Perfect on Paper (11 page)

The boys, clearly in favor of my suggestion, turned to their mother. Willy Joe’s was a hot dog stand, a local institution in nearby Allentown that all four Burkholders held in the highest regard.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” she replied. “Besides, I can’t imagine they’d be open on Thanksgiving.”

Right then I knew Cal had told me the truth about his wife’s condition. Elinor Ann had always regarded bagels as mysterious, ethnic circles of empty calories, permitting only the Everything variety in her kitchen because, as she put it, “I suppose there must be some whole grains in there
some
where.” In the past, she would have at least made a call to see if Willy’s was open.

The boys reached into the bag, each grabbing bagels with both hands before retreating upstairs. “Save room for turkey!” I called after them.

Elinor Ann laughed. “That bag will be empty by suppertime, and they’ll still have room for turkey. Now, which do you feel like doing?” She held up a colander of peas that needed shelling while simultaneously gesturing toward a row of unskinned potatoes on the sideboard.

“Both,” I said, reaching for the colander.

I knew better than to bring up Scruffy, but he was still very much on my mind.

“Are you crazy?” Elinor Ann said once I’d raised the issue—a question I’d asked myself several times on the bus ride out, with inconclusive results. “What would possess you to flirt with some college kid?”

“He wasn’t
that
young. Maybe mid-twenties.”

“You’re robbing the cradle!”

“Hardly. Besides, I just told you—nothing happened.”

“Yeah, but I have a feeling something
would
have if you’d waited in that bus line another ten minutes.” She paused. “You know, it’s too bad you didn’t get Scruffy’s phone number. He sounds like he’d be perfect for your friend at the gallery—you know, the one who’s seeing the married guy.”

“Lark? No
way
!”

She rolled her eyes. “And this from a woman who claims to have met the perfect boyfriend.”

“But—”

Elinor Ann shook her head slowly from side to side. “I don’t get it, Dana. You’re like some kind of Goldilocks in reverse. Ray Devine was too old. Hank Wheeler—finally—is just right. But along comes this Scruffy person, who sounds much too young for you, and—well, I can only imagine what would happen in New York next week if he’d made it aboard that first Bieber bus.” She picked up her turkey baster in a way that spoke volumes and yanked open the oven door.

I had plenty of time to mull over Elinor Ann’s words when the hazardous combination of turkey, four different kinds of pie, and Creedence Clearwater Revival kept me up half the night.
Was
I suffering from Reverse Goldilocks Syndrome, allowing inappropriate men to waylay me on the search for Mr. Just Right?

Of course I wasn’t. Hadn’t I pulled out my cell phone and called Hank the instant Scruffy had veered into overfamiliarity? And I’d call him again tomorrow. And after that, Elinor Ann and I would get in the car and set off for points unknown, and she’d be magically cured of her agoraphobia. Everything would be fine.

Everything had to be fine. Because Elinor Ann had a husband and children and a farmhouse and a brass factory, and if she didn’t get better, what would become of all that?

I turned on the light and looked at my watch. Swell—three in the morning. Getting out of bed, I went over to the bureau to inspect the photograph sitting on top of it. It was my favorite picture of the two of us, taken on her wedding day, back when we were twenty-five.

“Boy, you know you’re young when you’re laughing so hard you can’t breathe and you still look cute,” Elinor Ann said from over my shoulder, causing me to jump.

“You scared me!”

“I didn’t mean to. But I couldn’t get to sleep, and I saw your light was on. I was wondering if you needed anything.”

“No.”

Just for you to be fine,
I thought but didn’t say.

She picked up the picture and smiled. “Remember how mad that photographer was when we ruined her shot?”

“How could I forget?”

“Tillie Tutweiler,” we said in unison.

Elinor Ann hadn’t realized it at the time, but she’d hired the bossiest, most thorough wedding photographer in the Lehigh Valley for her big day. We were already running more than an hour late when this particular pose had been staged, and my friend was a nervous wreck.

“Okay, Maid of Honor—I need you standing behind the bride, fastening the something-borrowed pearls around her neck.”

Elinor Ann had sighed. “Do we really need to take another picture? There are an awful lot of people waiting downstairs in that chapel.”

“Young lady, this is the most important moment of your entire life! You’ll be glad you took the time when you get to be my age.” Tillie had handed me the strand of pearls, and I’d dutifully shuffled into position.

But just as I’d been about to close the clasp on the necklace, Elinor Ann had let out a faint yet unmistakable grunt of suppressed laughter, and that had been all it took to send the two of us into hysterics.

“Man, was she furious,” I said, remembering Tillie’s malevolent
expression while we stood there howling, frantically dabbing at each other’s eyes so our mascara wouldn’t run.

“At least it got her to finally put down the camera.”

“Until she corralled the bridal party after the ceremony and held up the reception line for forty-five minutes.”

“Oh god—don’t remind me.” Elinor Ann returned the photograph to the bureau and turned to face me. “Dana?”

Uh-oh,
I thought, bracing myself for a well-meaning critique of my recent behavior that was bound to be both annoying and accurate. “Yes?”

“I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but… well, sometimes I look at that picture and I feel like you’re the exact same person now that you were then.”

“So, what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, I guess. As long as you’re happy. But don’t you want—I don’t know—more out of life?”

“Like what?” I said, going into defensive mode so quickly that I completely forgot I was talking to my favorite person on the planet. “A husband and two boys and a mortgage?”

She flinched, and instantly I felt like the biggest asshole in the entire universe. Or the biggest kid, which was apparently what I was destined to be for the rest of my days. “I didn’t mean that,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry.” She smiled, shaking her head, and sat down at the foot of the bed. “You’d think I’d know better than to try to give you advice after all these years.”

“Yeah, you would, wouldn’t you?”

“I just… wish you had someone to share your life with, that’s all.”

“I do. I have you, don’t I?”

We both knew I was being manipulative, but I guess it was late enough and the situation was fraught enough that neither of us cared, because it worked. I scooted next to her, and she hugged me and everything was fine—at least until tomorrow.

“Now, you’re sure there’s nothing I can get you?” she said.

“I’m sure. Although I’d really like a copy of that photograph if you don’t know what to get me for Christmas this year.”

“Of course.” She hugged me again, then got up and waved as she backed out the door.

Way to go, Dana,
I thought to myself.
Elinor Ann’s the one with the problem, and she’s the one counseling you.

As usual.

But maybe tomorrow I could finally prove to her—and to myself—that I’d made some progress since that picture was taken.

Just before I turned off the light, I looked over at the bureau one last time. What could have caused that happy, hopeful bride to become agoraphobic? Motherhood? Aging? Gluten?

And how in the world was I ever going to fix it?

I sighed and flipped over my pillow, wishing an answer would magically present itself in a dream, but knowing better than to expect one.

I rose early the following morning—the better to hoodwink Elinor Ann into expanding her triangle to a square.

“Ready for Adamstown?” I said when I swung open the kitchen door.

She’d beaten me at the game. Pumpkin seeds covered two large baking sheets, and the countertops were obliterated by an ominous number of Tupperware containers. Cal slouched in front of a mug at the kitchen table, the picture of dejection.

“Guess I’ll leave you gals to your hen party,” he muttered as he rose to his feet. “The pickup could sure use an oil change.”

I helped myself to coffee and took his place at the table. “I thought we were going antiquing,” I said. “What’s with all the Tupperware?”

“I had an overnight brainstorm,” Elinor Ann replied, a little too brightly. “I’ve got everything I need right here for turkey potpies. We can
start on the dough as soon as I get those seeds toasting in the oven—I promised the boys I’d make them weeks ago!”

“But—”

“Potpies’ll be a much better dinner than boring old leftovers.” She was bustling around like a mad scientist on bennies.

“Well… I guess we could always go over there later this afternoon.”

I saw her freeze for a moment before responding. “Oh, I really don’t think we’ll have enough time to drive all the way to Adamstown. Maybe next visit.” She turned around to face the counter and began mincing an onion.

All right,
I thought.
This is it.
“Then first thing tomorrow morning we’re going down to Renningers antique market. You can drop me at the bus stop on your way back home.”

The mincing noises stopped, and I watched her shoulders slump. “Well, Dana, the thing is—I don’t think I can manage that.”

I was determined to play dumb for as long as it took to elicit a confession. “Sure you can. It’s—what?—five miles down the road. Not even. You’ll be home in time to make lunch for the boys.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She turned to face me, tears streaming down her face. I sat there, feeling like an utter shit for forcing her to confront her deepest fear—until I realized that the onion was most likely responsible for her tears, and the sooner she conquered agoraphobia, the better.

“I mean, I could definitely make it to Renningers,” she continued. “But the drive back here from the bus stop?” She shook her head slowly from side to side. “Impossible.”

It all came out then: the terror that gripped her every time she backed the car out of the garage, the indefinitely postponed trips to the doctor and the dentist and the post office and the mall.

“I’m fine as long as someone’s with me,” she explained. “And of course now that Angus can drive, he’s always begging to take the wheel. Which has been making things progressively worse since he got his learner’s
permit. The last time I went someplace on my own was… jeez. June. The semiannual plant sale at Home Depot.”

“But—wait a sec. I’m confused. You wouldn’t have been on your own if we’d gone to Willy Joe’s yesterday. There would have been five of us in the car.”

“Oh, that. It wasn’t the driving I was worried about—for once. It was Cal’s triglycerides. The doctor read him the riot act after his physical last week.”

The doorbell interrupted us: UPS with a delivery from Land’s End, just as Cal had presaged the day before. Elinor Ann slit the box open with a knife at the kitchen table. “I’m pathetic,” she said with a sigh, pulling out a half dozen pairs of socks.

“Listen,” I said. “I don’t know how to handle this any better than you, but it seems to me you’re going to have to force yourself into driving alone.”

“I
can’t
!”

“Can’t what?”

We’d had our backs to the door, so neither of us had noticed when the boys entered the kitchen. Now we turned to face dual expressions of fear and concern.

“She can’t make her potpie recipe without onions,” I explained—rather brilliantly on such short notice, I thought. “But just look at her eyes! She’s torturing herself!”

Satisfied, they proceeded to the bread box, removed the remains of last night’s pies, and headed toward the door.

“We’re Wii bowling,” Angus said.

Eddie paused on his way out and returned to the table. “Your potpie’d be just as good without onions, Mom.” He hugged Elinor Ann, and I experienced one of those rare moments when I understood why humans propagate their own species.

“Okay, you’re on,” she said once the boys had raced each other to the
top of the stairs, pounding her fist on the table for emphasis. “I can make it back alone from the bus stop tomorrow. I hope.”

The door to the master bedroom cracked open when I tiptoed to the bathroom at seven the next morning, but it was Cal who poked his head out.

“Where’s Elinor Ann?” I said.

“Shoot, she’s been down in the kitchen since—I dunno, before daybreak. Told me the potpie wasn’t sitting well, but it’s pretty obvious that weren’t it.”

“She admitted as much yesterday.” I told him about our planned excursion to Renningers. “If she can drive herself home—well, at least it’s progress.”

“I’ll say. I sure do appreciate this, Dana.”

“It’s going to be okay.” Briefly I considered giving him a reassuring hug, but we’d never had that kind of relationship. Also, he wasn’t wearing a shirt.

“I sure hope you’re right.”

I sure hope I am, too,
I thought, dragging my overnight bag down the stairs, where I almost tripped over Eddie. He was leaning against the balustrade on the bottom step, semicomatose.
“Fiiiinally,”
he groaned when I took a seat by his side.

“What are you doing up?”

“Saying goodbye. Took you long enough to get ready.”

“It’s my prerogative as a female. We’re entitled to take forever.”

“No kidding.” He paused and glanced toward the kitchen door before saying, “Aunt Dana?”

“Yes?”

“Is Mom… okay?”

“What makes you think she isn’t?”

“Angus and I were up late playing computer games. Really late. Like,
four in the morning. And then right after we turned out the light, I heard her go downstairs.”

“Oh, that. It was nothing. She had indigestion from the potpie.”

“But she always makes potpies. They never make her sick.”

“Well, your dad just told me this one did.”