This Must Be the Place: A Novel (33 page)

God, she thought; what if David Danger reared his head again? Amy (via Arthur) proved it was possible. Best not to think about it; best to concentrate on what was in front of her: Carrie’s cake. Oneida. And Arthur.

She must have given up hope a little, she realized—only because her desire for the interloper in her life, once admitted to herself, was so irrationally virulent. But she wanted Arthur and she loved it. Whenever she saw him, or felt him near her, or made him laugh, she had to swallow giggles. She’d forgotten how wonderful this felt: how exciting, how childish and thrilling.

“Why are you grinning like that?” he asked.

“Because it’s wedding day!” Mona said, which was true but not why
she was smiling. It was Saturday morning. They were driving to Syracuse in the pouring rain to deliver Carrie’s cake.

“Are you sure the cake’s safe?” He kept glancing in the back of her station wagon, where she had removed the seats to make room for a plywood base and cake brace.

“Yes, I’m sure it’s safe. Safe as houses.”

“Why do they say that?”

“Because houses are safe.”

“Compared to what?”

“Guns. Knives. Matches.”

Arthur turned to look back again.

“Would you relax?” she said.

“I can’t. It’s like this giant baby made of sugar. It’s too quiet. I have to check on it to make sure it’s still OK.”

“God help you if you ever have human children.” Mona bit her lip. She shouldn’t have said that; she just . . . shouldn’t have. Arthur stared ahead at the straight gray road disappearing beneath them.

Mona’s tongue felt clumsier every day, ever since that horrible conversation with Oneida about the boy at school, a conversation that had rendered her daughter effectively mute. Oneida didn’t say hello when she came home in the afternoon, she did all her homework in her bedroom with the door shut—and locked; Mona had tried the knob—and ate dinner and breakfast in complete silence. Everyone at the Darby-Jones had noticed. Even Sherman, normally as sensitive as an old boot, asked Mona if her daughter was having trouble in school and, if so, was there anything she wanted him to keep an eye out for?

“I know things. I see things,” he said, bristling his mustache. “These kids today are such boneheads. It’s not hard to figure out what’s really going on.”

She was touched (and a little weirded out) by the offer, but declined. Spying on her daughter—she hoped it didn’t come to that.

“I’m sorry,” she said to Arthur. “That was thoughtless.”

Arthur stared straight ahead. His voice was flat when he spoke.

“We didn’t talk about kids, Amy and I,” he said. “We should have before we got married, but I guess it turned out not to matter. She already
had kids, anyway. Before she ever met me.” Arthur looked out his window. “They were covered in fur and teeth and scales, and that’s the way she loved them.”

Mona chewed her lip.

“Kids,” Arthur said, “always felt like something that would never happen to me.”

“Tell me about it,” Mona said, and they both laughed. She flicked on her windshield wipers to clear a few drops of rain.

“So where are we going?” Arthur asked.

“Landmark Hotel. Look in my bag.” Mona jerked her head toward the well at his feet. “Big white envelope. When I accepted this job she handed me a bound, precisely detailed itinerary of who she needs to meet with and when, so that she personally inspects every single moving part of her wedding day
on
her wedding day. She gave me this a year ago. I shit you not.”

Arthur flipped through the binder. The plastic slip-sheeted pages made a soft rustling sound that reminded Mona of high school, of research projects and science labs. Carrie was the kind of girl who thought no problem was so messy it couldn’t be solved with the judicious application of Contact paper.

“There we are,” he said, pointing at a line of text. “
10:45: Meet with representative of baking company to confirm receipt and approval of cake
, right between
10:40: Confirm via cell phone that caterers are en route
and
10:55: Inspect reception hall for appropriate placement of flowers relative to tables, chairs, serving stations, DJ booth, gift table, and wall sconces
.” He looked up. “Does she bring her own director’s chair to the set?”

“Oh, she’s definitely nuts. But a very organized and effective nuts—which means she’s actually quite calm.”

Thirty minutes later, when Arthur and Mona arrived at the once grand but now gothic and shabbily chic Landmark Hotel, Carrie Waters-soon-to-be-Kessler was many things.

Calm was not one of them.

Carrie was barely five feet tall with long black hair and a turned-up nose she had probably spent her entire life living down. She undercut
her inherent adorableness with a borderline-obsessive, no-bullshit demeanor, and had endeared herself to Mona forever with her very first e-mail.
Ms. Mona Jones,
it said.

I’m getting married in October of next year. WhiteWeddingBakingCompany.com is the only website I have visited that did not have an embedded sound file playing “Here Comes the Bride” or some hideous clip-art of two doves drinking champagne. Let’s talk about cake.

She drove a converted hearse (she came from a family of funeral home owners) and brought both her fiancé and her basset hound to their first meeting. But on the morning of her meticulously thought-out and preplanned wedding, Carrie Waters was sitting on the dais at the edge of the grand ballroom’s dance floor in nothing but a sports bra and sweatpants, drinking a 40 of Miller High Life.

Mona knocked on the ballroom door even though she could see Carrie quite clearly, nursing her giant bottle of beer, which looked even bigger in her tiny hands. Her hair had already been done up in a high, heavy bun that tipped her head back thirty degrees. “Carrie?” Mona called. “Your cake has arrived.”

“Fantastic!” Carrie shouted. She set the bottle down with a clunk. “Now if only the flowers and the photographer and my grandmother from Des Moines would get here, life would be
peaches.
”

The heavily gilded ballroom was fully decorated, with swags of goldenrod and blood orange across the head table, maple leaf and acorn centerpieces dotting the rest. She hadn’t realized Carrie was going to go with an autumnal theme; it made the daisies on her cake seem out of season. Maybe that was the point. “I’m curious, Carrie—why daisies?” she said. “And where do you want them?”

“Mortician humor. As in, we’re all pushing them up. Eventually. But you can push
those
daisies over to the right of the buffet table.”

“Did you say the photographer’s not here?” Arthur stepped past her.

Carrie raised her head. “And you are?” she asked.

Arthur tugged on his black White Wedding Baking Company T-shirt. “Arthur. I belong, don’t worry,” he said.

“He’s my assistant,” Mona said. She rolled the cake forward on the room service cart the hotel had lent her. “I’ve gone big-time. Is here good, Carrie?” She had a strong, strong instinct for flight on this one, for many reasons: just because there weren’t tears yet didn’t mean there wouldn’t be soon. Beer before noon was never a good sign, especially when one’s wedding service was scheduled for twelve-thirty.

And there was also the element of location; she had delivered many cakes to the Landmark Hotel and every time it made her uncomfortable. The hotel was built in the early twentieth century and retained much of its original ornamentation; it was a registered historical landmark, and while Mona could appreciate the art deco details, the rich red woods and gold leaf, there were far too many ghosts lurking on the edge of her vision: of the hundreds of thousands of people who’d worked and slept and cried and danced here.

She was one of those ghosts. So was Amy.

Six months before they ran away to Ocean City, in December of their sophomore year, the Ruby Falls High winter semiformal was held at the Landmark Hotel. Mona made Amy come with her because she wanted to go and nobody had asked her, and a lot of people were going with their friends without dates. And Amy, miraculously, said
Sure, why not
? Every time she came back to the Landmark, she had to train her brain to keep quiet, not to think or remember too vividly, lest she lose herself: when she walked into the lobby, and into the ballroom, and back and forth across the majestically threadbare carpets, Mona couldn’t help but imagine the myriad other directions her life might have taken, had she and Amy not come to the dance that night. Her memories were thicker than cold fog, in stereo and Technicolor; her other futures hid in the shadows, the ghosts of lives she hadn’t lived.

Carrie Waters stood and walked to Arthur, holding out her hand for him to shake.

“Carrie,” she said. “Pleased to meet you. And yes, I am drinking very cheap beer, very early on my wedding day. And I have forbidden anyone to come talk to me because the flowers are going to be late and my Nonna is stuck at motherfucking O’Hare and the photographer actually had the stones to call me this morning—
this morning
—and tell me he couldn’t make it and his normal pinch hitter is already booked. The
one thing I didn’t think to plan for. No backup for my photographer.
No backup
.” She shook her tiny fist at the sky.

Mona spun the cake to face her. “But you have daisies!” she said.

Carrie closed her eyes and sighed. “It’s lovely, Mona,” she said. “It’s the one thing that’s perfect today. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Mona said, and thought,
So that means you can pay me. Anytime!
She clasped her hands and grinned at Arthur, who appeared deep in thought. She should have discussed exit strategies with him in the car; she should have explained that cakes were to be dropped off and bakers were to flee before the chaos. She rolled her eyes toward the door.

Arthur shook his head.

What do you mean, no?
she mouthed.

“I think I can help,” he said. “I’m a photographer.”

Carrie, who’d been staring dreamily at the cake, choked. “Get
out
,” she said.

“My cameras are in the car. I brought them thinking I might—or rather,
you
might—let me take some pictures for my portfolio. And now that your other photographer has left you in the lurch—”

“Mona.” Carrie handed her the beer. “Could you take this please?”

“Sure,” Mona said, stunned numb. The nagging urge to leave, to leave quickly, stilled long enough for her to pay full attention to what was going on. What the hell did Arthur think he was doing? This wasn’t his responsibility, this wasn’t his—job. Though Carrie would probably pay him for it—but why would he—were people really this thoughtful? Was
Arthur
this thoughtful?

“I’m sorry I don’t have my portfolio or anything, but I’ve shot a few weddings for family members. I have my digital, but I also have my old school camera with film, too, which I think takes nicer pictures, frankly—whatever you’re comfortable paying me, even if it’s just dinner. Or cake.” Arthur was rambling.

Mona’s heart flickered in her chest, as if warmer than it had been a moment ago. Arthur was good. Arthur was decent. Arthur wanted to help. This was what Amy must have seen in him and loved; she was happy that Amy had had someone like this in her life, someone kind, if only for a while.

Carrie, beaming, stood before a towering Arthur with her tiny hands on her tiny hips. She crooked her finger. “Come closer,” she said. “Bring it down to earth, Bird.”

Arthur laughed awkwardly. Then he bent forward, arms out for what Mona assumed would be a grateful hug.

But it wasn’t. Carrie shot up on her toes and plastered her mouth over Arthur’s and kissed him so deeply that Mona felt a rush of heat ten feet away. The rush was quickly followed by a surge of jealousy that nearly knocked her off her feet—because Arthur kissed her back. Only a little, once he’d apparently gotten over the shock—and here Mona wondered if he felt it was only polite—but his chin tipped down as she pulled away like he wasn’t ready for her to go.

“Name your price,” Carrie said, and wobbled to the exit. “I’ve got a dress to pour myself into. I’ll send a bridesmaid when I’m ready for my close-up.”

The ballroom door swung shut behind her. Arthur and Mona, alone, saw one another for what felt like the first time. Mona couldn’t imagine what she looked like to him, only knew that her eyes were wide and she still clutched a giant bottle of High Life in one hand. Arthur was bright pink, his hair, usually parted and pushed back, was mussed across his forehead. She saw panic and pleasure on his face. She was even more aware of his body than she had been during her tenure as Florence Nightingale—painfully aware of the shattered chest beneath his shirt. The soft curve of his jaw arcing up toward his ears, which were a little big and stuck out; the sloping bulb of his nose and the leonine trough leading to his lips, now parted for breath. She wondered if it was tasteless to want him. She decided she didn’t care. Amy wouldn’t have cared, she told herself. If Mona were the dead one, Amy wouldn’t have given it a second thought.

But I’m not Amy.

Mona tipped the bottle straight up against her lips and polished it off in one long, violent gulp.

15
Junk