said Ray. “I don’t want to be underfoot while she’s getting dressed.”
I wasn’t worried about my mother, who could be gracious in any tragedy. But I needed to take her aside and explain that the rough-hewn man in the red car was a mere acquaintance and—not that she’d ever entertain such thoughts on a day like today—wholly unsuited to any other role. And the Swarthmore sticker on the back windshield? Not applicable; a relic from the previous owner.
“Mind if I run in and use the toilet?” Ray asked.
I said okay. There was a powder room just inside the front door.
“Thirty seconds, and that includes the hand-washing,” he promised.
He took his gray pin-striped jacket from its hanger, put it on, tugged at his cuffs, smoothed his silver tie against his sternum. “Not bad, huh?” he asked.
Already on my way up the stone walk, I didn’t look back. I opened the front door and called, “Anyone home?”
Ray was right behind me. “Wow. Nice place.”
There was a party-sized coatrack in the foyer, bearing so many wooden hangers that I stopped to ponder the scope of the after-funeral fête. I pointed to the half-bath and Ray darted toward it.
My father appeared at the top of the stairs in a black velour bathrobe and hospital-blue terry-cloth slippers. When he reached the bottom step I gave him a hug that was slightly longer than our semiannual perfunctory squeeze.
“You okay?” he asked.
I said I was, of course, sad, but still, when one saw as much untimely and sudden death as I did, then it’s hard to view ninety-four as—
“We were able to get Frederick on practically no notice at all,” announced my father. “I mean, we only wanted tea sandwiches and a few salads, but he was Johnny-on-the-spot.”
Ray emerged from the bathroom in the promised thirty seconds, his right hand outstretched. “Ray Russo,” he said, “a.k.a. the transportation.”
“We left at six,” I said.
“Luckily I make my own hours,” said Ray.
My father smiled uncertainly.
“First-Prize Fudge,” said Ray.
“Fudge?” I said.
“Mostly to seasonal concessionaires. I have a box for Mrs. Thrift in my car, if you think that’s not a frivolous gift at a time like this.”
My father turned toward the stairway and yelled, “Joyce! Alice is here! And a young man.”
Within seconds my six-foot mother was descending, buttoning a black dress with chiffon kimono sleeves. She forgot, in her role switch from grieving daughter to hostess, to kiss me. We weren’t much for public or private displays of affection anyway, but I patted her back and checked her fastenings. “You missed a few buttons,” I whispered.
I could tell from the way her vertebrae were aligned that she was greeting Ray bravely, ambitiously. “I’m Joyce Thrift,” she said. “And you are …?”
“Ray Russo,” Ray and I pronounced in unison.
“Are you a colleague of Alice’s?” Her glance dropped to his feet and to shoes that were too pointy for a man in medicine.
“He drove me,” I said.
Ray bowed his head and took two obsequious steps backward. “I think it’s best if I wait in the car so as to give you your privacy,” he said.
“Absolutely not! Alice? Take Mr. Russo into the kitchen and see what goodies Frederick is willing to part with.”
I said, “Mom—Mr. Russo actually drove me as a favor. He wouldn’t even let me pay for the gas.”
When she looked to each of us for clarification, my father added, “She means this gentleman is not a car service. Mr.…”
“Russo,” I supplied.
“Mr. Russo is in sales,” said my father.
“Which reminds me,” said Ray. He made it to the door in three long strides and was back in twenty seconds—time that passed in silence among the Thrifts—holding a gift-wrapped box that could have housed a VCR.
“Milk chocolate marshmallow, Black Forest, and penuche,” said Ray. “No nuts, just in case anyone’s allergic.”
“Fudge,” said my mother. “I’ll be taking great comfort in this over the next few weeks.”
“Or maybe,” Ray said with a nudge to her elbow, “once you taste it, over the next few days.”
My mother handed me the box. “Tell Frederick … I don’t know: the blue Wedgwood platter?”
“This size comes with its own serving tray,” said Ray.
My mother looked down and blinked at her stockinged feet. “I should finish dressing,” she murmured.
My father turned her toward the steps. “She’s barely slept since we got the news,” he said.
“Maybe Alice could write me a prescription for something.”
I understood that this was my mother putting an MD at the end of my name. “You know I can’t write prescriptions yet,” I said. “Let alone in New Jersey.”
“She doesn’t need any sedatives,” said my father. “She’s exhausted. She just needs this day to be over.”
“Warm milk works for me,” said Ray. He winked. “Especially with a shot of brandy in it.”
“Let me give this to Frederick,” I said. “It weighs a ton.”
“There’s five pounds in there,” said Ray. “Which means more than a quarter pound of Grade A sweet creamery butter and at least a quart of evaporated milk. We list the ingredients on our Web site.”
“Perhaps I will lie down,” my mother said.
“You have a beautiful home,” said Ray, crossing the foyer to inspect a bronze death mask, reputed to be of Pocahontas.
“Of course you’ll come to the funeral, Ray,” my mother said.
He said, his back to us in connoisseurship, that he didn’t want to intrude.
It was then that I saw a glance pass between my parents, and I realized that the invitation was not hospitality but fear that a purveyor of carnival fudge might, if left alone, pillage the mourners’ residence. “We insist,” she said.
“Whatever feels right to you,” said Ray, now studying one of my mother’s canvases. “I can stay here or I can slip into a pew that’s a good distance from the immediate family. That way, no one is going to ask, ‘Who’s the guy?’”
