The Good Life Page 14

  Lauren awoke with a start and looked at the clock next to her bed. She had fifteen minutes to get to the guesthouse. She sat up and pushed her hair out of her face. A few strands had made their way into her mouth and were sticking to her lips. She picked them out as she slowly made her way across her floor—through dirty clothing, schoolbooks, and the cut-up magazines and markers for her poster about war in Third World countries that was due the day after Christmas break (she thought that was so unfair), and several empty plates, except the one with the bagel half-covered with strawberry cream cheese that she had forgotten to eat the other night—and into the bathroom. She washed her face and brushed her hair. She pulled the sweater she had been sleeping in over her head and dropped it on the floor. After she reapplied deodorant, she walked back into her room, fished another sweater out of her bottom bureau drawer, and put it on. She walked out of her room, closing the door behind her. Down the hall, she knocked on Nate’s door, but got no response. She knocked harder, then walked in. “Doesn’t anybody knock anymore?” asked Nate, removing the headphones from his ears.

  “I did.”

  “Do you want something?”

  “It’s time to go,” said Lauren.

  Nate looked at his clock. “I’ll be there in a few minutes,” he said, putting the headphones back on his head. Lauren turned her back and left his room. As she walked down the stairs, she could hear and smell activity. When she walked into the bustling kitchen, her mother, in a winter white silk pantsuit, looking like the Queen of Entertainment, was instructing the caterers. Three of them, dressed in black pants and white pleated shirts, hovered around her, looking attentive. Another, dressed in chef’s attire, was pulling curlicues of beef out of the oven, while another, dressed in all black, washed dishes at the sink—all players in the Party Factory game; Ann Barons poised to spin them in different directions at the next roll of the dice. No one acknowledged Lauren as she grabbed her black down coat from the peg rack and slipped out the back door. As soon as she was outside, the quiet cold enveloped her, simultaneously stunning and awakening her senses. A sharp intake of air stabbed her lungs. Something at the edge of her field of vision made her look up. She missed whatever it was, but was rewarded with panorama of a million stars, each perfectly positioned like a Hollywood night sky. When she exhaled, she could see her breath. She pretended to smoke, the invisible cigarette perched between the second and third finger of her right hand as she walked down the path to the guesthouse. The salt her father had sprinkled on the walk that afternoon crackled under her clogs. As she got closer to the house, she could see her grandfather, framed by the square pane of insulated glass in the front door, staring out into the night and then focusing on her. He flicked the switch next to the door; light from the lamp above the door rained down upon her. Her grandfather squinted and then opened the door wide. He called over his shoulder, “We’ve got a visitor.”

  “Lauren,” said Eileen, walking from the kitchen, wiping her wet hands on her apron before giving her granddaughter a hug, “I’m so glad you’re here. Sam, take Lauren’s coat.” Lauren took off her jacket and handed it to Sam, who looked at it, then looked at Eileen. “In the closet, Sam,” she said. “Put Lauren’s coat in the closet.” With deliberate, robotic movements, Sam turned around and reached into the closet. He missed on his first two attempts, but made contact with the gold metal hanger on his third try. He slid the end of the hanger into one sleeve but was unable to push the other end into the second opening. He looked for his wife, but she was gone, as was the girl. So, he wrapped the coat around the hanger and laid it on the closet floor. Knowing he might have done something naughty, Sam slid the door along its tracks until the coat was hidden from view. He scuffed down the hallway to the kitchen. “Sam,” said Eileen, handing him a small bowl of cashew nuts, “take this to the living room.”

  “Aye-aye, skipper,” said Sam, saluting his wife.

  “Lauren, here’s a bowl of potato chips and some onion dip for you to carry. I’ll grab the cheese and crackers.” Eileen followed her husband, who managed to sit down in a chair without spilling a single nut, the bowl now partially buried in his lap. Eileen set the baked brie down on a quilted pot holder, and Lauren put the chips and dip down next to it. “Wow, Gran,” she said. “That looks amazing.”

  “Doesn’t it, though? And it’s so easy. I’ll teach you how to make it,” said Eileen as she settled her skirted bottom onto the couch. “Where’s Nate?”

  “He’s coming,” said Lauren, eyeing the cheese. “He’s always late.”

  Sam brought the bowl of nuts from his lap to his chest. Eileen gently removed it from his fingers and set it down on the table. She smiled at Lauren. And then she quickly stood. “I’m going to get the drinks,” she announced. “I’ve made something special.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Lauren, getting up from the couch.

  “You stay here and chat with your grandfather, dear,” said Eileen. “I won’t be a minute.”

  Lauren watched her grandmother disappear behind the kitchen cabinets. Then, she very slowly turned her gaze to her grandfather. He was looking at her intently, like an interviewer sizing up a job applicant. “Where do you go to school?” he asked, liquid gurgling in his throat.

  “Dilloway High School,” said Lauren, sitting on the couch next to his chair.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yes,” said Lauren, “I do.”

  “I went to Pembroke High School,” said Sam, looking at the food on the coffee table. “It was a good school. They had all the usual classes there, of course. And there were other things, too.”

  Saliva ran out the corner of Sam’s mouth and down his chin. From there, it fell like a miniature waterfall, a long, shimmering stream dropping from his face to his shirt. Lauren momentarily averted her eyes. She took a deep breath and then leaned forward to cut into the brie. She put a small slice onto a cracker, then centered it on a cocktail napkin busy with holly leaves. She extended the holiday treat to her grandfather. “Is this what you want?”

  “I’d love one,” he said, balling up the napkin and moving it toward his wide-open mouth. Lauren put her hand up, traffic police–style.

  “Just the cheese, Gramps,” she said. Sam looked at her, but his gaze was unfocused, unclear. Lauren took the napkin out of his hand and unwrapped the cheese. She placed the warm bundle in the palm of his outstretched hand, and he popped it into his mouth as if there had been no issue at all. She then brushed the pastry crumbs from his face with the napkin. Up close, it was not as disgusting as it looked from the couch, and Lauren wondered if young mothers felt similarly when they removed puréed carrots from the faces of their babies or digested ones from their bottoms.

  “You don’t have to do that,” said an apron-less Eileen, appearing from the kitchen with two tall glasses of light green liquid leading the way in her hands.

  “It’s okay, Gran,” said Lauren.

  “Thank you,” she said, handing Lauren a drink. “This is a frozen lime concoction I read about in a cooking magazine. Go ahead, take a sip.”

  “It’s delicious,” said Lauren, meaning it.

  Eileen gave the other drink to Sam, who looked it at, and then set it down on the table next to him. Eileen was headed back to the kitchen, when she heard a knock on the door. She turned to Lauren, as if to ask, “Are you expecting anyone?” Then she gently slapped her forehead with her hand. “Nate,” she said, smiling at her granddaughter. “Will you get the door while I get the other drinks?” Lauren jumped up from the couch and jogged to the door. Seconds later, Nate walked into the living room, preceded by an icy breeze. “Man, it’s cold out there,” he said.

  “Well, look who’s here,” said Eileen, appearing from the kitchen with two more lime drinks. “All your friends have plans tonight?”

  “Who is here?” asked Sam, moving his gaze from the cheese to Nate’s face. When their eyes locked, Sam’s rubbery face shifted. His left eye narrowed slightly. His eyebrows rose,
and his lips moved. He looked like he was making a mental list or adding a column of numbers in his head.

  Nate looked back at his grandmother. “That’s right, Gran,” he said, flashing a smile. “And I called everybody.”

  Eileen laughed. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “Come join us.”

  Nate removed his coat, revealing clean, unwrinkled jeans and a black V-neck sweater worn over a red plaid collared shirt, and set it down on an unoccupied side chair. He ran his fingers through his hair, the color of Northern Michigan beach sand and cut so it stopped a couple of inches above his shoulders. It was the exact color, Ann had once told Lauren, of Ann’s hair in her teenage years; a color her hair stylist sought to duplicate every eight weeks at Antonio’s Salon. Lauren was dark, like her father. Her hair, with his wave, fell well below her shoulders. However, most of the time, tonight included, it was held captive by a coated elastic and jutted out the back of her head like a horse’s tail.

  “Hello, young man,” said Sam. “I’m Sam Sanford.”

  Nate approached his grandfather and shook his extended hand. “I’m Nate Barons, your grandson.”

  “Of course you are,” said Sam.

  Eileen set the drinks down, cut several slices of brie, placed them on crackers, and offered them to Lauren, Nate, and Sam before taking one for herself. “So, how’s everything at the big house?” Eileen asked after she had swallowed her cheese. “Are people starting to arrive?”

  “It’s like Black Friday at Walmart,” said Nate. “The flood of people coming through the front door pushed me right out the back.”

  Eileen clapped her hands together. “I love a good party.”

  Nate took a chip and scooped up some onion dip. “I can’t say anything about the quality of the guests,” he said, taking a bite. “But the quantity is right on track.”

  “Why the hell weren’t we invited?” said Sam, looking at his wife. “We’ve known these people for years.”

  “We have company,” said Eileen. “We’re busy.” Sam nodded his head longer than necessary to signal comprehension. “Nate,” Eileen said, “tell me about football. How did your last game go?”

  “We won,” said Nate, “in overtime.”

  “Now that must have been exciting,” said Eileen. “Did you have any wonderful tackles like the one in the Thanksgiving game?”

  “Just one,” said Nate, smiling. “It’s really no big deal.”

  “Oh yes, it is,” said Eileen. “A good tackle can turn the game around.”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes,” he said. “I got to start a couple of games this year.”

  “That’s great,” said Eileen. “I thought only the seniors started.”

  “Yeah, well, mostly they do. They don’t like it much when juniors take their place.”

  “Next year, you’ll be a star,” said Eileen. “Just like your sister. She’s going to be the queen of that volleyball court.”

  “You think so?” asked Nate, looking at Lauren.

  “Oh yes,” said Eileen. “By next Christmas, you two will be signing autographs.”

  Eileen’s genuine interest fascinated Nate. Her attention was flattering and sweet, not invasive like his mother’s. The tension he had felt earlier, that he felt often—stiffness in his neck and a tight jaw—eased as they chatted about sports, school, and what they wanted for Christmas. Their one-sentence responses to Eileen’s questions turned into paragraphs; their descriptions filled out with adjectives and flexible punctuation. And while Sam looked like he was mostly lost and only occasionally regained the thread of the conversation, he was calm, peaceful. When they finished their drinks and had their fill of hors d’oeuvres, Lauren helped Eileen clear the coffee table. In the kitchen, Lauren wrapped the leftovers with aluminum foil and quietly asked about her grandfather. “He’s gone downhill so quickly,” said Eileen, tying her apron around her waist. “Six months ago, he was still fairly alert. Now, he seems to be in a world of his own.”

  “Are you scared, Gran?”

  “Of your grandfather? No,” said Eileen, switching off the oven and then stirring the gravy with a whisk from the stove top. “Of the future, yes. But for now, I just try to go day to day. It’s not easy, Lauren. I do get irritated, sometimes, by his inability to do just about anything for himself.”

  “You never seem irritated,” said Lauren, rinsing the dishes and putting them into the dishwasher.

  “That’s because he’s sick, Lauren. He’s got a disease that’s wreaking havoc on his mind as well as his body,” said Eileen. “What I feel most is sadness—at his condition and at the way he’s spending the last part of his life.”

  “I feel sad for both of you,” said Lauren. “It’s your life, too.”

  Eileen set the whisk back down on the gravy-stained stove top and hugged her granddaughter. “It’s easier when I’m with all of you,” she said softly over Lauren’s shoulder. “I’m so happy to be here.” Lauren, who had been standing with her arms awkwardly at her sides, briefly encircled her grandmother’s waist. When Eileen pushed back, her hands lingered on Lauren’s arms. “Thank you,” she said, “for asking.” And then she returned to her task of putting on dinner: taking the roast beef from the oven, lifting the lid to the pot of mashed potatoes and stirring them, asking Lauren to set the kitchen table with the water glasses, napkins, and flatware already waiting to be arranged, and moving the dinner plates and cherry pie from the counter into the oven to warm. She added a clump of butter to the lima beans, as well as some salt and pepper, before replacing the lid to the pot. She ducked her head under the cupboards and called to Nate through the cutout in the wall. “Nate, will you please come in here?”

  Nate stood, and as he did, Sam’s eyes followed him. Sam had been telling Nate something about the navy destroyer that was his home during the Korean War, but he couldn’t remember where he left off or where he started. He’d have to ask the boy. “I’ll be right back,” said Nate.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the kitchen. Gran needs me.”

  Sam watched Nate leave the room before he looked at his watch. He couldn’t tell for sure, but he guessed the interview had lasted more than an hour, a good sign in the navy. Sam next studied the palms of his hands. He had no idea why the admiral wanted him to be the skipper of this new ship. Maybe he was handpicked; maybe he was just lucky. Either way, Sam knew he was the man for the job.

  “What’s up, Gran?” asked Nate, walking into the kitchen.

  “I need you to carve this roast,” she said.

  Nate looked at the roast beef on the counter. “I have no idea how to cut meat,” he said, an uneasy feeling germinating in his gut.

  “Well, come here,” said Gran, “and I’ll show you.” She plugged the Sears electric knife she had brought from home into the outlet, then pushed the ON button. “You slice on the diagonal,” she said over the hum of the twin blades, moving fast enough, Nate thought, to spark flame. “Start from the top and work your way down.” She handed the knife to Nate, who took it gingerly, wondering if it would be hot, if it would burn his hand, even though his grandmother had just used it without crying out in pain. Eileen then put her hand over his as a guide. They sliced two pieces together before she let go of the knife. Eileen patted his back and moved back to the stove. She rewhisked the mashed potatoes, tasted them, and added three more shakes of black pepper. “How are you doing?” she asked him, looking over her shoulder to watch.

  “Fine,” he said, mesmerized by the powerful tool sliding through the beef. “This is actually kind of fun.”

  “That’s fine carving, Nate,” she said. “You’ve got a Thanksgiving turkey in your future.”

  During dinner, Lauren asked Eileen about her childhood. And at first, she waved off the question, saying, “You wouldn’t be interested in that.” But when Lauren and Nate both insisted they would, she told them about growing up on a farm in eastern Pennsylvania, much like their mother had. It was a working farm, as they had become
known in modern times even though real farmers thought the term was redundant, with cows, pigs, chickens, tractors, and three hundred acres. Eileen’s two older brothers, along with several hired men, helped her father with the animal care and crop oversight—they grew corn, mostly, occasionally rotating in other grains when the soil demanded it. Eileen and her mother tended the family garden—tomatoes, pole beans, squashes, lettuces, peppers, potatoes, beets, and onions, as well as a flower garden—and took care of the house, which meant cooking, baking, cleaning, sewing, canning, and anything else her mother could think of, and she thought of things more often than not. Consequently, Eileen was busy during the week with chores and school from five in the morning until ten at night. Saturdays were different. She was allowed to stay in bed until eight before starting her chores. On Sundays, they went to church from nine until eleven, had dinner, which Eileen helped prepare and serve, and then she had the afternoon off. Lauren finished chewing the meat that had been sitting in her mouth while her grandmother talked. She swallowed, and then asked, “When did you have fun?”

  Eileen reached for her water glass. “I didn’t have much time for fun,” she said. “Sometimes, on a summer evening after all my chores were done, my mother and I would sit on the front porch swing and drink a tall glass of cool lemonade. We’d talk quietly and listen to the crickets.”

  “That was your fun?” asked Nate, eyebrows raised.

  “Well, sure,” said Eileen. “I can’t tell you how good that lemonade tasted after a day filled with hard work. You have to understand how nice it was just to be sitting.”

  “Did you ever go out?” asked Nate.

  “Occasionally,” said Eileen. “Sometimes, we’d go to the Grange Hall for a dance on a Saturday night, but that was just two or three times a year. Most of the time we were home.”

  Nate swallowed a forkful of mashed potatoes. “Were you bored out of your mind?” he asked, smiling.