Staring at the wine bottles in Smiley’s store, I consider giving Pam the lamp as a housewarming gift instead. I’ve already been to all the other sections of Smiley’s General Store, and general covers a lot: groceries, clothing, housewares, hardware and party supplies. Yet I haven’t found a single appropriate thing for tonight.
I might as well go with inappropriate.
The truth is that I don’t really feel like giving her a gift at all, but she’s throwing herself a party.
Maybe bringing alcohol is a good idea. Even though she’ll use it to toast her new life, I get to drink it, too. I suspect I’m going to need it.
So now I switch from trying to figure out what she’d like. Keith hadn’t managed that in twenty-five years, so I’m not going to figure it out in twenty minutes. I concentrate on finding my favorite labels.
Whenever he worked late, Rob would bring home a bottle of Lambrusco to mellow me. I should have realized, it’s probably the sweetest wine available. Despite claiming it was for me, he’d drink most of it.
I’d always ask him, “Is this for me?”
He’d grin and reply, “Yes, I’m going to get you drunk so I can have my way with you.”
I’d laugh and point out that he’d never had to get me drunk for that.
My hand’s shaking as I reach for a bottle of Lambrusco. All this shaking today. Maybe it has nothing to do with the closing or stages, maybe I just had too much caffeine this morning. But then I remember that I drink decaf. Unlike Rob, I don’t cheat on my health.
My fingers miss the bottle; I’m not tall enough, and that irritates me. Claire is already taller than I am. I take after my petite mother in more than widowhood.
Off balance from the reach, I stumble back a few steps. My hip brushes against the display behind me, tumbling some cardboard boxes onto Smiley’s freshly waxed vinyl floor. I spin around to catch more before I cause an avalanche.
Startled, I see what’s in my hands—familiar boxes that I’ve found stashed all over the house and Rob’s office. The bright yellow packaging has a cellophane window in the middle displaying the heavily frosted, buttercream-filled cupcakes in their individual packages. Above the window, a little black kitten sits in the corner of the box, licking frosting from its whiskers. These are Kitty Cupcakes.
More like killer Kitty Cupcakes.
This time the anger rushes in so fast I can’t stop it. It roars in my ears and burns my face. My hands aren’t shaking anymore as I toss the boxes onto the floor.
Kitty’s staring up at me with her green eyes as I lift my foot and smash my heel right through the cellophane window. Frosting and bits of chocolate cake cling to my shoe as I lift it, then slam it down again into another box. I spread my arms, toppling the entire display and standing in the middle of it, jumping up and down as if I’m having one of the tantrums my daughter, Claire, used to throw when she was two.
Words are tumbling from my lips, but I can’t hear them. But they, and my actions, are drawing other shoppers to the end of the aisle.
Even though I can’t hear myself, I catch a little girl’s horrified whisper to her mother: “Mommy, why is that woman killing Kitty?”
The mother covers the child’s eyes as if they’ve stumbled into a strip joint. I’m not naked, but suddenly I feel that way.
The anger ebbs. I move to step away from the pile of crumpled boxes, but my heel slips, either on the waxed floor or the spilled frosting, and I go down.
The small crowd at the end of the aisle murmurs “Ahh!” I try to scramble up, but go down again to their “Ohhs.”
Frosting coats my fingers, and I glance down at the smart little suit I wore to the closing. Brown frosting clings to the black-and-white-houndstooth print like mud kicked up from the tires of a stuck truck.
I’m sure there’s some in my hair, too, since locks of it are sticking to my face. I push it back, forgetting my hands are coated, and leave more frosting across my cheek.
Even though the crowd is quiet, I can hear laughter. Maybe it’s coming from above; Rob would love this. Or maybe it’s bubbling up inside me. Either way, it feels good and I start smiling, probably looking like even more of a lunatic to the spectators gathered like gawkers at a traffic accident.
Someone gets brave enough to approach me, and extend a hand to help me up. I reach for it with my sticky fingers and glance up with an apologetic grimace.
A face similar to mine stares down at me, blue eyes as wide and horrified as those of the little girl who watched me kill Kitty. Emma’s fair skin tinted with the red blush of embarrassment, not for herself.
Before she can do more than get me to my feet, Smiley rushes up, rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the vinyl tiles. White brows lift high above his sharp eyes as he takes in the cupcake massacre. He asks the question burning in my sister’s blue eyes. “What the hell happened here?”
Emma’s faster on her feet than I am at the moment. Must be from dealing with all the teenagers she has, her own and step. “Smiley, don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” She’s already drawing her wallet from her purse.
As Claire has done to me so many times, I tug on Emma’s sleeve, and point to the alcohol wall. “Get a bottle of Lambrusco, too. I couldn’t reach it.”
Then I walk away, head high, frosting-covered heels slipping. The shocked crowd parts as I near the end of the party aisle and walk out of Smiley’s.
STAGE 2
As I shut off the water and step from the shower, I hear voices through the door. “I don’t understand what happened. She’s been doing great.”
This is Pam, completely puzzled by the fact that I might miss my husband. She’s actually having a party over leaving hers. I wince at my cattiness. I’m not being fair. She’s been there for me, offering her love and support in myriad ways. And her opinion.
Pam has an opinion about everything. If I had let her win the suit argument, Rob would be haunting me more than he already does. I can still see her mouth screwed up tightly with disapproval over my choice of Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts for Rob’s funeral garb. I truly believe I saw him smirking at her from the casket, glib with victory in yet another one of their disagreements.
With a steady hand, I wipe the fog from the bathroom mirror and inspect my reflection. My hair is plastered to my head. Wet, it’s dark brown; dry, it’s golden. I push it behind my ears, checking for frosting back there. The ends drip water onto my shoulders and the towel I’ve wrapped around myself.
My suit lies in a corner of the tiny room, balled up in disgrace. I, curiously enough, feel none.
Knuckles brush softly against the other side of the door, its white paint peeling due to moisture in the unvented room.
“Are you okay?” Emma asks, her voice low with concern. The knob turns, and she opens the door, unwilling to wait for or untrusting of my response.
“I’m fine,” I assure her.
