scone when she started coughing?” I whisper.

“No. But I was. Maybe she inhaled a crumb or something. It wasn’t
my
fault, that’s for sure.”

“Of course it wasn’t, sweetie.” Aunt Rose sniffles, patting her son’s arm, then blowing her nose with an astonishing honk. “But those scones
were
awfully crumbly, Lucy. You should put in a little sour cream next time.”

“Boggy choked on a scone?” Iris asks, giving me a sharp look.

“No! She didn’t choke on anything, right, Stevie? You were with her.”

Stevie shrugs, then scratches his ear. “We were watching
Matlock.
She said that old dude was still handsome, I’m eating the scone, she starts coughing, and then—” Stevie widens his eyes and sticks out his tongue “—dead. I thought about giving her a scone. Brought her back the first time, right, Luce?”

“You didn’t give her one, did you?” I ask, cringing at the idea of him stuffing a pastry into our ancient aunt’s mouth as a bizarre form of resuscitation. Granted, his IQ is roughly the same as a chicken’s, so it is possible.

“No, Luce, I’m not stupid,” my cousin protests. “But you’re the one who said they brought her back to life.”

“I was hallucinating at the time, Stevie.”

“Will you two stop your bickering?” Iris says. “You’re ruining this perfectly lovely wake.”

I close my eyes. The cloying scent of lilies makes my head throb, not to mention the saccharine organ music that simpers in the background. Personally I’d rather have the Brandenberg Concertos or the Smashing Pumpkins or something. Anything but “On Eagle’s Wings.”

My mother bustles up in her usual cloud of Chanel No. 5, looking like Audrey Hepburn: a black silk dress with a large white bow at the waist, strappy, three-inch black Manolo Blahniks which make her feet look like they enjoy a little bondage. “You look incredible,” she gushes, reaching out to touch my shoulder. Yes, I’m wearing a skirt, a sweater, some decent shoes (just some Nine West pumps…unlike Mom here, I thought it inappropriate to use Boggy’s wake as a showcase for my slutty shoes). “It’s wonderful to see you all dressed up! That color is fantastic on you!”

“Mom, settle down. We’re at a wake,” I say.

“Oh, you,” she says fondly. “Those earrings are darling!”

Let me explain. The Black Widows love nothing more than a well-planned wake, the flowers, the people, the tears. They attend everyone’s, and to be fair, they
know
everyone, being second-generation locals in a town of two thousand. There’s a complex scoring process for such events—number of attendees, expense of the flower
arrangements, classiness of the charity the deceased’s family chose for the
in lieu of flowers
bit, who’s catering the after-funeral reception. Iris booms out how beautiful the deceased looks, Rose chirps about how
thoughtful
were those who sent flowers, and Mom announces how
kind
so-and-so was to come.

I myself have a little less fun at funeral homes, though they don’t present the same degree of distress as the cemetery. But Stevie has seized the idea that an errant crumb was carried on a rogue draft of air into Boggy’s esophagus, and this was in fact her cause of death. Furthermore, he is now relaying this fact to anyone who will listen. And lastly…well, lastly, none of us was prepared for little old Boggy to pass away so quickly.

“I was planning to visit her today,” my cousin Neddy, Iris’s son, complains.

“Well, if you’d wanted to see her, you could’ve come any time over the past fifteen years, Ned,” Iris says in stentorian tones. “This is what you get for waiting till the eleventh hour. Not that we
knew
it would be eleventh hour, that is. She was doing so well. A medical miracle.
Dateline
was going to pick up the story. Poor Boggy!”

“It’s a tragedy!” Rose weeps. “We should’ve had her for years more!”

Years more. How long was Aunt Boggy supposed to hang around, huh?

Good old Cousin Anne tries to be the voice of reason. “Aunt Rose, Ma,” she says firmly. “Boggy was a hundred and four. It was just her time. She had a very long life, and dying at a hundred and four is hardly a tragedy, now, is it?”

“It is!” Rose sobs. She does love to cry, that woman. “How can you be so heartless, Anne! All those years, she just lay there like a dead dog, and when she finally woke
up, Lucy just had to bring her something that she’d choke on. Lucy, why didn’t you bring her ice cream instead? Why? Really, a little common sense…”

“She did
not
choke on a scone!” I protest loudly, forcing a smile to the next person in line.

“Reverend Covers!” my mother sings. “Aren’t you wonderful to come! How thoughtful!”

Iris and Rose discuss Boggy’s tragic death to everyone who comes by, and that’s the whole town, since news of the medical miracle and subsequent death has piqued everyone’s curiosity. The line is long, and my feet are killing me.

There, in the back of the room, is Ethan, wearing a navy blue suit and red tie. His eyes catch mine, and my heart squeezes abruptly. I haven’t seen him since the morning after my little Michael Phelps incident, and I’m not too sure how he’s feeling toward me these days. I give a little wave, and he nods. No smile. My throat tightens. Ethan and I need a little sit-down. We need to talk. Something’s got to give.

“Yo, Luce, so sorry for your loss.” Charley Spirito stands in front of me, Red Sox jacket over a shirt and tie.

“Thanks, Char—” My words are cut off as Charley engulfs me in his gym-teacher arms. He buries his face against my neck, planting a wet kiss on my collarbone. “Ick!” Crikey! He just copped a feel! “Knock it off, Charley!” I snap.

“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he says. “Plus, I was wondering if you might wanna go out again sometime? Since the fat dude didn’t work out?”

“I am at my great-aunt’s wake, Charley!” I say, straightening my sweater.

“Is that a yes?” He grins.

“It’s a no! Get out of here! Shoo!”

“Lucy, are you dating that boy?” Rose trills.

“No. I’m not dating anyone.” My face is tight with heat as Charley saunters away, stupidly proud for getting away with a little groping. I catch Ethan looking at me, his face still blank, and look away abruptly.

I need a break. With a word to my mom, who’s acting like she’s Ryan Seacrest on the Red Carpet at the Academy Awards, I head for the back of the room. There’s sure to be a blister on my heels tomorrow morning, and I sit gratefully and take a deep breath. My heart beats a little too fast. I almost wish I could take another floaty pill.

Jimmy’s wake took place here, too. It was, of course, surreally awful…part of me kept saying,
This is not really happening. He’ll show up any minute.
So many of our wedding guests were there that it was almost confusing. Everyone had been so happy just a few months earlier. Could it really be possible that Jimmy was actually gone? Forever? It was like one of those dreams that start out happy, but bit by bit, you realize you’re lost and someone’s chasing you with a big knife, and there’s nowhere to hide.

Speaking of wedding guests, Debbie Keating, my best friend from childhood, stands at the casket, chatting with Rose. She was one of my bridesmaids, but when Jimmy died, Debbie dropped me. She didn’t come to his wake or funeral. She didn’t send a card. Instead, her mother informed me, right there as I stood next to my husband’s casket, shaking and stunned, that Debbie was taking Jimmy’s death
really
hard and was
very
sad. I never heard from Debbie again. When she got married two years later, I wasn’t invited.

It happens more than you’d like to know. People don’t know what to say, so they say nothing, ignore you, pretend not to see you, and, when trapped, do what Debbie’s doing
now—smiling in my general direction to pretend that we’re still friends, only to shift her eyes away just before we actually make eye contact.

Someone sits next to me. It’s Grinelda, smelling of uncooked meat. “Hi, Grinelda,” I say. “How are you?”

“I’m not bad, kid. Yourself?”

“I’m okay.” I sneak a peek at her outfit—pink tulle ballerina skirt over purple corduroys, topped with a red velvet shirt and black down vest. “So, did you foresee Boggy’s death, Grinelda?” I can’t help asking.

“Welp, I’ll tell you. Sometimes wires get a little crossed. I might’ve seen it. Or not. Plus,” she adds, lowering her voice and remembering to sound like a gypsy, “all is not for me to know.”

“And what is for you to know, exactly?” I murmur.

She sighs rustily. “Whatever those who have passed want to tell me.” She cuts her hooded eyes my way. “Did you check the toast?”

“Yup. Checked the toast. Haven’t burned a single piece since you gave me the message.”

“Good, I guess. Now, I need a smoke,” she says, then bursts into a long bout of phlegmy coughing. I pat her back, trying not to cringe as she hacks and wheezes. Finally she grunts, then struggles to get out of the chair. I stand up and give her a hand.

“Take care, Grinelda,” I say.

“You, too, Lucy.” She shuffles off to Reverend Covers and hands him a purple business card.

“I’m sorry your aunt died, Wucy,” comes a voice from the region of my hip.

My heart swells with love. “Oh, hey there, Nicky,” I say, picking him up for a smooch. “Thanks, sweetheart. Did you come with your daddy?”

“No. I came with Mommy.” He drapes a companionable arm around my neck, and I kiss him again. His cheek is velvet, and I see that he has a new freckle just below his ear. “Wucy,” he says, toying with my necklace, “will Aunt Boggy see Uncle Jimmy in heaven?”

The question hits me like a punch in the stomach. I sink down slowly, shifting Nick so he sits on my lap. “I don’t know, honey,” I whisper. “Maybe. I don’t see why not.”

“Maybe he can make her dinner. Daddy says he was a good cook.”

The image of my husband in the kitchen is so strong I can almost smell the tomato sauce—Jimmy, dirty blond curls secured under the red bandana, his big hands dexterously chopping parsley, the sizzle of chicken in hot olive oil.

“He sure was a good cook,” I murmur, noting my nephew’s expectant eyes. “He would’ve cooked all your favorites, I bet.”

“That’s what Daddy says. Can I have a candy?” Nicky asks, wriggling off my lap. “There’s candy here. A big bowl of candy by the door.”

“Ask your mom,” I say.

“Bye!” Nicky dashes up to Parker, who absently strokes his dark hair as she talks to Ellen Ripling. The little boy clings to her leg, clearly trying not to interrupt. His eyes are just like Ethan’s, brown and mischievous, always a hint of a smile waiting there.

Except I haven’t seen Ethan smile lately. Even now, he looks a bit tired as he waits in the receiving line to offer his condolences to my relatives. Rose’s face lights up when she sees him, and he grins as he always does around the Black Widows, leaning in to kiss her cheek. He takes both her hands in his and says something that makes her smile. Such a way with the older women, that Ethan. Something
moves in my chest as I remember the way he kissed my forehead the other night.

He moves on to Iris, whispers something into her ear…something naughty from the look of it, since she makes that delightedly outraged face and reaches up to smack the side of his head. Then he reaches my mom, who tucks her arm through his as she talks with her best friend, Carol. Ethan looks so…decent. He nods to Carol without interrupting my mom, looking like what he is, really. A good son. Too bad he lacks that easy grace with his own parents.

I look down, imagining Jimmy here, doing much what his brother is doing. Charming my mother, sweet-talking my relatives, then coming over to sit next to me for a kiss. He’d hold my hand, murmur a few words, then get up to herd our children—we were planning on four—when they got rowdy. If anyone implied that crumbs from my scones had killed Boggy, Jimmy would put that silly notion to rest in a heartbeat. His presence would cushion me from the shallow Debbie Keatings and the dopey Cousin Stevies of the world.

It’s the widow’s burden and blessing, too. For the rest of my life, I’ll picture Jimmy everywhere. He did love me so. And God knows I loved him, too.

“Hi, Lucy.”

I look up at Ethan, and for a heartbeat, it’s almost as if
he’s
the one I’ve been missing all these years. “Hi,” I whisper through the fog of emotion that’s enveloped me.

“I hear those were some killer scones,” he whispers, then dissolves into silent laughter, sinking into the chair next to me and covering his face with his hand.

The tenderness in my heart drops with a thud. It’s the last straw. Hard to imagine I was just wanting to sort things out with him, to make him smile again. Without a word, I stand up and move past him.

“Lucy, I’m sorry,” he says, catching my hand. “Don’t be mad.”

I pull free. I am just not in the mood. Emotions churn in my heart, good, bad, ugly, and I need a little space.

In the back of the room is Stevie, acting out Boggy’s last moments from the look of it, his hands on his throat, tongue extended as Father Adhyatman watches in horrified fascination.
There were no crumbs involved,
I mentally tell the priest, then weave my way past them. Veering down the hall toward the bathroom, my throat is tight, my eyes sting.

Then, out of the bathroom comes Debbie who was once my friend. She gives me that vacuous smile she’s perfected, shifts her eyes to the left of my head and tries to slither past.

“Hello, Debbie,” I say, blocking her way. My voice may be a little too loud.

“Oh! Um…Lucy!” she says as if she hadn’t recognized me. Her eyes dart away, a deer caught in the headlights. No. A possum in the headlights. She always had a sneaky little face. “Hi! How have you been?”