Rosemary Harris: Dead Head

The cranberries had been picked off and a thin layer of crust was almost surgically shaved off the tops. I remembered that calorie reduction tip well.

“You used to be like that,” she said. “A damn picky eater. Before you got some sense.”

Sense. To Babe that meant ordering the waffles. Or the cake or the sundae or whatever it was you really wanted. Whether it was food, men, or adventures, Babe did not believe in living a life of denial.

“These women,” she said, motioning to the group outside. “I still don’t get some of them.” She cleared off the tray and put the cups and dishes in a rubber basin underneath the counter.

“So what is it the queen of the cul-de-sacs wants you to do now? Plant marigolds in the shape of clinking martini glasses?” Babe was referring to my first fall in Springfield when Caroline had asked for tulips planted in the shape of giant crossed tennis rackets. Which worked out well until, inevitably, they flopped over and resembled nothing more than an enormous handlebar mustache.

“That’s very creative,” I said. “I may offer that next year. I could do martini glasses. Champagne flutes should go over well during bridal season.” I was semiserious.

“You remember last spring when Caroline was calling me three times a day,” I said, “and practically stalking me here at the diner?” Babe nodded.

“She’s got some notion to buy Guido Chiaramonte’s old nursery. And she’s written a business plan, which I have foolishly agreed to take a look at. She’d have a garden gift shop and I’d offer design services. We’d collaborate on special projects.”

“Sounds good. What’s wrong with that?”

“They want two million dollars for the property, and it probably needs another five hundred thousand just to open the doors. She wants to front the money and put it all in my name.”

That raised an eyebrow. She looked around as if to appraise her own lot with its charming waterfront view. What was her lakeside property worth? One million? More? “Okay. Unusual but, I repeat, what’s wrong with that?”

I couldn’t put my finger on it, but in my gut there was something about Caroline’s plan that didn’t sit right with me. It was too good to be true, like those Nigerian e-mail scams-just send me the postage, my friend, and we will split a fortune. My knee-jerk reaction was to say no. But that was generally my knee-jerk reaction to things-not unlike the overcautious lawyer who says, “We could have a problem there…” There is no problem, but there could be one.

That was also the reason I owned a ten-year-old car, a fifteen-year-old television, and a four-year-old cell phone that the company’s Web site refers to as a “legendary” model. It took me awhile to say yes to new things.

“C’mon, what’s the downside?” Babe said. “I mean, not to put too fine a point on it, but she’s loaded and you’ve got two, maybe three nickels to rub together.”

And where does that expression come from? Why would anyone want to rub two nickels together? Are they supposed to make babies if you rub them together? From anyone else, I would have been offended, but Babe was close to the truth. I was fantasizing about an island trip, but I was treading water financially. It happened every year at this time. I sucked it up, ate big breakfasts-the least expensive and most filling meal of the day and frequently free, if Pete had gotten a new cookbook or watched a new cooking program. I had soup for dinner and generally lost my three or four donut pounds by the time garden season rolled around. Not the end of the world, lots of mammals put on a layer of fat and hibernated for the winter.

I nursed my third cup of coffee and picked at Pete’s all-American waffle-strawberries, blueberries, and heaps of powdered sugar-when the truckers finished and came to the counter to settle up. The bearded guy was last to pay. He lingered at the register to talk to Babe after his pals left. He motioned outside to where Caroline had been sitting.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me that pretty lady’s name?”

“Who’s that?” Babe said.

“He means Caroline,” Eyebrow Girl said, trying to be helpful.

“Caroline? That was the woman I was talking to?”

The young girl nodded. She didn’t understand Babe’s hesitation. Who else could he have meant?

“Sure,” Babe said. “She’s Mrs. Caroline I’ve-got-a-big-dog-an-even-bigger-husband-and-a-security-system-the-Pentagon-would-be-proud-of. Who wants to know?”

The trucker held up his hands in mock supplication. “Wow. What are you, her bodyguard? Forget it. No biggie. I’ll catch up with Car-o-line next time.”

He held up two fingers in a peace sign and backed out of the diner with a smile. Once outside, he zipped his jacket, took a last look around, and then strolled past the last of the Main Saint Moms now reloading their kids into their cars. He tipped his hat theatrically and made his way over to his truck, where his buddy was waiting for him.

“I must be slipping,” Babe said, inspecting her reflection in the small fridge behind the counter. “Not to be conceited, but usually they want my number. Maybe it was a mistake sucking up to the velvet headband crowd. Too much competition.”

“Like you’ve ever been worried about competition. You think he was hitting on Caroline?”

“Who knows? If the Paradise can bring two people together, my work is done. I’m not one to stand in the way of either true love or unbridled lust. No judgments here. I was just looking out for her. He could have been a serial killer.”

I’d heard Babe say that a hundred times. As friendly as she was, the first time she met anyone, he was a potential mass murderer until she had evidence to the contrary. Coming from a large city, I tended to agree with her.

“I don’t know,” she said, “baseball hat, long hair, even the peace sign. Sometimes there’s a thin line between cool and creepy. And who wants to be responsible for giving a friend’s name and address to the next Hannibal Lecter? Am I right?”

“You’re getting dangerously close to profiling. What would the Maharishi say?”

“He was before my time, wise guy. I’m just saying the guy looked like he should be on his way to a Grateful Dead reunion, not sniffing around a white-gloved suburban lady, who, by the way, is still happily married as far as I know. If I’m wrong and either of them is interested, it’s their business to pursue, not mine to facilitate. He may be back anyway. I think he was driving for the same company as Retro Joe.”

Retro Joe was hard to miss. Despite the fact that he was over sixty years old and 100 percent gray, he sported an oiled pompadour with a big curl on his forehead that swirled like the inside of a nautilus shell or the top of a soft ice cream cone. In the summer he wore his sleeves rolled up tight on his biceps. Mercifully, it was fall and we were spared the peculiar sight of his ashen skin stretched over surprisingly cut muscles.

“Joe’s here a few times a month. Works for two or three different companies depending on where he feels like driving and where the next Elvis tribute concert was being held. I’ll ask him about his new colleague the next time he’s in.”

I teased her again about betraying her Woodstockian peace, love, and music roots, but Babe was right to be cautious. One town over, an elderly woman brought in her luxury car for a tune-up and wound up dead at the hands of the mechanic’s greedy girlfriend, who bludgeoned her with a tire iron after the older woman thoughtlessly failed to have any jewelry or money to steal.

So much for things being quieter in the suburbs.

The next day, I was home packing for the marathon wedding trip when Gretchen Kennedy called. Gretchen was one of the real estate agents I was counting on to keep me in big breakfasts and soup throughout the long Connecticut winter.