“I never eat this often.”
“Now you will. Protein is important.”
“So you’ll come tonight? At least get to know the neighbors,” Claire said.
“Sure.”
“Do you go to the movies?”
“Now and then.”
“Donald Richards will be there. He owns a place a mile down the road. He has a menagerie — cows, horses, llamas, goats, dogs, and cats.”
“A Noah’s ark.”
“He’s not a Noah. He tends to get falling-down drunk and flirt with all the women.”
“Occupational hazard, I guess.” The harshness in Minna’s voice surprised Claire. “My sister was a model. I know a bit about that kind of life.”
“What do you mean?”
Minna rose then, pushing the barstool back with her knees. “I should finish unpacking. I’ve been running around like a chicken, exhausted.”
“I don’t mean to be nosy.”
“We’re sisters. You can ask me anything.” Minna sighed. “It hurts me to speak of her. My oldest sister and I haven’t talked in years.” She stood still, lost in thought. “She’s married to a terrible man. An evil little Frenchman. Can’t leave because she has two children with him. He drinks, and when he’s had too much, he beats her.”
The story burst out of her. The ugly, flayed thing lay on the table between them. Claire didn’t know how to respond.
“Why does she stay with him?”
“Why?” Minna asked in a mocking tone. “I suppose because she isn’t thin and young as she once was.”
“A terrible reason.”
“Not everyone was born owning a prosperous farm.” Minna slapped the back of one hand in the palm of the other, a gesture of dismissal. “She puts up with it. Considers it her ‘lot.’ Allows him to call her his nigger.”
Claire looked down, hiding her shock, not wanting to seem prudish, although despite all she had gone through, she did feel cloistered, naïve about the realities of the world Minna spoke of, unable to think of a reply.
“Wouldn’t make a very good book, nuh?” Minna set her cup in the sink, staring out the window, oblivious to Claire’s discomfort. “You’re lucky to live in the middle of this grove. A little blind paradise.”
“Not always a paradise,” Claire defended, but Minna did not hear her.
Minna stretched her arms overhead. “That’s why I’ll never marry, not in this life. Voluntary slavery if it goes bad.”
* * *
Claire took a long bath, and as the claw-foot tub filled, she confronted her naked self in the mirror. Not a vain woman, she had no explanation for the unaccountable vertigo she felt, as bad as if she were viewing her broken, bleeding self in a car accident. She had been avoiding this confrontation, but Minna’s story had haunted her into meeting it head-on. She didn’t want to be either trapped in an untenable situation or self-deluded. Would she ever get used to this? Or perhaps the bigger question, would she survive long enough to get used to it?
Perhaps a person who preferred fictions wasn’t such a bad thing. She conceded the possibility that her daughters were more sensible and more loving than she allowed them to be, that their charity in taking care of her would possibly not have been entirely a burden, might even have rekindled their relationship. But Claire needed to stay on the farm, and they wanted to be done with it, and so she sowed the attitude that she was self-sufficient.
Their family had a long habit of silence. Hush. Not now. The pain is too much. Now she had a new secret. She had been loath to tell what the oncologist had diagnosed: her lymph nodes had been affected; the chance of the cancer’s having metastasized (ugly, foreboding word she had been unfamiliar with) was high. The survival rate equal to flipping a coin. Make this time count, he counseled, and she would, by making sure her daughters were away and protected from new pain. Her gift to them.
Exactly what this girl, Minna, was about, Claire didn’t guess, but she liked the girl’s mixture of bravado and timidity. Claire’s mind, fleeing the reality of upcoming chemo treatments, found refuge in the mystery of Minna. Claire created her glamorous and mysterious, and perhaps just the slightest bit spiritually wise, while not being overbearing, and that was exactly how she found her to be.
* * *
They met in the kitchen at six for the short drive over to Mrs. Girbaldi’s. Minna walked in wearing a silk, spaghetti-strapped dress that draped to her ankles. The dress’s background was black, the foreground filled with the most spectacular flowers. From a distance, the singular effect was that Minna stood naked, huge flowers in red and gold twined around her body. On her feet were the strappy, golden sandals. Claire stood breathless, in awe, before an ancient Mesopotamian queen.
Minna, confused by Claire’s stare, shrugged down at her dress. “Too much?”
“No.”
“It’s a handoff from my sister. The model. After the babies it was too tight around the arse, you know.”
“The hips.”
“Yes.” Minna smiled. “The hips. I appreciate the correction. I always try to improve myself. Be a lady like your daughters.”
“The dogs will howl at your beauty.”
They both laughed.
“In Dominica, the rich white people, the blans, have guard dogs that go crazy howling when they see a black person. But it’s not because they hate us, it’s because they smell their owners’ fear of us. They try to show off and earn their keep.”
Claire stood, not able to say a word. The girl took the words out of her mouth.
“Should we have a drink before we leave?” Minna asked. “I make a smooth martini. Your last chance to have alcohol for a while.”
“Was your mother as beautiful as you?” Claire asked.
Minna looked at her. It was as if she comprehended Claire’s desire for escape. “Maman had the most beautiful face you will ever see.”
“Make that martini. I’ll go get my wrap.”
The phone rang — Gwen calling. Claire told her how attentive Minna was, how she was feeding her a special diet. “She even wants me to take up yoga and meditation. Can you imagine?”
“You sound good,” Gwen said.
“Call me Monday night after my treatment, okay?” When she returned to the living room, Minna was standing stranded in the middle of the floor.
“Where are the drinks?”
“I couldn’t find where you keep the alcohol. It’s not in the bar.”
“Locked kitchen cabinet. Old habit from when the girls were young.”
“Everything is hidden away here,” Minna said. “Why do you people hide everything away? Who was that on the phone?”
“Gwen.”
“Checking on us, nuh?”
Claire paused. “I told her what good care you were giving me. Like another daughter.”
“Oh, I don’t want to compete with your daughters. I’ll be like a son. Responsible, protective.”
Claire was quiet, watching as Minna expertly chilled the glasses, then coated them in vermouth. She hammered the ice into small pieces before putting it in a shaker. Cut a long curl of lemon peel. “You’re good.”
“You guessed another secret. I worked as a bartender also.”
They clinked glasses.
“To…” Claire floundered.
“To new life,” Minna said. The martini was flawless, so smooth it went down like water.
Chapter 5
By the time they arrived, late and slightly buzzed, Mrs. Girbaldi’s house was full, people queuing at the tufted-leather bar (built by her now-deceased husband decades ago when that was the style). Others strolled the long tables filled with pet-related items for the silent auction: oil paintings of stiff-legged Labradors and setters; ceramic statues and coffee mugs of poodles; pawprint-embossed picture frames; pet-photography gift certificates; plush-covered down beds; plated bowls; GPS-signal dog collars. Claire would donate money but was determined to collect no more clutter in her life. It was time to discard, lighten her load. Her new perspective made every object, mug or diamond earrings, look like junk.