Grandma Lainey turns to Felix and me. “How are you holding up?”
Felix checks to see if I want to answer first before shrugging. “Okay, I guess?”
“Same.” I’m too tired to come up with a better response.
My grandmother nods her approval. “Good. Because we still have to call your mother.”
My mother and I don’t always see the world the same way, but we get along okay—especially compared to her relationship with Grandma Lainey. It’s all tangled up for Mom: my grandmother and Florida and her past. She finds the entire state tacky, overheated, and crawling with bugs, and she’s never seen the charm in Grandma Lainey’s unconventional lifestyle.
That includes her taste in hobbies. Killing Me Softly is one of the many subjects consigned to the vault of We Shall Never Speak of This Again, as my grandmother calls it. She visualizes it as a battered steamer trunk wrapped in heavy iron chains with bilious green gas seeping out of the cracks. My mom’s version is probably a beige filing cabinet with neatly tabbed manila folders lined up in alphabetical order.
Does my no-nonsense mom wish her mother would pursue a less gruesome recreational activity, like bird watching or bingo? Sure. But the last time they discussed it, Grandma Lainey said (loudly, in the middle of Red Lobster), “Loosen up. You never liked it when I talked about sex, either.”
It’s possible that’s part of the reason Bernie rubs my grandmother the wrong way. Her complaints sound enough like my mom’s that it must be like pressing on a bruise. I try to stay out of the middle when my mother and her mother have a blowup, or better yet, run interference before it gets to that point.
There’s no question that I’m the one who needs to make this call, but that doesn’t mean I’m looking forward to it. I delay as long as possible, but after my third glass of water, Grandma Lainey passes me the handset for her landline.
“Time to bite the bullet,” she says. “If you’ll pardon the expression.”
In the end, the call goes surprisingly well.
Or maybe it’s not a total surprise, given that my mother isn’t the type to get hysterical. She would consider that undisciplined, like not folding your clothes as soon as you take them out of the dryer.
It may also have something to do with the fact that I gloss over the details. As soon as I tell her someone died in Grandma Lainey’s building, Mom jumps to the conclusion that it was one of the permanent residents. There’s a pause where she digests the information, and I could easily correct her but I just… don’t. And my mother doesn’t ask who it was or how they passed away, either because that would be in poor taste, or she isn’t personally invested in the lives (or deaths) of Grandma Lainey’s neighbors.
Mom isn’t coldhearted. Everyone has their triggers, and hers are things like clutter and overdue paperwork and realizing her whole menu plan for the week is going to be thrown off because she’s out of this one dried spice and would never dream of going rogue and substituting a different one. Physical stuff—sickness and bodily fluids and so forth—doesn’tbother her as much, so it makes sense death would fall under that general umbrella.
Maybe that’s what comes from poking around in people’s mouths all day, or maybe she works at an orthodontist because she’s not easily grossed out. For now, I’m relieved Mom takes the news in stride instead of jumping straight to “You’re coming home!” or “Put your grandmother on the phone,” which is typically my cue to take cover.
And that means I get to stay, despite the events of the day.
CHAPTER TWELVETHE BODY IN THE PANTRY
The knock on Grandma Lainey’s door makes my hand jerk, streaking orange nail polish across my big toe. Until this second, I would have said I was borderline calm, but all it takes is a quicktap tapto make my heart go haywire. Still a little jumpy, I guess.
“It’s probably Mrs. A.” I try to make it sound like a statement, not a question laced with worry.
My grandmother gives me acould beshrug, setting down her coffee cup on the way to the door.
The voice is much too deep for Mrs. A.
“Virginia,” Grandma Lainey calls. “Felix wants to know if you can come out and play.”
I hear him start to sputter a protest, but she shushes him. Before I have time to do more than screw the cap on the bottle, Felix walks into the living room behind my grandmother.
“Coffee?” she asks him, a subtle reminder to me that it’s customary to greet guests, preferably with words. As opposedto a frown of confusion. And then yanking the hem of your caftan down so he doesn’t think you’re flashing him a little shin.
“I thought you might want to go out.” He swallows audibly, not meeting my eyes. “To the pool,” he adds unconvincingly.
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Grandma Lainey murmurs, refilling her mug.
I shoot her a look. Felix is not here to proposition me in front of my grandmother. Beyond that, I have no idea what he wants but there’s only one way to solve this particular mystery.
“Give me a minute.” A quick press of the pinkie confirms my polish is dry enough for flip-flops. I’ll do the other foot later.
“You have your suit?” he asks when we’re halfway down the stairs.
“Nope.” I throw the word over my shoulder. “You were obviously lying about the pool.”
