Elinor Lipman - The Pursuit of Alice Thrift

My father turned toward the stairway and yelled, “Joyce! Alice is here! And a young man.”

Within seconds my six-foot mother was descending, buttoning a black dress with chiffon kimono sleeves. She forgot, in her role switch from grieving daughter to hostess, to kiss me. We weren’t much for public or private displays of affection anyway, but I patted her back and checked her fastenings. “You missed a few buttons,” I whispered.

I could tell from the way her vertebrae were aligned that she was greeting Ray bravely, ambitiously. “I’m Joyce Thrift,” she said. “And you are …?”

“Ray Russo,” Ray and I pronounced in unison.

“Are you a colleague of Alice’s?” Her glance dropped to his feet and to shoes that were too pointy for a man in medicine.

“He drove me,” I said.

Ray bowed his head and took two obsequious steps backward. “I think it’s best if I wait in the car so as to give you your privacy,” he said.

“Absolutely not ! Alice? Take Mr. Russo into the kitchen and see what goodies Frederick is willing to part with.”

I said, “Mom—Mr. Russo actually drove me as a favor. He wouldn’t even let me pay for the gas.”

When she looked to each of us for clarification, my father added, “She means this gentleman is not a car service. Mr.…”

“Russo,” I supplied.

“Mr. Russo is in sales,” said my father.

“Which reminds me,” said Ray. He made it to the door in three long strides and was back in twenty seconds—time that passed in silence among the Thrifts—holding a gift-wrapped box that could have housed a VCR.

“Milk chocolate marshmallow, Black Forest, and penuche,” said Ray. “No nuts, just in case anyone’s allergic.”

“Fudge,” said my mother. “I’ll be taking great comfort in this over the next few weeks.”

“Or maybe,” Ray said with a nudge to her elbow, “once you taste it, over the next few days. ”

My mother handed me the box. “Tell Frederick … I don’t know: the blue Wedgwood platter?”

“This size comes with its own serving tray,” said Ray.

My mother looked down and blinked at her stockinged feet. “I should finish dressing,” she murmured.

My father turned her toward the steps. “She’s barely slept since we got the news,” he said.

“Maybe Alice could write me a prescription for something.”

I understood that this was my mother putting an MD at the end of my name. “You know I can’t write prescriptions yet,” I said. “Let alone in New Jersey.”

“She doesn’t need any sedatives,” said my father. “She’s exhausted. She just needs this day to be over.”

“Warm milk works for me,” said Ray. He winked. “Especially with a shot of brandy in it.”

“Let me give this to Frederick,” I said. “It weighs a ton.”

“There’s five pounds in there,” said Ray. “Which means more than a quarter pound of Grade A sweet creamery butter and at least a quart of evaporated milk. We list the ingredients on our Web site.”

“Perhaps I will lie down,” my mother said.

“You have a beautiful home,” said Ray, crossing the foyer to inspect a bronze death mask, reputed to be of Pocahontas.

“Of course you’ll come to the funeral, Ray,” my mother said.

He said, his back to us in connoisseurship, that he didn’t want to intrude.

It was then that I saw a glance pass between my parents, and I realized that the invitation was not hospitality but fear that a purveyor of carnival fudge might, if left alone, pillage the mourners’ residence. “We insist,” she said.

“Whatever feels right to you,” said Ray, now studying one of my mother’s canvases. “I can stay here or I can slip into a pew that’s a good distance from the immediate family. That way, no one is going to ask, ‘Who’s the guy?’”

My mother said, “I think anyone who drives seven hours—”

“It took us under six,” I said.

“Anyone who drives five-plus hours to a stranger’s funeral should absolutely attend the service,” she continued. “And if anyone jumps to conclusions … that’s the last thing I’m concerning myself with today.”

“I’d be honored,” said Ray. As he turned back toward us, his voice and face slumped. “You’d think I’d have an aversion to funerals after my personal misfortune, but it’s quite the opposite.”

“Misfortune?” echoed my mother.

“Ray was recently widowed,” I explained.

“No!”

“Automobile accident,” he said.

“When?” asked my father.

“A year ago Inauguration Day—ice, snow, sleet, you name it,” said Ray. “The car had four-wheel drive and traction control. I thought it was foolproof.”

“Air bags?” my mother asked.

Ray said, “I can’t even discuss that aspect of it because it makes me shake all over with rage. Suffice it to say, they didn’t deploy.”

“You poor man,” said my mother, flexing the fingers of one hand in the direction of the powder room to mean, Someone get me a tissue.

“I insist you lie down,” said my father. “There’s a long day ahead, and lots of people wanting to discuss their own mothers’ deaths, and it’s going to take a lot out of you, sweetie.”

“That’s exactly why I didn’t bring up my own tragedy,” said Ray. “And if someone starts talking about theirs? You give me a sign and I’ll come over and I’ll be your ears so you don’t have to listen to their story, okay? Would you let me do that much?”

“Yes, I will,” said my mother. “I only wish you’d been here to answer some of the phone calls.”

“We had to let the machine pick up,” said my father.

Ray shook his head. “People. Why is it so hard for them to use their brains?”

“Exactly,” said my mother. “This has been like taking a graduate course in psychology. People you barely know send you fruit the minute they see the obituary, while some of your best friends don’t even call.”

“They don’t want to bother you,” I said. “Or maybe they hung up when they got the machine.”

My mother began her climb to her bedroom, both hands on the banister.

FREDERICK WAS ALONE in the kitchen, wearing chef’s full regalia plus striped pantaloons and red plastic clogs. When I announced the fudge delivery, his lip curled; he pointed to a remote pantry counter.

“My mother wants it put out,” I said.

“I have truffles,” he snapped.

Perhaps it was then that I felt a twinge of something for Ray—call it sympathy, loyalty, charity—born of a caterer’s condescension. “A guest brought it,” I said. “A guest who got up at five A.M. this morning so I wouldn’t have to take a bus.”

With the edge of a linen towel, Frederick wiped a drip of red goop from a platter. “And you are?”

“Alice.”

Frederick said, “The problem is, Alice, that this isn’t a pot-luck dinner. Everything is planned, down to the color of the sugar cubes. Serving fudge with truffles is like serving steak with roast beef.”

“It’s the guest’s livelihood,” I said. “And no one but you will notice if there’s a surfeit of chocolate.”

Just outside the kitchen door my father was giving Ray loud directions. “Cool,” Ray repeated after each prescribed left or right turn.

There was a pause on our side. Finally Frederick asked, “You’re the older daughter?”

I said that was correct. We’d met at my mother’s sixtieth—

“The doctor?”

I said yes.

He smiled benignly, then asked, “And where does a doctor cross paths with a fudge salesman?”

I couldn’t muster an answer; couldn’t even choreograph my own exit as I pondered what it was about me that invited caterers to condescend.