The bad news is that I have to wear a splint for six to eight weeks followed by physical therapy. I’ll stick around for a few sessions because I figure I should know all the hand and wrist exercises, but that means I’m stuck here until at least mid-January. I’d wanted to be home for the holidays, in Marfa, carefully hanging Christmas lights on the yucca tree in our front yard.
I’ve been in Detroit for almost a month, and it’s been two weeks since I ran out of the cocktail party. As I learned later, Oliver had made the excuse to my parents that I was suddenly nauseated, which was the truth.
Oliver. That night, he insulted my accent, intelligence, and taste in music, and I still get mad thinking about it. I feel stupid for believing he helped me because we were friends, but that’s my fault, not his. I don’t know how many times he told me he didn’t like me and we weren’t friends, but I didn’t believe him.
I do now.
I haven’t seen Marv and Claire either. I know they’re concerned about me so I’ve invited them to the penthouse for dinner. When I told Claire I’d cook, there’d been a long, silent pause before she said, “Are you sure? We can have dinner in the restaurant downstairs. I hear it’s nice.”
I chuckle thinking about it now as I set three green wicker place mats at the table that seats twelve. I’ve never set a fancy table before, but Marv and Claire live in high style, and I want them to see that I remember boot-camp etiquette.
I find a box of tapered beeswax candles in just about every color. My theme is Southwestern, so I fashion two green ones into a saguaro cactus by cutting one into pieces for arms and melting it back together. I want them to see that I am okay. I want them to see me. The new and improved Edie.
I have a short centerpiece of sunflowers and daisies and stick the candle in the middle. I’m happy with it, and I carefully place the right utensils in the right places. Just to make sure, I grab my phone and look it up on the internet one more time.
Even when it’s just the two of them, I know that Marv and Claire dress for dinner. I dress with my theme in mind, and I find a white jean skirt and red blouse in the closet. From the row of boots, I’m surprised to see a pair of American flag cowgirl boots similar to the ones I have at home in Marfa. I look at the soles and am even more surprised to see they’ve actually been worn.
By the time the parents arrive, I’m even more nervous than I usually am around them. Marv is wearing a suit jacket and Claire is in one of her flowy dresses. This one is white and green striped.
“You’re wearing your Fourth of July boots,” Claire says without a pained expression, which I take as approval. I didn’t think I cared until now, and I’m not sure what has changed.
I serve them sangria made with red wine and cherry brandy, sliced peaches, oranges, and blueberries. They look a bit perplexed, but if they were surprised by the sangria, they’re downright dumbfounded when we sit down to Frito pie, cowboy salad tossed with Momma’s smoky dressing that I serve on a bed of romaine, and hot cornbread with honey butter—which I confess I ordered from the kitchen.
“Marvin, I think it’s a casserole.”
“The secret to Frito pie is waitin’ to put the chips on top of each individual servin’. Some folks just cover the whole pie and stick it in the oven, but I like to hold off and top individual servings. That way the Fritos don’t get soggy. Nothin’s worse than a soggy corn chip.” I take a bite and sigh. “Damn if that isn’t a fiesta in your mouth.” I swallow and take a drink of sangria, which I admit is heavy on the brandy. “This red chili won an award in a Texas cook-off.” It’s Daddy’s own secret recipe, and he won back-to-back blue ribbons at the Presidio County cook-off in 2010 and 2011. “I read that some folks like beans in their chili, but I left them out. There’s pinto and black beans in the salad, and let’s face it, too many beans can cause a problem.”
“Charming.” Claire grabs onto Marv’s wrist and picks up her fork. They both take a bite at the same time and I can hear the crunch of Fritos as they chew. They don’t choke or gag, so I guess that’s a good sign.
I slather my cornbread with honey butter before I remember that people don’t slather anything in this family. I take a bite and sigh. Yummy.
“Is the green candle an abstract piece?” Marv asks.
I look at the flames on the top of the cactus and its two arms. “No. It’s a saguaro. It goes with my theme.”
“Marv, it’s a theme, and Edie made it herself,” Claire says, like she’s cheering on the slow kid at school.
“The salad is called Cowboy Caviar. I found the recipes on the internet,” I lie. I offer more sangria, but Marv says he has to drive, and Claire doesn’t want to get too full. They give me a toast while we have coffee and vanilla ice cream from the deli around the corner. Lately, I’ve been getting out of the house on my own and walking around to fill up my days. I’ve discovered two nice parks within blocks of the Book Cadillac. Both have fountains and manicured gardens, places to sit and people watch, and cafés. I walk Magnus there and we usually get coffee and a dog treat. He doesn’t snarl at me these days, and we’ve come to a new understanding: we tolerate each other. When he wanders from his bedroom, he still gives me the evil eye, but if I shake his leash, he allows me to snap it on his collar. Magnus and I are quite the pair. He sits on his side of the bench while I sit on mine. He crunches his organic cookie while I drink espresso and watch the world go by without me.
“I need somethin’ to do,” I say after a pause, because believe it or not, trying on designer clothes and shoes has started to get old. With nothing else to do, I’ve started to run on the treadmill while watching ships on the Detroit River. Tony told me there’s even drug-smuggling submarines out there. I don’t believe him but I admire his bool-sheet.
“You’re helping with the New Year’s Eve party,” Claire tells me, and turns to Marv. “Edie and I will cohost. We haven’t shared hostess honors since she debuted in Paris at Le Bal. Remember her exquisite Giambattista Valli gown?”
“Of course, dear,” he says, but I think he’s tuned us out. I guess I’ve found one thing that Marv and I have in common.
As far as I can tell, I have two roles: I’m to make the guests feel welcome with polite chitchat and make sure the hors d’oeuvres are served on time and the booze never runs out.
“You’ll need a new cocktail dress. Mimi can help you.”
Mimi is more Claire’s assistant now and I’m fine with that. “No, Mimi and I don?
?t have the same taste. I’ll find somethin’ in the closet.”
“Oh.” She doesn’t look as worried as she did before the cocktail party, but she adds, “We can shop together. It’ll be fun. I’ll have Mimi look at my calendar and find a free day.”
A whole day that probably includes some sort of etiquette lesson, like the language of a thoughtful hemline. I’d rather pass on Claire’s idea of “fun,” but she smiles and it reaches clear to her blue eyes. “Okay. Just let me know. I’m always free. I don’t have anything else to do.” I give a long-suffering sigh. “That’s why I have to find something to do before I go crazy as a sprayed roach.” They both look at me with wide eyes and I reassure them, “I didn’t mean that literally.”
Marv places his ice cream spoon in the position that tells me he’s done. “Do you have something in mind?” I shrug because I don’t want to say, but he’s persistent and adds, “Well, where do you see yourself in five years?”