“Hey, you snuck up on me,” I say. “How’s it going today?”
In her right hand, Effie proffers a small, oblong item wrapped in aluminum foil so crinkled that it could have been reused since the Depression. In her left hand, a vase of flowers, in the tight professional array of a florist. None of the flowers are yellow and black. On her head, the floppy blue-checked sun hat that Charlie and I bought from a beach vendor in Galveston four summers ago as a gift. Effie’s eyes, still those of a provocative teen, peer out of a face toughened by sun.
“I made you some banana bread. Threw some bulgur in it. And I brought in these flowers for you this morning. I saw the guy plop them on your front porch. Thought the wind might blow ’em over. Plus, I’ve got a problem to discuss with you.”
“That was so nice. Thank you.” I twist the second lock. The deadbolt is a little cranky, too. Need to take care of that. Maybe add a third lock. I shove open the door and Effie tramples after me in her battered green Crocs without invitation.
“Let me stick these groceries away.” I avert my eyes from the flowers. “Go ahead and put the flowers and bread here on the counter, and then you can tell me about your… problem. I have iced tea in the fridge. Charlie brewed it last night. Caffeine, sugar, mint, lemon-the works. Charlie stole the mint from your garden after dark.”
“I put bulgur in the bread because I know Charlie especially likes it. And I’ll take that tea.”
I am pretty sure my daughter has no idea what bulgur is, but this is likely a step up from last week’s offering of oatmeal and carob cookies that Charlie cheerfully likened to eating cow manure.
Effie fancies herself as something of a chef. The problem is, she thinks like a scientist. For instance, deciding it would be a good idea to boil fresh pumpkin for pumpkin pie rather than using a time-tested can of Libby’s puree. Chunks and pumpkin strings and a lot of canned whipped cream are what I will remember about last year’s Thanksgiving dinner. But that’s OK: Most Thanksgivings just flow into a dull, pleasant river, and Charlie and I will laugh about that one forever.
“The New York Times called bulgur ‘a wheat to remember,’” Effie informs me. “They try to make everything so damn profound. I’d stop reading the paper if it weren’t for the science section and if I didn’t think the crossword puzzles were reviving my dead brain cells. What the hell do they know? Dead isn’t necessarily dead. Do you think they know a four-letter word for Levantine coffee cup?” They generally referred to her neurologist.
“Zarf,” I say automatically.
“Well, you’re the damn exception to a damn lot of things.” She wanders from the black granite bar that divides the tiny kitchen from the living room and surveys the industrial Bernina sewing machine on the dining room table, draped like a bride in white tulle. “What’s this week’s project? Something else for one of those damn rich ladies?”
I kick the refrigerator door shut. “For one of those damn rich ladies’ little girls. A tutu. For competition. Tulle underpinning, lavender appliqué. Swarovski crystals.”
“Fancy-pantsy. I bet she’s paying you a fortune.”
In fact, she isn’t paying me a fortune, because it’s a sad fact that most damn rich ladies no longer appreciate the cost of things made by exacting, artful hands. Not when everything can be purchased from China with the click of a mouse.
“It’s a little side job,” I say. “The costume designer for a Boston ballet company has asked me to dress the leads for its spring production. I want to make sure I know what I’m doing before I say yes.”
“They’d be lucky to have you. You’re getting quite global. I thought you were leaving this week to design a staircase for that crazy actor fellow in California, the one who farts through his movies. Doesn’t he want it made out of an old Camaro or some damn thing? And wasn’t Charlie’s soldier daddy flying in to stay with her while you were gone? The one who promised to patch that spot on my roof. What’s his name? Lucifer?”
“Lucas. That California job’s on hold for now.” No explanation, because my past is never discussed. Effie knows about that part of me, or she doesn’t. I have no idea and want to keep it like that. Either way, it isn’t important to her.
I can always tell by the way someone looks at me the first time, like I’m a distressing piece of modern art. As an added piece of luck for me, Effie had mostly cut the newspaper out of her life because it made her think the world was “going to damn hell in a damn rocket ship.”
That didn’t mean she canceled her subscription. During the four years we’d lived in this house, she had dropped The New York Times on our stoop with random regularity, unread, minus the puzzle. No iPad crosswords for Effie, despite Charlie’s best efforts. Effie was certain the device was controlling her, instead of the other way around.
I nudge her over to the couch. “Sit. What’s the problem?”
“Aren’t you going to open the card on those flowers? What’s the occasion? Belated birthday?” Her eyes are lit with curiosity.
“No occasion I’m aware of. Did you say you saw who left them?” I drop the question as casually as I can. Flowers always punched a little panic button, because anyone who liked me well enough to send them, wouldn’t.
“Cute fellow in a Lilybud’s Florist outfit. His shorts hung off his bottom. Gave me an eyeful.”
Effie could have seen that bottom today. Or yesterday. Or a month ago. Time is a dull, pleasant river for Miss Effie.
I tap her on the shoulder; I’d need to pick up Charlie from volleyball practice soon and she would be craving something besides bulgur-infused banana bread. “So what’s the problem?” I repeat. “Shoot.”
“There’s a digger snatcher.” She waves a small garden trowel, which I hadn’t noticed until now. “I’m going to take it up with the neighborhood watch.”
“Digger… snatcher?”
“I just drove to Walmart to buy this one-$2.99 plus tax. Been going on for six months. I buy a digger, and it disappears. I can’t keep buying diggers. Do you know where your digger is? I’m thinking of taking a block digger survey.”
“Um.” I have to think about whether I want to answer. “Behind the house. I think I left it there when I was… doing a little weeding.” Stuck upright in the ground, like a grave marker.
“I’m warning you, you might as well be leaving out a crisp $100 bill.”
“I’ll keep an eye out. Do you have a place… you regularly put your digger?” I ask this cautiously, knowing that organization is a sensitive topic for Effie.
Things in her house have a way of dancing around: a Scientific American on genetic engineering stashed in the freezer, the extra house key taped to the bottom of the butter dish, a bottle of Stoli vodka crammed under the bathroom sink with the rusty can of Comet from 1972.
“Well, back to sorting my seedpods.” Effie stands. “The grubs ate my beans something terrible last year. I’m going to try putting out a bowl of beer for them this year. I’m sure that’s pure bunk but it seems like a happier way to go than me stomping their guts out. I wouldn’t mind drowning in a bowl of beer when it’s my time.”
I laugh. Reach over and give her a hug. “Thanks for making my life… normal,” I say.
“Honey, I’m a sweaty mess.” She meekly returns my hug. “Most people think I’m pretty weird.” Most people generally meant her daughter.
“Well, I can relate. What kind of person builds staircases for farting actors?” What kind of person suppresses the flutter in her chest every time the sun goes behind a cloud, afraid she’s going blind? Or when she opens a jar of peanut butter? When someone yells “Susan!” across a playground?