Мэри Элис Монро – The Four Seasons (страница 12)

Rose looked up from the bags, her face crumpled with worry. “But, Birdie, we don’t need all this.”

“Of course we do,” Birdie replied decisively, coming to her side. She reached in the bag and began unloading the contents.

Dennis sighed deeply and lifted the paper high to block his view.

“Really, Rose,” Birdie continued, oblivious. “We’ll go along with the luncheon at home. We have no choice. But this notion of yours to use china and crystal is far too romantic. This is a funeral and we don’t need to be theatrical. It’s too much work to set up, then wash up after all those people. If you’re worried about the expense of paper, don’t be. I’m happy to cover it.”

Rose’s back was ramrod straight and she had laid her hands over the bags as though to forcibly keep the contents in. “But…” She swallowed hard. “I’ve already unpacked the china.”

“Rose, be sensible. We cannot use Mother’s dishes.”

Jilly glanced at Hannah and saw her face set in fury, the same as her father’s, as they listened.

“Why not?” Rose wasn’t backing down.

Birdie stopped unpacking and rested her hands on the counter. After an exaggerated pause she said, “For one thing, there isn’t enough of any one set of china to serve this size a crowd. For another, there are not enough salad forks or matching wineglasses. It would all be an embarrassing mishmash of patterns. And it’s much too late to call for rentals.”

“Who the hell cares?” Dennis snapped, obviously fed up with his wife’s interference. “If she wants to use the damn dishes, let her.”

“Dennis,” Birdie said in controlled fury, furtively checking Jilly’s reaction to his outburst. “Would you go out and get the rest of the bags from the car, please?”

Dennis tossed down his newspaper with an angry flip of the wrist, then rose abruptly from the table, pushing back his chair so hard it almost toppled over. He took pains to allow a wide berth between himself and Birdie.

Jilly sensed the tension escalating in the room. Daggers flowed in the gazes between Dennis and Birdie, and again between Rose and Birdie. Jilly sipped her coffee, narrowing her eyes. She’d never seen this side of Birdie before. She’d always been bossy growing up, but now she was more of a bully. In contrast, Rose caved in, staring absently at some point across the room.

“If Rose has planned to use Mother’s dishes,” Jilly began cautiously, “then that’s what we should do. We don’t have time to argue over the point, so let’s just pitch in and do what she wants.” She put down her cup and lifted her chin. “It is, after all, her call.”

No one missed the steel in Jilly’s voice. Birdie drew her shoulders back and met her gaze. “Her call?” She took a breath, then said in a controlled voice that fooled no one, “Jilly, I know you just arrived. Perhaps you don’t appreciate all I’ve done to organize this funeral. Everything was set until Rose decided entirely on her own to change everything. Imagine, a luncheon here! You don’t have any idea….”

“But of course I do!” Jilly replied with a light laugh. “This isn’t a formal sit-down dinner, darling. It’s a petite soirée. You’re making entirely too big a fuss over it. I’ve thrown lunches bigger than this on a moment’s notice. It’s all in the attitude. I think it’s fabulous that Rose is finally going to use all this stuff. Mother hardly ever entertained.”

“That’s because she was a perfectionist,” Birdie said, drawing herself up. “It mattered to her that things were properly done, or not done at all.”

“Oh, come on, Birdie,” Jilly countered, waving her hand. “Mother was so intimidated by Emily Post and things like matching china, menus, which side to serve on and which side to take away, that she was simply overwhelmed by it all. The truth is she was afraid nothing was ever good enough.” Her eyes flashed. “She was always so damn worried about what other people thought. That’s why she never entertained.”

Hannah watched her mother summarily silenced by this mysterious aunt and sat back in her chair. Birdie appeared to be holding on to her position, for the sole purpose of winning in the eyes of her daughter.

“Come on, Birdie,” Jilly said, rising from the table. “Rose has done all the preparation, let’s have fun putting it together.”

“Jilly,” Birdie said, thoroughly frustrated at having to defend the only sensible position on the matter. “This is not another game. You can’t fly in after all these years and expect us to pick up where we left off as children. I’m sure your life in Europe is very exciting and glamorous,” she said in a stuffy manner, “but here in America, everything is not always fun.”

Jilly shook her head, seeing clearly the woman Birdie had become. “Why can’t it be? Birdie, listen to yourself. When did you get so old and sour?”

Birdie stiffened as though slapped and Jilly regretted her words instantly.

“We can do this,” said Jilly soothingly. “We’ll make this the most charming, delightful luncheon imaginable. We’ll have china and silver, pink tablecloths trimmed with lace and ribbon, tea sandwiches and flowers everywhere.”

“Exactly,” Rose exclaimed, her face glowing. “I’m sure that’s the way Merry would have wanted it.”

It was the first time that morning that Merry’s name was mentioned. Merry, who was already gone from them. Merry, whose presence was suddenly overwhelming. They had been tiptoeing around their grief, trained as they were since childhood to tuck away emotion. But now that her name was spoken she sprang to life in their thoughts.

Rose’s eyes were bright with tears. Jilly went to her side to wrap an arm around her.

Birdie did the same. “Glad you’re home,” she said in Jilly’s ear. “Missed you.”

“Me, too,” Jilly replied, relishing the heartfelt hug from Birdie she’d missed with the first hello.

Dennis pushed through the door, his arms filled with bags of paper products.

“Okay then,” Birdie called out, releasing her sisters to face Dennis. “All this stuff goes back in the car!”

Dennis stopped short, looking confused.

“Don’t ask!” Birdie swooped up the bags from the counter and proceeded out the door. “I’ll take them back—but I still think I’m right,” she called over her shoulder.

Dennis shrugged, shook his head and followed.

Jilly met Rose’s gaze and smiled as the mood shot skyward.

Outside the garage Birdie paused to take a deep breath and stare at the yard. The sun shone brilliantly in a clear blue sky. Cheery heads of crocuses were emerging through the sparkling snow, valiantly promising spring would come, even if a bit late. Beyond, in the side yard, the hot sun had melted the snow on the rectangle of sidewalk that bordered a forty-foot expanse. That space had been an in-ground swimming pool, long ago.

She saw in her mind’s eye the brilliant blue of the pool’s water. Bahama Blue, it was called. Every other summer the girls had to help paint that color on the sloping cement walls, looking like Smurfs when the job was done. The pool was the family’s playground. In happier times, Dad would come home from work and jump in like a “bomb,” splashing his girls while they squealed with delight. They’d take turns being hurled from his shoulders, pretending to be mermaids diving off a cliff. One more time, Dad!

They’d spend the day playing mermaids in the pool and wouldn’t come out until their fingers were pruned and their lips were blue. Especially Birdie. She loved to swim and was a natural, able to hold her breath longer than anyone she knew.

Mermaids…Birdie’s lips turned up in a smile. She hadn’t thought of that in, oh, so many years. It was their favorite game. Jilly made it up, of course, though she herself had thought up most of the game’s rules, like holding their breaths under Iceland and being dead if they ever touched the drain. That’s how things worked between her and Jilly. Imagination and rules. Right brain and left. They were a good team. They were best friends. Rose had loved the game, too. And Merry.

Birdie cringed at the vision of a girl’s small limbs kicking beneath Bahama Blue water. She blinked it away and looking out, saw again the rectangle of earth in the yard that was once the swimming pool. Snow piled high over it, creating a mound. It occurred to Birdie with a shudder how much it looked like a gravesite.

5

THE “MAY BALL” FUNERAL LUNCHEON, as it was known in later years, succeeded in dispelling the usual gloom and doom Birdie dreaded at such occasions, even if it did rouse the ridicule she’d predicted. She overheard a few smirking comments on the pink damask tablecloths and the yards of lace trim. But overall, Birdie was moved by how many people really loved Merry. Though her sister hadn’t seen people often, the impression she’d made was deep and permanent. Perhaps it was her innocence, or perhaps it was her joy that elicited devotion from everyone she met. All in all, Merry’s memory had been properly honored, even if in pink and lace.

The final stragglers were clustered in the foyer, gathering their coats and saying their goodbyes. With her red hair pulled severely back in a chignon at the neck, Jilly stood at the door with the poise and straight shoulders of a dancer, sending off strangers and family alike with a grace that Birdie both envied and was proud of. Birdie might have attributed her skill to her training as a model and actress, except that she knew better. Jilly always was the swan in the pond.