Inheriting Edith, page 4
“Fine, we’ll buy it. Come on, let’s go.”
Lucy jumped up and skipped ahead of her towards the register. Maggie followed, flinching ever so slightly with disappointment to find a woman there, smiling sweetly.
“Is that all for you today?” she asked, as Lucy hugged Maggie’s calf and kissed her knee.
“Thank you, Mommy,” she said sweetly, looking up at her with devotion as though her meltdown had never happened.
Maggie handed the crown over to her queen, scanning the store for Sam as discreetly as possible, but he was nowhere to be found. For the best, she told herself.
“Yes, that’s it. Thank you.”
CHAPTER 4
Edith slowed down slightly. Was that them? To her left on Main Street, Maggie and Lucy ambled along, the little girl wearing a silver tiara that shined brightly in the nearly noon sun. Should she honk hello? No, no, she was running late. She ducked down in her seat and drove past them, feeling only slightly guilty. She would see them later—she had to see them now, too?
The thickening humidity had turned the air into peanut butter. They wouldn’t be able to eat outside as she had hoped. Esther’s hair would never stand for it, and she would tell Edith so from the moment she stepped out of her chauffeured car. She would set them up at the dining room table and hope that Maggie got the picture—that this was a private lunch between friends, and a ladylike lunch at that. There was no room for the dried smears of hummus that always followed in Lucy’s wake. Not to mention Maggie, who seemed averse to utensils on principle, and scavenged her daughter’s leftovers like a prisoner of war.
She pulled up the driveway, anxious to get started. There was no time for a shower unfortunately, but a washcloth, some perfume, a change of clothes and some lipstick should do the trick. She just had to slice the block of cheddar and set out the crackers and then she could pop down to get herself ready. She opened the car door and eased herself out gingerly, while looping the two plastic bags over her thin wrist. Slowly, she made her way up the porch steps to the door.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” grumbled Edith. Maggie had locked it. She set her bags down and fumbled in her pocket for her keys. She wiggled it until it blessedly opened, the wood sighing as she pulled the door towards her.
In the kitchen, Edith’s grumbling continued. There was no room in the refrigerator for any of her things. She unwrapped the block of cheddar cheese and placed it on the cutting board, willing her lip not to tremble. She would not cry.
She sliced the cheese into orange rectangles and fanned them around the perimeter of one of her good china plates before depositing a handful of Ritz crackers in the center. She had ten minutes to get ready. Esther was never late. Never.
Down the stairs she went. Get it together now, Edith, she warned herself. Don’t make a big show for Esther. Every day now, she found herself teetering on the brink of a crying jag, and had to force herself back from the ledge. What good did crying do anyone? She would allow herself to lament her fate, but she wouldn’t burden others with her misery. And by others, of course, she meant Esther. There was no one else.
Standing naked in her bathroom, she ran a soapy washcloth under her arms before spraying a liberal dose of perfume in the air and letting it rain down on her. She stepped into her favorite dress, the one with the subtle pattern of rosebuds set against a cream background, cinched her matching belt and slipped on her sandals. In the mirror she smoothed her bob, brushed her teeth and then swiped her lips with her signature crimson shade—the same one she had been wearing for over sixty years. If she had learned anything from her dancing days, it was that a signature something was the key to people remembering you.
Esther would agree. She was never without her amethyst hairpin—the lavender had sparkled beautifully against first her raven tresses and now, her white. Outside, the gravel crunched, signaling her arrival. Edith smoothed her dress and opened the front door to greet her.
The Lincoln Town Car idled, as though it was waiting at the foot of a red carpet. Vinnie, Esther’s driver, got out.
“Good morning, Mrs. Brennan,” he said, tipping his cap. “You’re looking ravishing today.”
Edith blushed. Vinnie had a way with words. Esther had told her proudly that he used to be in the mafia, and you could tell. He had a certain swagger that hinted at such a past, even as a fifty-something-year-old Town Car driver for a little old lady. Then again, Esther could also have been exaggerating for conversation’s sake; a trait that Edith had gotten used to over the course of their sixty-four year friendship.
Vinnie opened the door and Esther extended her bejeweled hand for him to take. It wasn’t easy getting in and out of cars at eighty-two, Esther would be the first one to tell you that. Esther stood, smiling at Edith. She had her hair done every Tuesday without fail, and it waved back from her fully made up face like cotton candy, the amethyst pin twinkling against her scalp. Beneath this grand presentation, she always wore cotton housedresses in a never-ending array of colors and patterns, or what Edith called her shmatas.
“I should spend so much time on this face and worry about the outfit, too?” she would say unapologetically. “You’re lucky I’m wearing anything underneath it, Edith,” she’d add, cackling as Edith blushed.
“Edith, get me out of this heat already, my face is melting!” she squawked now. “Vinnie, see you in two hours.” She patted his hand and approached Edith slowly. “These shoes cost me three dollars in Chinatown,” she announced proudly, shuffling past Edith and through the door. Edith looked down to see Esther’s fuchsia toenails peeking through the mesh overlay of a pair of white rubber slippers. Despite the fact that Esther lived with her daughter, Barbie, who had more money than she knew what to do with, Esther still loved a bargain.
Esther paused in the foyer to ogle herself in the mirror. She loved the sun, and so every part of her that peeked out from her shmata—her forearms, the V of her chest, her legs from the knee down and her feet—glistened like a honeybaked ham.
“For God’s sake, Edith, turn down the thermostat in here! What is this, the Depression?” she asked, fiddling with her hair for a moment before turning towards Edith. “You’re looking well, Edith. Do you eat, for God’s sake?”
“Yes, I eat, Esther,” replied Edith, pleased by the comment. She had lost weight lately; she could tell by the way her clothes fit.
“Where’s the girl?” Esther peeked around the corner of Liza’s bedroom. Maggie’s bedroom, Edith reminded herself.
“This room is neat as a pin. You could do worse than landing a cleaning lady as a roommate. What about the baby’s room?” Esther shuffled down the hall, the plastic soles of her shoes wheezing beneath her weight. “Aw, would you look at this? I remember when my Barbie was this age.” She turned to face Edith with her hands on her hips.
“Edith, you know, having these two here is a blessing. You need to take the stick out of your ass and realize that Liza had your best interest at heart when she left this place to her. What would you do, rattling around this place all by yourself? You’d go nuts, that’s what. Now, what’s for lunch? I’m starving.”
“AND SO I said to her, I said, ‘Just a little off the sides, not that hatchet job you did last time, Melanie,’” explained Esther.
“Edith, you’re not listening to me,” said Esther, before crunching into a mouthful of lettuce. Edith had forgotten to buy pre-made sandwiches at the store, much to her—and Esther’s—horror. She’d had to improvise on the spot with a wilting head of lettuce and some of Maggie’s vegetables, which they ate begrudgingly now.
“I’m listening, Esther,” replied Edith. But she wasn’t really. She was dwelling on the fact that she had forgotten the very thing she had gone to the store for in the first place. It worried her.
“This salad dressing tastes like glue,” said Esther. “But of course I’ll eat it, because God forbid I should refuse a calorie. Really, it’s an illness, Edith. Food is placed in front of me and I have to consume it. Like a cow in a field. Anyway! What’s doing, Edith? You seem sad.”
“Me? I’m not sad,” said Edith, studying her plate.
“You miss her.” Esther covered Edith’s hand with her own. “And who can blame you? She was such a dynamic person. Such creativity! It was inspiring.”
Edith nodded, feeling her throat constrict. She was so grateful that Esther let her indulge like this—let her talk about Liza with her, even if it was Esther that did the majority of the talking. Edith wasn’t much for expressing her emotions, at least in a direct way. She’d rather bang around some pots and pans in the kitchen under the guise of making dinner than actually admit to her frustration. But Esther was the opposite. Esther could talk feelings all day, every day. She would have been a great psychologist, Edith often thought. Not that she’s ever been to one, but she imagined that’s what they did—poked and prodded at your hard shell until somehow you ended up on your back, your tender underbelly exposed. Liza had been going to a woman named Phyllis for years, but had stopped abruptly, a few months before she died.
“Phyllis doesn’t get me anymore, Mom,” she had said to Edith, when she had inquired about what had happened; why Liza had stopped going into the city to see her shrink. Edith had bit her tongue for once, not wanting to start an argument. Now she wondered guiltily if an argument had been exactly what Liza had needed.
The door opened downstairs, and what sounded like a small herd of cattle came bounding in. Esther raised her eyebrow at Edith.
“That’s them,” whispered Edith.
“Good God, Edith, you’re nervous! It’s a young woman and her two-year-old, not the Gestapo for chrissake. Lighten up, already!”
Edith had the sudden urge to bang a cast-iron skillet against the top of Esther’s head. What did she know about lightening up? She lived in a luxury suite in her daughter’s McMansion, complete with live-in maid and personal chef. She had a lot of nerve, judging Edith.
“Mommy, hungry,” Lucy’s high-pitched voice demanded, coming up the stairs towards them. Edith really should have told Maggie about her lunch with Esther, she thought now. This was going to be a disaster.
“What would you like me to make you?” asked Maggie, sounding tired. Lucy stood before them suddenly, dangling a tiny pink pocketbook from her chubby forearm.
“Well, hello there,” cooed Esther.
Edith was taken aback. She would never have pinned Esther as a baby talker. She had one grandson, Ryan, but she talked to him like he was an old Jewish man trapped in a nine-year-old boy’s body. Which he was really, from what Edith could tell. He and Esther had debated the pros and cons of the bialy and talked Jacuzzi heat settings for a good hour the last time Edith had been out to lunch with the two of them.
“Oh hello,” said Maggie. “Sorry to interrupt.”
She was so thin, Edith noticed. Like she spent all of her time feeding her daughter and none feeding herself. No wonder she ravaged the remains of Lucy’s meals. That was probably all she ate, Edith surmised. And she was pretty, really, in a very angular, natural way. Not like Liz Taylor pretty by any means, but interesting pretty, like Katharine Hepburn. A very unkempt Katharine Hepburn, that was.
Maggie’s hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, and her gray T-shirt hung on her like an empty pillowcase. And those shorts! In Edith’s opinion, denim cutoffs for a woman past the age of fifteen were unacceptable, no matter how nice the legs. And Maggie’s legs weren’t her best feature, either. She had, and Edith had only noticed this because she called so much attention to them in shorts and flip-flops, cankles.
“Nonsense!” said Esther. She extended her hand, like the Queen. “I’m Esther, honey. And you must be Maggie.”
“That’s me,” she replied. “And this is Lucy. Lucy, can you say hello to Esther?” Lucy hid behind her mother’s leg, suddenly shy.
“It’s okay, Lucy,” said Esther. “I wrote the book on playing hard to get. You take your time, get to know me before you show me your smile. I bet you don’t have any teeth anyway.”
“I do have teef!” yelled Lucy, indignant.
“Really? Let me see.” Lucy opened her mouth wide, revealing two perfect rows of tiny white pearls. “Ohhhh, those are beautiful,” said Esther. “You must be very proud of those.”
Edith was annoyed. Why did Esther feel the need to charm everyone? Couldn’t she just, for once, say nice to meet you like a normal person when introduced instead of overwhelming the moment with her shtick? Lucy beamed at Esther. In the week since they’d arrived, Lucy hadn’t so much as given Edith a giggle.
“Hello Lucy,” she said, wishing she had a lollipop to give her.
“Hi Edif.” Lucy sighed dramatically. “I’m hungry, Mommy,” she reminded her.
“Hello Maggie,” said Edith. She pushed her chair back before she stood, motioning for Esther to do the same. Esther ignored her.
“Where are you going? You’re not even finished with your lunch,” said Maggie. “Please stay. I can’t promise that we’ll be particularly pleasant company.” She pointed to Lucy, who was swaying slightly in front of Esther, entranced by her vivacity. “But we’ll try our best. Won’t we, Lucy?”
“Hungry,” she replied.
“Okay, I’ll make you a grilled cheese, how does that sound?”
“Good,” replied Lucy. She trotted over to her basket and pulled out a gaggle of small plastic zoo animals. Slowly, she lined them up, talking softly to them in her own language.
Liza used to play like that, Edith remembered. Never with dolls, she hadn’t liked them, but with Tinkertoys and plastic army figurines, murmuring quietly to them for hours as she arranged them this way and that. There had always been something different about Liza, a creative quality that Edith had wanted to cultivate. She herself had gravitated towards dance from the time she could walk, but her mother had never encouraged her, only begrudgingly signed her up for lessons when she could no longer take Edith’s begging. Even when Edith had gone on to show real talent as a young woman, she had only sent a letter expressing halfhearted congratulations, a single sentence buried in her news from home.
It had hurt Edith, her mother’s disregard, and so when Liza had declared that she was a writer at age eleven, Edith had gone out and bought her daughter a typewriter.
“The thing about writers is that they write,” she’d explained to Liza as she set it up in her room. “So get cooking.” Liza’s subsequent success was the thing Edith was most proud of in her life, even though really it had nothing to do with her. But she’d made a point to nurture her daughter’s talent; to water it like a plant until it bloomed. And boy, had it ever.
“So, how do you like Sag Harbor, Maggie?” asked Esther. “Quite a change from the big city.”
“It certainly is,” agreed Maggie. “But it’s beautiful here, really and truly.” She spread butter on the outsides of Lucy’s sandwich and dropped it into the hot pan.
“You used to clean Liza’s apartment?” Esther asked, going right for the jugular. She wore her nosiness proudly, like a badge.
“Yes, that’s true.” Maggie pushed a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. “That’s how we met.”
“But you became friends?” continued Esther.
“Yes. Very good friends.”
“You know, I understand that. I consider Marie a friend.”
“Who’s Marie?” asked Maggie.
“She cleans Barbie’s house. She’s lovely. And really gets in there. Mops the baseboards even. That’s someone who has your best interests at heart.”
“Esther, don’t be ridiculous. That’s not a friend, that’s your maid,” said Edith.
“Lucy, lunch is almost ready. Come over to the table,” said Maggie. Lucy looked up from her animals.
“Grilled cheese?” she inquired.
“Yes ma’am. Come on over here and I’ll strap you into your chair.”
“Where’d you live in the city?” asked Esther as Maggie finished buckling Lucy in and sat down herself.
“We were in the East Village.”
“Oh,” said Esther, taking a sip of her soda through her straw. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Not really. NYU has turned it into Disney World. I’m an old lady there.”
“Get out of here!” said Esther. “You can’t be older than twenty-eight,” she told Maggie, who smiled gratefully in return.
“Esther, bless you, but twenty-eight was almost ten years ago now.”
“No!” said Esther. Wasn’t that just like Esther? thought Edith, jealous. One compliment and the conversation was back on track.
“Did you live there at any point?” asked Maggie, stealing a bite of Lucy’s sandwich.
“Sure we did. Edith and I both did. Isn’t that right, Edith?” Edith smiled.
“Of course. That was over sixty years ago now, can you believe that Esther?”
“No. Well, who am I kidding? I considered putting a diaper on this morning for the car ride over. Yes, I can believe it actually.”
“Esther!” scolded Edith. “Really!”
“We lived on the Upper West Side, Maggie,” Esther explained. “Oy, that apartment was a tenement if there ever was one. Like Kosovo or something. And there were what? Six of us in a two bedroom, Edith?”
“Two bedroom? Try a one bedroom. I think poor Helen was in a sleeping bag on the kitchen floor.”
“What were you doing?” asked Maggie.
“We were dancers on Broadway,” replied Esther proudly.
“Get out!” exclaimed Maggie. “Broadway, Broadway?”
“The one and only,” replied Esther.
“And Esther sang a little, too. She has an amazing voice,” said Edith. “People used to call her Ethel. You know, like Ethel Merman?” Esther waved her hand dismissively.
“Oh please. They only made that comparison because we were both Jewish and had big mouths. Although, I was a hell of a swimmer, too. But Edith! Edith had it all. Those girl next door looks and a waist no bigger than twenty-four inches around. And boy oh boy, could she dance!”
