Photo, Snap, Shot (18 page)

Do NOT Park Here!
Parking for La Casa is across the street! Parking for Cici’s Pizza only!

Like Topsy, La Casa had grown and grown, and as it grew, the parking space became increasingly insufficient. I drove up and down Manchester, alternatively named Manslaughter Road by those who’ve witnessed its dangers, hawking vainly for an open spot. On my third pass, I got lucky. A car was pulling out of the La Casa lot, and I had slowed to let it leave like a good scout, so I scooted in to the tight space.

Because I was late getting out of my house on this Saturday evening, the party was already in full swing when I arrived. A trio of mothers was leaving. Connie and Elliott McMahan were saying their goodbyes to Mrs. Selsner. Elliott looked like he’d aged ten years. His graying hair now flecked with white. Connie gave me a tiny “thumbs up” that made me smile. Somehow she’d put starch back into her backbone, and I was glad for her. An empty bucket with Corona printed on the side sat in the middle of the table. In front of many of the guests were margarita glasses with only a few crumbles of ice in the bottoms. Half-eaten plates of food littered the tabletop.

As I walked up, another woman I didn’t know planted kisses on Mrs. Selsner’s cheek, leaving a vacant seat next to Mahreeya, Patricia, and Ella for me to slip into. “I don’t deserve this,” I heard the nurse say. A small Tiffany’s box sat in front of Mrs. Selsner, and she examined it as though it were the source of physical pain.

Mahreeya made some noise about how of course she did, how this gift was only a token, and so on.

I caught Ella’s eye, and she made a motion of her head in the direction of the restrooms. We walked silently side by side until the door closed behind us.

“Ella, I am so, so sor—”

She threw up her hands in a “stop it” signal. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes. “Don’t. I’ll start crying and never get a hold of myself.”

I settled for putting my hand on her shoulder and giving it a squeeze.

She gripped the sink and held on tight. “I have to keep going. The body won’t be released for a while. They need to do tests. Like on television, you know? But it’s much slower in real life. Or so they tell me. I know I shouldn’t be here, but Mrs. Selsner was like a second mother to us.” Ella stood up, rolled back her shoulders and stared into the mirror. “The show must go on. Stiff upper lip and all that.”

Ella wasn’t alone in her warm feelings for Mrs. Selsner. A continuous flow of well-wishers came to say their goodbyes. I placed an order for La Casa’s famous vegetable dip and a glass of Diet Coke. I really wished I could be ordering a margarita but I had a considerable drive home. The last thing I needed was an encounter with the local police.

The Diet Coke came before I had the chance to decide whom I’d call in such a pickle. Dodie was resting up, readying herself for her round of chemo and radiation. Mert had a habit of ticking off authority figures. Detweiler was, well, off-limits. Ben? He’d kissed me tenderly and urgently, backing me up against my car door before I’d pushed him away last night. He didn’t offer to follow me home. Poor Ben. He wasn’t comfortable around the dogs, and while he’d never been unkind to Gracie, he did give her a wide berth. And Johnny? Asking him to come rescue me if I was picked up for a DUI would be out of the question. He’d served time as a felon. While Clancy was so far on the other side of the Mississippi, it’d take her hours to come to my aid. Besides, she’d been taking a class at the Lewis & Clark Community College and was busy most evenings. Too busy to spend time with me it seemed.

While the waiter delivered my order, the group shifted to a smaller table to accommodate our intimate number. I’d arrived on the tail end of an “in progress” revisiting of memories by the Alumnae Four and didn’t want to interrupt. Instead I dug into the dip and chips with gusto. I picked up a word here and there, realizing the girls were laughing about eating marijuana brownies before being crowned by the Veiled Prophet. Patricia looked extremely uncomfortable and changed the subject. I was having trouble following Mrs. Selsner. After straining for a while, it dawned on me that I couldn’t understand her because she was rip-roaring drunk. Drunk as a skunk, as Nana used to say.

“I don’t deserve this …” Mrs. Selsner was pawing at Patricia’s arm. Patricia’s face was pale. She sat frozen, not returning any of Bromo’s gestures, her body tilted away from the overwrought school nurse.

“Of course, you do.” Ella spoke to the older woman in a kind but firm tone of voice. She was wearing a frilly white blouse and a pair of tight, dark-washed jeans. Even with the glowing plum-colored circles under her eyes, the woman was gorgeous.

Mahreeya held up her wrist watch conspicuously, “Look at the time.” She had on a turquoise blouse with a stand-up collar and matching capris topped with a wide leather belt sporting a Virgin Mary handpainted on the enamel buckle. I’d seen a similar one in a fashion magazine for $350.

Mrs. Selsner stood up—and then every bit as quickly, sat back down.

Our waiter passed behind my chair. I thrust a bill at him and instructed him to keep the change. This was not looking good. Ella made a wild “come here” gesture with her hand, and I left my seat to come to her aid.

“She’s in no shape to drive,” Ella whispered to me over Mrs. Selsner’s head. Patricia and Mahreeya began gathering their purses. Neither woman looked interested or sympathetic. A small mound of spittle sat on the corner of Mrs. Selsner’s lips and a big green stain—guacamole, I’d guess—marred her white polyester blouse.

Ella’s eyes entreated her school chums to help. Mahreeya turned away in disgust. Patricia took a turn glancing at her watch and said, “I really need to run.”

I spoke up. “Tell you what. I’m almost out of gas. What if I drive Mrs. Selsner home in her car, and you follow me, Ella? You can bring me back here to pick up my car.” Hey, any friend of my friend is my friend, right? Besides, the good deed would give me the chance to talk with Mrs. Selsner alone.

Mahreeya gave me general directions to Mrs. Selsner’s house in Olivette, and Ella promised to lead the way by driving slowly on ahead. With a deft combination of coaxing and cajoling, Mahreeya talked Mrs. Selsner out of her keys.

“I’m not drunk,” said Mrs. Selsner obstinately, clutching the robin’s egg blue gift box to her bosom where it made a colorful counterpoint to the big green stain. “I’m upset. Upset about Sissy and Corey. That’s all.” The phrase came out “thash all,” but it was clear what she meant.

Ella shored up the left side, and I took the woman’s right, inhaling a snogful of Youth Dew, that most fragrant oxymoron. Nobody under sixty wears Youth Dew. Nobody. We left Mahreeya and Patricia to cover the bill. Mrs. Selsner muttered a vague protest, blinking up at me unsteadily with bleary eyes. “I don’t need you. I can drive.”

I ignored her. “Isn’t it a lovely night?”

Ella loaded the woman into her car, an old Pontiac. I walked around and settled into the driver’s seat, adjusting the rearview mirror before backing out slowly. I glanced over and noticed the nurse’s seat belt wasn’t on. I pulled back into our parking spot and fumbled around, embarrassingly reaching over the woman’s flaccid gut. It took a bit of fiddling around until Mrs. Selsner was secure. Ella’s car waited for me across the street in front of Cici’s Pizza.

“I’m so sorry. Should have followed my instincts … should have … known …” Mrs. Selsner’s face was mashed against the passenger side door but that didn’t stop her from talking.

“Known what?”

“Sissy was in trouble … again … thought the Twelve Step … thought she was straightened out.” Suddenly Mrs. Selsner sat bolt up and slammed her fist against the dash. Scared the guacamole out of me. Good thing we were stopped at a light or I’d have veered right off Manchester Road. Spotting a Wendy’s, I pulled into the drive up and ordered their largest size of coffee. Ella must have figured out what I was doing because she paused at the drive-through exit until we were served.

The java had a sobering effect on Mrs. Selsner.

“Sissy was in a Twelve Step program?” I tried to sound nonchalant.

“Yes. Sexual Addiction Rehab. Out of Minnesota. Lots of women members. She needed help.”

I thought such programs were the stuff of urban legends. I mulled this over. We drove along silently for a while. Mrs. Selsner said, “It’s no surprise. Not really. You know what happened to her, right? ”

Mrs. Selsner filled in the details of the story my mother-in-law had related. When Sissy was fourteen, a family friend heard of her love for horses and offered to let her come out to his ranch to ride his Arabians. The man owned a spread out on Wildhorse Creek Road on the way to St. Albans. Soon after, Sissy began taking equestrian lessons. Her parents investigated buying a horse, but Sissy couldn’t settle on one. Until the decision was made, the family friend offered to let her come and ride as often as she wished. Her parents began dropping her off at the stables and leaving her there for hours after school and all day on weekends.

One day, while Sissy was grooming her horse, the family “friend” dragged her into a stall and raped her.

“By the time Mrs. Gilchrist arrived, Sissy was hysterical. There was … ah … internal damage,” Mrs. Selsner drained her cup of coffee. “The Gilchrists talked to a lawyer. He advised against pressing charges. As did the family doctor. Agreed the whole experience would be demeaning and … embarrassing. In the end, the family decided that pursuing the matter … would make it worse.”

“But what did Sissy think?”

“Her parents let her down. She never forgave them.” The slurring nearly gone, the coffee had done its job. “She got in the habit of dropping by the office to talk. She said her parents treated her like a … well … She said, ‘Everybody knows I’m not a virgin anymore.’ That’s how she justified her loose behavior. She punished herself. Blamed herself. Said she should have fought him. She said, ‘Maybe he was right. Maybe I wanted it.’”

My stomach gurgled as I imagined Anya in a similar situation. I wouldn’t have let the matter drop. I’d have killed the man with my own two hands.

Ella led us to a neighborhood of older homes with front lawns as even and smooth as squares of felt. Ragged borders of flowers and shadowy pots with uneven topknots of plants edged concrete walkways. The front doors were all solid wood, devoid of fancy glass side windows that burglars could use to gain entry. I guessed the residents were mainly older, probably retired.

“But Sissy turned her life around.”

“She said she found Mr. Right. He was good for her and to her. She seemed happy.”

“Corey Johnson?”

“Yes. They wanted a fresh start. He had a job offer in Raleigh, North Carolina, as an assistant coach.”

“And her son?”

“I told her to take it slow. Baby steps. Have you seen Christopher? He’s adorable, but he’s … troubled. Doesn’t adjust well.” Her corduroy veined hands rubbed her eyes. “And now this …”

___

Ella rolled down her window and pointed to a brick bungalow with monogrammed awnings over the front door and windows. Ella helped Mrs. Selsner into her house while I parked the car. At the last minute, I remembered the box from Tiffany’s. Making our way through the house took a bit of maneuvering because Mrs. Selsner never met a piece of furniture she didn’t like. The place was chockablock with armchairs, straight-back chairs, end tables, scattered plant stands, and ètagéres. Without discussion, we headed the older woman toward the back and after a series of wrong turns, we stumbled into a bedroom. I set down the gift and withdrew leaving Ella to help the woman undress. The front door had a simple push button lock but that didn’t seem very secure to me. While Ella was putting Mrs. Selsner to bed, I turned on the front light and began a systematic check under flower pots and welcome mat and along the upper sill of the door. Ella came to my rescue, holding up a silver key marked Yale on a State Farm insurance key ring with a paper label: house key. “Dug through her purse,” she said.

As we drove away, I realized someone would have to drop by the next day, Sunday, and return her key. Probably me. Ella had held up remarkably well, but as the shock of Corey’s death wore off, she would have to face her grief. And her guilt.

“I doubt that Mrs. Selsner’s going to be up and at ’em early,” I said as Ella handed me the house key. The grooved metal felt cool and weighty in my hand.

“Gee, and wasn’t that a memorable retirement party?”

“What set her off?”

“The gift.”