his danish—half of which he’ll eat with his tea, half with tomorrow’s breakfast—gives a little structure to his day. He creeps along, murmuring, asking questions as if he’s about to decide just how to split up Germany after World War II. I well understand the division of hours. Mr. D.’s alone, too.
As I ring up Mr. D’s meager sale, Corinne picks up the phone and punches a number. “Chris? Hi, honey, how are you? How are you feeling? You okay?” She pauses. “I know. I just thought you might be a little tired. Oh, I’m fine, of course! I’m great. Oh, she’s fine! Wonderful! She’s perfect! She is. I love you, too. So much. You’re a wonderful father, you know that? I love you! Bye! Love you! Call you later!”
As I mentioned, Corinne lives in terror that her seemingly healthy husband is on the brink of death. Growing up, Corinne and I didn’t give much thought to what seemed to be a family curse. Sure, Mom and the aunts were widows…unlucky, sure, but that didn’t have anything to do with us. Still, when I met Jimmy, it crossed my mind that I had the smarts to fall in love with a strapping man, six foot two of burly machismo and low cholesterol (yes, I insisted on a physical when we got our blood tests done). And maybe taking out a hefty life insurance policy on your fiancé isn’t what most brides have on their lists, but it was a move that turned out to be horribly prescient.
Anyway, when Jimmy died, it kind of cemented the idea in Corinne’s brain that she, too, was destined to be widowed young. She managed to marry Christopher, though he had to ask her seven times before she caved. She cooks him low—fat, low—salt food, sits next to their elliptical with a stopwatch every day to make sure he gets his forty—five minutes of cardio and tends to hyperventilate if he orders bacon when they go out for breakfast. She calls him about ten times a day to ensure that he’s still breathing and remind him of her lasting and abiding love. In any other family, Corinne would be gently urged to take medication or see a counselor. In ours, well, we just think Corinne is smart.
“So what’s new with you, Lucy?” my sister asks, frowning. Her eyes are on her baby, her fists clenched, mentally counting the seconds before she can get Emma back.
I take a deep breath. Time to face the music, now that I’ve had a few days to think on it. “Well, I think I’m ready to start dating again,” I say loudly, then swallow—there’s that pebble feeling—and brace myself.
My announcement falls like an undercooked angel food cake. Iris’s and Rose’s eyes are wide with shock, their mouths hanging open. Mom gives me a puzzled glance, then looks back at her grandchild.
But Corinne claps her hands together. “Oh, Lucy! That’s wonderful!” Tears leap into her eyes, spilling out. “That’s…it’s…Oh, honey, I hope you’ll find someone wonderful and perfect like Chris and be just as happy as I am!” With that, she bursts into sobs and races into the bathroom.
“The hormones,” Iris murmurs, looking after her.
“I cried for weeks after Stevie was born,” Rose seconds. “Of course, he was ten pounds, six ounces, the little devil. I was stitched up worse than a quilt.”
“I bled for months. The doctors, they lie,” Iris adds. “And my kebels, hard as rocks. I couldn’t sleep on my stomach for weeks.” It is tradition to refer to girl parts in Hungarian, for some reason.
My reprieve is short—lived. The Black Widows turn to me. “You really want another husband?” Iris demands.
“Oh, Lucy, are you sure?” Rose cheeps, wringing her hands.
“Um…I think so,” I answer.
“Well, good for you,” Mom says with brisk insincerity.
“After my Larry died, I never wanted another man,” Rose declares in a singsong voice.
“Me, neither,” Iris huffs. “No one could fill Pete’s shoes. He was the Love of My Life. I couldn’t imagine being with someone else.” She glances at me. “Not that there’s anything wrong with you wanting someone else, honey,” she adds belatedly.
The bell over the front door opens, and in comes Captain Bob, an old friend of my father’s. Bob owns a forty—foot boat in which he takes groups for a one—hour cruise around Mackerly, complete with colorful narrative and irregular history. I know, because I often pilot his boat as a part—time job.
“Hello there, Daisy. A beautiful day, isn’t it?” His ruddy face, the result of too much sun and Irish coffee, flushes redder still. He’s been in love with my mother for decades. “And who’ve you got there?” Captain Bob adds, his voice softening. He takes another step toward Mom.
Mom turns away. “My granddaughter. Don’t breathe on her. She’s only five days old.”
“Of course. She’s beautiful,” Bob says, looking at the floor.
“What can I get you, Captain Bob?” I ask. Other than a date with my mom.
“Oh, I’ll have a cheese danish, if that’s okay,” he says with a grateful smile.
“Of course it’s okay.” I smile while fetching his order. The poor guy comes in every day to stare at my mother, who takes great delight in snubbing him. Perhaps this should be my first lesson in dating—treat men badly, and they’ll love you forever. Then again, I never had to treat Jimmy badly. Just one look, as the song says. That’s all it took.
My sister emerges from the bathroom, her eyes red. “I need to feed her,” she announces. “My boobs are about to explode. Oh, hi, Captain Bob.”
Bob flinches and murmurs congratulations, then takes his danish and change.
“Is nursing hygienic?” Rose wonders.
“Of course it is. Best thing for the baby.” Iris turns to Captain Bob. “My daughter’s a lesbian doctor. An obstetrician. She says nursing’s best.” It is true that my cousin Anne is a lesbian and an obstetrician…not a doctor to lesbians (or not solely lesbians) as Iris’s description always causes me to think. Bob murmurs something, then slinks out the door with another look of longing for my mother, which she pretends to ignore.
“I never nursed,” Rose muses. “In my day, only the hippies nursed. They don’t bathe every day, you know. The hippies.”
Corinne takes the baby to the only table in Bunny’s—the Black Widows don’t encourage people to linger. “This is not the Starbucks,” they like to announce. “We don’t ship food in from a truck. Get your fancy—shmancy coffee somewhere else. This is a bakery.” My aunts are one of the many reasons the Starbucks down the street does such a brisk business.
Corinne lifts up her shirt discreetly, fumbles at her bra, then moves the baby into position. She winces, gasps and then, seeing me watch, immediately slaps a smile on her face.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
“Oh, no,” she lies. “It’s…a little…it’s fine. I’ll get used to it.” Sweat breaks out on her forehead, and her eyelids flutter in pain, but that smile doesn’t drop.
The bell rings again, announcing another visitor. Two, in this case. Parker and Nicky.
“Nicky!” the Black Widows cry, falling on the lad like vultures on fresh roadkill. The boy is kissed and hugged and worshipped. He grins at me, and I wave, my heart swelling with love.
