Nutty As a Fruitcake (3 page)

“That's too bad,” Judith said, her usual sympathy at a low ebb. “Thanks, George. I'll see you later.” She reached for the doorknob.

“Uh…” George was running the tap water. “Last year you…ah…brought over some really wonderful little cookies. And candy. I was…um…wondering if…well, Enid can't eat sweets as a rule, but…er…”

Taking in the pitiful old face, Judith smiled. “Of course. I usually make spritz cookies and fudge about two weeks before Christmas. My mother does her divinity and penuche about that time, too. We'll be sure to see that you get some, okay?”

George returned the smile, his tired gray eyes lighting up behind the thick glasses. “That's very kind of you, Judith. And your mother, too. Thank you. At year's end, I still help with the meat packing company's books. They get so busy, you see. It's nice to have a little something to nibble on when you're working into the wee hours. It's not just an indulgence—it's good for me, when my ulcers act up.” George glanced away, as if embarrassed by his frailty as well as his industriousness. He probably was unsettled, Judith thought, no doubt because Enid resented any attention being expended on anyone but her. “And…uh…” he went on, nervously looking at Judith once more, “I'm sorry we couldn't be more…helpful.”

So am I
, Judith thought, but she bit back the words. George had enough problems without hearing a neighbor's sarcasm. “That's okay. Take care.” She closed the door quietly.

Coming out of the driveway, she noticed the pickup truck on the other side of the through street. It hadn't been parked there over the Thanksgiving holiday. Judith had never seen it until that afternoon, when Renie had pointed it out. Mentally, she shrugged. It wasn't her problem, as long as whoever owned it didn't park in the already crowded cul-de-sac.

Instead of going directly into her house, Judith stopped off at the converted toolshed behind the garage. It took eight knocks before her mother appeared. Gertrude Grover leaned
on her walker and exhaled a cloud of blue smoke.

“When's supper?” she demanded.

For once, Judith ignored the question. “Mother, have you ever wanted to kill Enid Goodrich?”

“Sure,” Gertrude replied cheerfully, puffing away at her cigarette. “A couple of years ago, after she threw a bucket of water on Sweetums, I had it out with the old bat. I warned her that if she ever did that again I'd stick her big fat head in a pot of sauerkraut and wienies and hold her down until she yelled ‘
Heil
, Gertrude.' How come you ask?”

Having managed to sidestep both Gertrude and her walker, Judith flopped onto the sofa. “She's probably the most disagreeable woman I've ever met. How has poor George put up with her all these years?”

“George!” Gertrude's raspy voice was full of derision. Shaking her head, she clumped over to sit beside her daughter. “Now there's a poor excuse for a man. No spine. The worst thing that ever happened to him—besides marrying Enid, I mean—was retirement. George Goodrich worked for over forty years as a bookkeeper at that meat packing place out past the railroad depot. He didn't quit until he was forced to, when he turned seventy. Then he had to stick around the house, waiting on that wife of his hand and foot. What a sap.”

Briefly, Judith reflected on the Life and Times of George Goodrich. It was easy for her mother to criticize a much put-upon spouse. Judith's father, Donald Grover, had been a softspoken intellectual who had rarely raised his voice in anger. He had been a loving husband and a doting father. Gertrude had had it all, which was what made it so difficult for her to go on without Donald for over thirty years. It was also, Judith knew, what made Gertrude so difficult.

But Judith had lived with Dan McMonigle for eighteen years. She understood how one partner could be forced to endure the relentless unpleasantness of the other. There was the basic commitment, which she—and apparently George—did not take lightly. There was also love, or something like it, that no one else could possibly comprehend. Then there were children and habit and ultimately, fear: fear of change, fear of
the future, fear of how the rejected spouse might retaliate. Judith recognized all those emotions, though now, almost eight years after Dan's death, musing on them was like unwrapping ugly, little-used Christmas decorations that had been shoved to the back of the cupboard.

“You never know,” Gertrude was saying as she stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray someone had swiped for her from Harold's Club in Reno, “what really goes on with other folks. Most of 'em are just plain nuts. Or dumb as a bag of dirt.”

“I don't think George is dumb,” Judith replied a bit vaguely. “Enid, maybe.” But her mother was right. You could never be sure about other people's needs and desires. Years ago, Uncle Cliff had given Judith and Renie some sage advice: When the neighbors shut the door, remember what side you're standing on. Nobody can see through wood or into the human heart. Judith wondered if Uncle Cliff had been talking about the Goodriches even then.

“Their kids come by often,” Judith pointed out. “At least Art does. I see his car parked out in front of the house a couple of times a week.”

Gertrude pulled at the sleeve of her baggy cardigan. “Say, kiddo, have you put a meter on the heat in this dump I call home? I'm freezing my nummies off in this place. We had frost as thick as your husband's head last night.”

Since Judith felt as if she were in a sauna, she started to protest. It would do no good, however. It never did. Even in the summer, Gertrude complained of being cold.

“Maybe we could get you a space heater,” Judith suggested. “If you promise not to set the place on fire.”

Gertrude turned to glare at her daughter. “What do you think I am? Daffy?” Before Judith could offer a denial—or agreement—Gertrude continued speaking: “Art Goodrich is a fine boy. He takes care of his parents. Why, he even dropped in to see this poor old coot a couple of weeks ago. Or did I tell you that already?” Gertrude's small, wizened face puckered with genuine puzzlement. Of late, her memory sometimes failed her.

“I think you mentioned it,” Judith answered tactfully. “He'd lost his job at the Boring Airplane Company.”

“Right.” Gertrude brightened, obviously relieved to have recalled the incident. “He'd worked there for almost twenty years, but the company's had a lot of those whatdoyacallits—cutbacks or something. He's only fifty-seven, so he figures he'd better get another job until he can collect Social Security.”

“Poor Art.” Judith's voice was full of sympathy. She remembered him as a blond, good-natured kid who was just enough older to be the natural leader of the other children in the cul-de-sac. But Art had deferred the honor to Louis “Knuckles” Nordhoff, who was a year younger, but much tougher, and who had grown up in the house now occupied by the Rankerses. Art, as Judith recalled, had never been ambitious. He and his wife, JoAnne, were the parents of the grandsons Joe had seen visiting Enid and George.

Rising from the couch, Judith patted her mother's shoulder. “I'd better check on dinner. I'll bring it over in a bit.”

“A bit?” Gertrude bristled. “It's almost five now. Why do you and lardhead have to eat supper so late? Last night it was almost six-thirty!”

There was no point in arguing. Not about “supper,” not about the temperature of the converted toolshed, not about Joe, not about
anything
. Nor did Judith want to quarrel with her mother. There were worse things than being set in one's ways. That came not only out of habit but from a desire to retain what little independence was left at Gertrude's advanced age. Judith gave her mother a feeble, if fond, smile. There were worse things than Gertrude.

Such as Enid Goodrich.

J
OE'S CIGAR DIDN'T
quite quench the aroma of coffee cake, fresh from the oven. Judith watched with pleasure as her guests wolfed down the warm streusel-topped slices and, in between, munched on ginger cookies. As ever, she felt a sense of satisfaction in making other people happy. The years with Dan had been an exercise in futility: She could cook and bake and roast and fry until she was exhausted, but Dan was never satiated. The hole inside her first husband had been of his own making, and nothing could fill it.

“Okay,” said Naomi Stein, brushing a few crumbs off her chic charcoal slacks, “we'll pretend we've got Hannukah lights.”

Hamish Stein, who owned two picture-framing shops, was known as “Ham” to friends and neighbors. “Why not?” he chuckled. “We've always pretended to have a Hannukah bush. Any color preference for the lights?”

Judith smiled at the Steins. “To each his—or her—own. I just want the cul-de-sac to look festive.”

Miko Swanson sat very straight in one of the beige-and-blue side chairs. She was a tiny woman of about seventy whose beautiful skin was virtually unlined. Judith suspected, however, that the black hair was courtesy of Chez Steve's salon.

“I think I'd like those very small white lights. What are they called?” Her carefully tended eyebrows arched. “Fairy lights?”

“That's right,” Jeanne Ericson said, her dark blond page boy flipping on her shoulders as she turned to look at Mrs. Swanson. “Maybe we can do something with music. You know, Christmas tapes.” She gazed questioningly at her husband.

Ted Ericson looked thoughtful. “Sure,” he said at last in his usual careful manner. “We could get some of those choirboy statues that light up.”

“Dickens carolers,” his wife put in. “I like them better. The choirboys always look sort of dim.”

Everyone laughed. Judith got up to pour more coffee and tea. Joe passed the cookie plate around. The mood was congenial, though it was clear from the start that some of the neighbors hadn't exchanged more than casual greetings in quite a while.

The thought was expressed aloud by Rochelle Porter, a big, hearty woman with closely cropped gray hair. “You know, it's just a crime the way we all hole up in our houses and never really visit with each other. What's the matter with us these days? Are we afraid? Has city life turned us into people-haters?”

“Yes.” It was Mrs. Swanson, nodding sadly. “We watch TV and read the newspapers and fear leaving our own property. Even behind locked doors, we are afraid. No one is safe. Every day, you hear about a new violation.”

The group grew suddenly solemn. Mrs. Swanson lowered her eyes, seemingly embarrassed by her candor. Arlene Rankers broke the uneasy silence.

“Underwear,” she said in a clear, firm voice. The others turned to stare. “Don't you remember? The Underwear Thief. That's where it all started in this neighborhood. It was 1973. He was deranged.”

Among the guests, only Mrs. Swanson and the Rankerses had resided in the cul-de-sac twenty years ago. Judith, Dan, and Mike were living in one of a series of dilapidated rentals
south of the city. But Gertrude had complained loudly about the so-called underwear thief, even though she had not been a victim.

“So he doesn't want my bloomers,” Gertrude had said two decades earlier. “What if I sew some lace on 'em? Talk about a fancy pants!”

The miscreant had never been caught, though it was rumored to be the somewhat fey teenaged son of the family who lived on the property now occupied by the Ericsons. Vaguely, Judith recalled that the young man eventually had become headmaster of an all-boys prep school in the East. With women's underwear hard to find in such surroundings, Judith paled at the former neighbor lad's possible derelictions in later years.

“It was terrible,” Arlene went on, one hand at her breast. “We lived in constant fear. We put dead bolts on the doors. We got a watchdog, Farky. We were afraid to go to sleep at night. All I could think of was,
What if some crazy pervert wants my underpants?
”

“You left them out on the back porch.” Carl Rankers's expression was droll. “We always had a dead bolt on the front door, but you never remember to lock the back at all. And the only stranger Farky ever chased was my brother from North Dakota.”

“Exactly!” Arlene nodded her red-gold curls with zest. “That's what I was saying, it was a tempest in a teapot. We worry about so many things that never happen. You have to trust in the good Lord to keep you safe and let him worry about your underpants.”

The statement was vintage Arlene, exhibiting both her good heart and her contradictory nature. Judith suppressed a smile but noted that the mood had once again lightened. Sitting on two of the dining room chairs, Rochelle and Gabe Porter had their heads together, conferring about their participation in the neighborhood decorations.

“We'd like to go with something on the roof,” Gabe said, turning to the rest of the gathering. He was a big, dark-skinned man with glasses and a slim, trim mustache who worked as a manager for a produce wholesaler. “How about cutouts of
Santa and his reindeer? My folks used to do that, and they gave us the stuff when they moved into the retirement home. I think it's in the garage.”

“Probably,” Arlene said with her customary candor. “Your cars certainly aren't parked there. You've got them all over the street. Why don't you decorate the hoods?”

Fortunately, everyone laughed, especially Gabe Porter. The family owned four vehicles, including two beaters that consumed Gabe's attention on weekends. When the Porters' college-age daughter was home and their two married children visited, it was difficult for Judith's guests to find parking places in the cul-de-sac. The five younger Rankerses also owned their share of rolling stock. But of course Judith would never complain: Hillside Manor's clientele was also an imposition on the neighbors.

“I may have to scrub and paint the figures,” Gabe was saying, in reference to Santa and his reindeer. “We'll string some lights on the house, too.”

Rochelle nodded. “All the colors. For Santa.”

Naomi Stein snapped her fingers. “I've got it! We'll do blue and white. That suits Hannukah better than green and red and orange.”

Carl was watching Arlene expectantly. She sat deep in thought, with a hand under her chin. “I'd like to put the Holy Family in the front yard. We'll get one of those sets with everybody—the shepherds, the angels, the Wise Men, the carpet cleaners.”

Mrs. Swanson's fine eyebrows arched again. “Excuse me—perhaps I don't understand all the Christmas customs even after so many years in America. But who are these carpet cleaners?”

Carl, however, didn't hear Mrs. Swanson. He was now looking at his wife with a mulish expression. “We don't have room for more than Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Where do you think we'll put a bunch of shepherds and camels and the rest of them?”

“We can line up some of them on the front walk,” Arlene declared. “People can come in the back door.”

Carl narrowed his blue eyes. “Why not? It's always open. How about hanging the angels from the cedar tree?”

“That's wonderful!” Arlene beamed at her husband. “The camels could be coming out of the garage.”

Seeing one of the infamous Rankers debates brewing, Judith hastily intervened: “All of you have wonderful ideas. I'm really thrilled that we're going to do this together. Joe and I talked it over at dinner tonight, and we want to put up a miniature lighted New England village. I checked with my cousin who's a designer, and she says we can get the pieces at a local display shop.”

Naomi Stein and Rochelle Porter chorused their approval. Arlene cocked her head to one side. “That's sweet, but what about the lobsters?”

Bewildered, Judith stared. “The lobsters?”

“You could serve them, of course. To your guests.” Arlene's pretty face was very serious. “And the Dooleys—they shouldn't be left out.”

Arlene finally had a point. “They aren't actually in the cul-de-sac,” Judith said. “I thought of asking them, but they face the other street, to the west. If we asked the Dooleys, we'd have to include the rest of the block.”

Hamish Stein gestured with his coffee mug. “I agree. Let's keep it among ourselves. Frankly, we don't know the Dooleys, except by sight.”

The large white Cape Cod inhabited by Corinne and Darren Dooley and their passel of offspring sat behind Hillside Manor and the Rankers' house. The Dooleys were not only over-the-fence neighbors to Judith but fellow SOTS as well. Judith knew her rationale for leaving them out of the decorating scheme was logical, but she didn't want to hurt the family's feelings.

“Never mind the Dooleys,” said Jeanne Ericson, who could see their Cape Cod as well as a corner of Judith's property from her deck. “What about the Goodriches? They
are
part of the cul-de-sac. Is Mrs. G. too ornery to string a few lights outside?”

“Well, no,” Judith began.

“Hell, yes,” said Joe. “The old bat practically threw my wife out the door this afternoon.”

Judith frowned at Joe. “That's an exaggeration. Sort of. But she doesn't seem inclined to take part.”

Jeanne Ericson tossed her head, this time with disdain. “To heck with her. No wonder the kids in this neighborhood call her Mrs. Badbitch. She's always carping about the driveway we share with them. Or else our trees are growing over into her yard. But the point is,” Jeanne went on with her usual ability to keep a discussion on course, “there are only seven houses in the cul-de-sac. It's going to look odd if one of them is dark. I say we volunteer to decorate for the Goodriches. It doesn't have to be anything fancy—maybe some of those Mexican lights—you know, paper bags with candles and sand inside.”

Judith was looking dubious. “Well—George wouldn't mind, but Enid…”

“Jeanne's right,” Ham interjected. “The Goodrich house will stand out like a sore thumb. People who come to see the decorations will wonder what's going on in the neighborhood. We could get something unobtrusive, like a star or a snowman.”

“What about a sign?” Ted Ericson suggested in his quiet manner. “A hand-lettered banner with a happy holidays wish or some similar greeting. I could ask one of our draftsmen at work to do it.” Ted's narrow, intelligent face regarded Judith questioningly. “Would the Goodriches object to that? It wouldn't require any work or expense on their part. We could use a simple spotlight.”

“George wouldn't object,” Judith answered slowly. “But Enid—well, she's kind of crabby.”

Arlene threw up her hands. “Kind of! When our five kids were little, there was no end to her complaints. ‘Your children tore up my tulips!' ‘Your children threw a ball through my window!' ‘Your children set fire to my garage!' ‘Your children put one of the Dooleys down my chimney!' So what, I'd tell her—at least we know where they are.” Arlene's entire body shuddered with rekindled indignation.

Rochelle Porter rocked back and forth on the dining room chair. “Oh, tell me about it! She was always yelling at our three kids, sometimes just for walking by her house. The woman's a bigot. She actually called our Martin a
pickaninny
! Luckily, he didn't know what she was talking about.”

“Neither did Mrs. Goodrich,” Naomi Stein snapped. “You should hear what she called our son, Ben. He was only six the first time, and he came home crying his eyes out. Ben had never realized before that being Jewish meant being different.”

“Mrs. Goodrich has never liked me,” Mrs. Swanson said simply. “But Mr. Goodrich, he is very kind. It must be difficult for him to live all these years with such a sour woman.”

There was a pause, as if the entire group were paying homage to George Goodrich's patience. Judith's dark eyes flitted from guest to guest. Which was the most likely delegate? Enid Goodrich had criticized them all at one time or another. Her gaze finally rested on Joe. He had the shortest history in the cul-de-sac. He was a cop. He commanded respect. He was, as far as Judith was concerned, irresistible.

“Joe, could you talk to the Goodriches tomorrow after work?”

Clenching what was left of the cigar between his teeth, Joe grimaced at his wife. “Sure, right after I face off with a serial killer, a sex maniac, and a couple of sociopaths. Mrs. Goodrich might come as a relief. Then again, she might not.”

Judith gave Joe an uncertain smile. He'd grumble, but he'd do it. Surely even Enid Goodrich couldn't resist Joe's charm. Nobody could.

Except Gertrude.

 

Judith had never driven a truck until that last day of November. Her attempt at reversing into the driveway wasn't helped by Renie's confused sense of direction.

“A little more to the left…I mean, right…no, maybe you should come forward first…Look out for the mailman; he's crossing from your place to the Ericsons'…Okay, straight back now…Ooops!”

Judith felt the bumper hit something that she hoped wasn't the mailman. Seeing him approach the Ericsons' wooden gate, she let out a sigh of relief. “What did I hit?” she asked wearily.

“Your mother,” Renie replied, rolling down the window and leaning out. “Hi, Aunt Gertrude. Are you okay?”

“Good God almighty,” Gertrude rasped, reeling behind her walker. “Is that my idiot daughter
driving a truck
? What kind of a niece are you, Serena, to let that moron get behind the wheel of something bigger than my so-called apartment?”

“It belongs to the Rankerses' son, Kevin,” Renie shouted. “We borrowed it to pick up the New England village. He's driving his Beamer today.” Her hand flapped at the white BMW that was parked in front of the Goodrich house. “Are you sure you're okay?”

Gertrude snorted. “I'm fine, but my walker's got the bends. Tell Loonyville to get out of that damned thing before she kills me.”