A Marriage Made at Woodstock (3 page)

“Have you found a home yet for the cat?” Sukie was asking.

“Not yet.” Chandra sighed.

“
You
should keep him,” Halona said as the cat tried to sneak back in past Frederick's legs. He shut the door in its orange face.

“We can't keep a cat,” he heard Chandra say. “Frederick thinks he's allergic to them.”

“Psychosomatic?” Halona asked. Frederick felt the membranes tickling frantically, demanding his attention. He let fly a worthy sneeze, and hoped it was loud enough to alert the cynics on the porch.

“How long have you been married?” It was Sukie, since the voice was shrill.

“In October it'll be twenty-one years,” Chandra said, her own voice soft and lilting, hanging on to the rim of excitement. After all, she was on her way to the National Veal Boycott, no less. “We met at Woodstock,” she added.

“
He
went to
Woodstock
?” Halona asked, just as Frederick gave in to another robust sneeze.

Back from delivering the payroll checks to Portland Concrete, Frederick took a pad and pencil and began a systematic inventory of the house. Early in their marriage he had designated Tuesday as shopping day and had managed to maintain that schedule over the years, except for several Tuesdays that had been swallowed up by important matters. His father's funeral, for instance, had fallen on
Tiu's Day
, as it was originally called, after the god of war and the sky. It had been wonderfully fitting, considering Frederick's stormy relationship with the elder Stone. He had sat stiffly throughout the services, thinking not of the wasted years that had washed between father and son, but whether or not the produce department had received the first corn of the season.

At first they had shopped together, Chandra girding her independence by wheeling her very own cart. But as the years passed, she had fallen by the wayside as a credible shopper. Frederick took the job over exclusively when he discovered that his wife bought a certain brand only if it “had nice lettering” or if she “loved the picture on the box.” They had compromised. She would be sole executor of the dirty laundry, a task Frederick loathed, and he would shop.

In the upstairs bathroom he carefully checked each shelf.
Bathroom
tissue
,
bath
soap
, and
Q-tips
went onto the list. Downstairs he inspected the canned goods, perused the fridge, the laundry room, and the closet that contained cleaning supplies and various other sundries. His inventory finished, he went to the computer and entered each item. He then instructed the machine to sort the items alphabetically. This way, it was a snap to check each one off as he deposited it into the shopping cart.

With a quick printout in one hand and his umbrella in the other, Frederick ignored the orange cat on the front porch. But he did pause to pencil
cat
food
at the bottom of his sheet. He knew Chandra would only send him down to Cain's Corner Grocery for it when she returned, and Mr. Cain charged a kingly sum for a mere two-pound bag. Yet he felt a twinge of annoyance to have
cat
food
glaring up at him from below
zucchini
, spoiling the poetry of his list.

At the IGA, Portland's largest grocery store, Frederick browsed up and down the familiar aisles. He had done the weekly shopping there since the giant facility opened a year earlier. He had met the manager once, just long enough for him to refuse Frederick's pitch for Stone Accounting & Consultation services. What had his name been? Johnson? Jacobson? He had pointed out to Frederick that the store, as a part of a major chain, already had its own computer system. Frederick considered doing his shopping at a smaller, individually owned market, one that might be more prone to becoming one of his clients. In the end, he had given in to the larger store's variety, convenience, and, most of all, prices.

In the fresh produce department, he spent a long time picking through the nectarines and plums, searching for the occasional dark bruise, the decaying soft spot.

“How are the cherries, Frederick?” He looked up to see Mrs. Freeman peering at him with her tiny, poodle eyes. He tried not to sigh too loudly. They always found him first in the fresh produce department.

“Still some nice ones left,” Frederick said, “but you'll have to pick through them one at a time.”

“Are the oranges good this week, Frederick?” It was Janet Walsh, who wrote articles for some woman's magazine. What had she bored him to death with last week? Oh yes, some hormonal pack which women could clamp on—Frederick imagined it would look like an unopened parachute—that would enable them to jump confidently into menopause.

“I was here first,” said Mrs. Freeman. “Frederick was telling me about the cherries.” He
was
not
telling her about the damned cherries. He had merely suggested that she pick through them for the best ones, as any sane shopper would do.

“You just need to pick through them, Mrs. Freeman,” he said again. If she had her way, Mrs. Freeman would stand there and let
him
sort every cherry for her, maybe even destem them with his teeth. And she had a magic number for cherries: thirty, never more, never less. He turned his attention to Janet Walsh.

“Yes, well, let's see,” Frederick said. “I'd stay away from the prepackaged. You're better off choosing from the loose ones over there. And I think Florida has the best oranges right now.”

“What about the watermelon?” Janet asked. “You weren't here last Tuesday and I ended up buying a bad one.” Frederick looked at Janet's pale face. Had she forgotten to wear her infernal hormones? What was wrong with some women? Did he look like the Watermelon Fairy? Chandra had declared that his own vanity was the cause of this Bacchanalian frenzy which occurred each Tuesday at the supermarket. “You pretend to know things about produce which no mortal human knows, not even farmers,” she'd accused him. “I bet you act like some Roman god of the harvest down there, Freddy. I know you. You've got those women believing you're Ralph Nader.” Perhaps he had mentioned a few lessons learned from
Consumer
Reports
over the months, and by doing so had possibly saved them and their families from being poisoned by Chilean grapes, Chicken a la Salmonella, and the like. But he had no idea how much women talked to one another. Rumor had spread rapidly that he was the last word on artichoke hearts, a genius with mouthwashes, a virtuoso of brown rice. But that didn't mean they could harness him every Tuesday as their own personal soothsayer, which was happening as talk of his supermarket clairvoyance increased. Chandra had been smug about it, suggesting that he learn to say three little words,
I
don't know
. “But you can't do it, can you, Freddy?” she'd badgered. The more horrible truth was that Frederick Stone
did
know the answer to their questions. He had done his research. Could he be faulted for that?

“By the way,” Mrs. Freeman asked, “where
were
you last Tuesday?” Frederick thought about last Tuesday. He had actually spent the day bailing Chandra out of the Portland slammer, a tiny matter of illegal traipsing on a fur farm. But this was none of Mrs. Freeman's business, especially since she had again worn her ragged mink to the grocery store.

“Dental appointment,” Frederick said. He tapped on the nearest melon, his hand sensing the vibrations. He leaned down and listened for that special music, a quick, resonating
plunk
that promised just enough ripeness.

“Is it playing our song, Fred?” Janet asked. He heard the women titter. On the third melon he found it, that subtle little
bong
, the tone heavy as a bell.

“Oooh, there you are,” Frederick whispered. He lifted the melon up, as though it were a plump baby, and placed it in Janet's cart.

“I think you'll find this one satisfactory,” he said. He merely nodded at Janet's thank-you. He wished Chandra could see him at some of his finest moments. And she might, too, if she ever picketed the meat department.

“Thanks, Frederick, you're a dear,” said Janet. She tilted her head, as though listening to the same melon music, and smiled sweetly. Frederick smiled back. He wasn't sure if the recent divorce was prompting Janet to be more aggressive or if her hormonal pack was pumping overtime. It was true that grocery stores across the country had become the new meat market, so to speak, in which singles could bump their carts together and fall in love. Frederick had read how males loaded up with expensive gourmet items to impress the casual female shopper, the one with the firm ass. But he had generally been a spectator to such mate calling, Chandra's Tampax no doubt serving as a deterrent, not to mention the fact that tofu wasn't exactly known as an aphrodisiac.

“No problem,” said Frederick, and tried not to stare after Janet's retreating wiggle. Women could wiggle more easily, couldn't they, when they were leaning forward on their carts, sashaying up and down the aisles like tigresses. And his brother, Herbert, wondered why Frederick didn't mind the shopping.

“Frederick!” A stout woman was just turning down the long aisle of canned goods. Frederick listened as his name echoed around the Carnation milk, then bounced off the acoustical boxes of shredded wheat. It was Mrs. Paroni, headed for him in a maniacal hurry, coupons fluttering behind her like leaves falling.

She's going to have a heart attack one of these days,
Frederick thought as he watched her legs, trussed up in tight, shiny hose, getting closer. The legs looked like sausages about to burst.

“I've forgotten which you told me was better. Tomato sauce or tomato puree?” Mrs. Paroni held out two cans for his inspection. Her face was flushed. He could hear the breath rolling around in her chest, little growls almost, her heart a tired conductor shoveling coal into the furnace. The woman needed to give up fatty foods.

“Actually, Mrs. Paroni,” Frederick said patiently, “they're made by essentially the same process. You can interchange them in your recipes without tasting the difference.”

“But there
was
something you said I should watch for,” Mrs. Paroni insisted. She dropped her hands helplessly to her sides, a can in each.

“It's the cans themselves,” said Frederick. He suppressed one of his trademark sighs. “Some are welded, some are soldered with lead. Remember I showed you how to peel the paper back a little so you can see the difference?”

“I'm supposed to get the welded ones, aren't I?” Mrs. Paroni said. “Maybe if I was Italian, I'd remember.”

“Whether you're Italian or not,” Frederick said, “you shouldn't ingest any lead.”

“My second husband is Italian, you know, but I'm not. I'm not even part Italian. My ancestors were…” She paused, as if trying to remember.

“Lebanese,” Frederick said. He'd heard the limbs of Mrs. Paroni's ancestral tree rattled so many times that he felt as if he knew the whole goddamn family.

“According to my mother-in-law, I can't make spaghetti sauce,” Mrs. Paroni said.

“I know,” said Frederick. If she didn't get the hell out of his face, he'd be in the supermarket all day.

“But if my first husband, Samuel, were still alive, he'd tell you that I make the best goddamn mahshi you ever ate!” Mrs. Paroni lifted herself up on her dachshund legs to announce this. Why did old ladies like to swear in his presence? And they did it in such flirting tones. “The secret is in the spice,” she added, and winked.

He nodded good-bye and wheeled away. How many years had poor Samuel listened to that jabber? Frederick had no doubt that Sam was sitting up in heaven, praying that his ears would heal.

By the time Frederick made it to the checkout counter, he had advised Laurel Robinson which apple juice had fared best in the latest tests for residue of the chemical Alar. He had also paused to mention that
Consumer
Reports
rated Orville Redenbacher's Original Gourmet Popping Corn seventh in its ability to shear off more easily with each chew, thus not compressing excessively into the teeth.

In line behind him at the checkout was Doris Bowen, fresh from the latest Palm Beach trip, teeth sparkling white against her tanned skin. She was at her coquettish best, bending over to hoist up the twelve-pack of Coors from the bottom rack of her cart, her white breasts spilling from the cups of her bra. She had the kind of dyed blond hair that never looks as unnatural as the waitress-blond one sees at truck stops. It was as if money could make everything look real, if you only had enough of it. And Doris Bowen was certainly rich, or at least her husband was. Frederick had heard her refer often to “power people” and social gatherings at “George and Barbara's in Kennebunkport,” a place Chandra intended to picket. It all had something to do with automatic rifles and the NRA. Frederick assumed that Doris Bowen could afford to send the housekeeper shopping. That she didn't suggested boredom to him. After all, what can one do until the enchanting cocktail hour?

“Hello, Frederick,” Doris said, the white teeth moving like ghosts behind her red lips. “Don't you have a lecture for me about the bacon?” Frederick looked at the slab of Hormel bacon which Doris held up so seductively that it could have been a dirty magazine.

“Lecture?” Frederick asked. He hoped the way in which he was canting his head, what Chandra called “birdlike,” was just casual enough to be flirtatious. He didn't know what it was about Doris Bowen in her white shorts and little tops, her white summer dresses, her white slacks and sweaters, her white boots and sandals, but it was something. White had come to signal the rich, just as purple had once been worn by only royalty.

“What lecture did you have in mind?” Frederick asked coyly. He imagined Chandra behind a one-way glass, watching him like some kind of high school principal. She'd have a good laugh, wouldn't she?

“You know,” Doris said. “The lecture I heard you give Mrs. Paroni one day last month about bacon.” Frederick frowned. He hoped it wasn't too much, coupled with the canting of his head. He might come off to Doris Bowen as having Bell's palsy rather than a sexy aloofness. But he had been unable to suppress the thought of Chandra swooping in, waving a brochure on factory farming, one that had pictures of the sows chained to cement slabs, unable to move, eighty million of them yearly. Damn Chandra and her pictures, which
were
worth a million words. Frederick hadn't been able to enjoy pork for years, had nearly wept one morning at breakfast when he realized that he must bid good-bye to sausage patties forever. What would Doris Bowen say about that?

“Didn't you warn dear little Mrs. Paroni about the perils of eating bacon?” Doris arched one of her golden eyebrows, the eyebrows of the rich, which seem to curve naturally into a bored
What
next?
question.