EXTRAVAGANCE
Maybe Margaret was right, because the car was a godsend. Instead of having to follow Arlene’s schedule, now she could set out anytime she liked. The Subaru was several generations removed from the Olds in all respects, the interior a rich-smelling black leather with amenities Emily at first considered frivolous but found she used every day, like the seat warmers. The ride was amazingly quiet, and the sound system was better than her home stereo, boasting a dozen speakers and a six-disc changer—all standard equipment. Coming home from the Giant Eagle, she glided through East Liberty, Byrd’s Gloria lending the drab blocks a melancholy gravity. In the way-back, a thoughtfully designed mesh net kept her groceries from sliding around.
The car was small, but had some giddyup to it, and handled easily. Snow was no problem, even coming down Grafton. Between the traction control and the antilock brakes, she couldn’t put it into a skid if she tried. Best of all, it fit in the garage with room to spare.
The biggest difference was the gas mileage. She suspected the estimates on the sticker were inflated, and made a point of checking the first time she filled up. Though she’d yet to take it out on the highway, the car was getting almost thirty miles to the gallon, three times what the Olds got.
Arlene fawned over the map lights and the makeup mirror in the visor, and joked that she was jealous. Emily believed her. Beyond the fact that Arlene didn’t have the means to replace her Taurus, the Subaru had shifted the balance of power. Now when they went somewhere together, they took Emily’s car, and Emily, citing Arlene’s doctor, refused to let her smoke in it.
She also refused to let Rufus destroy her new leather seats, banishing him to the way-back, the carpet there protected by a rubber mat. This restriction proved harder to enforce. He was unhappy being exiled, despite her laying down one of his favorite blankets, and regularly jumped over the backseat and squirmed his way through to the front, taking his accustomed place as copilot, his nails digging in, leaving scuffs and scratches. Emily grew tired of scolding him and installed an expensive set of adjustable bars that made it look like she’d caged him for safe transport.
“I don’t blame you,” Betty said. “You want to keep it nice.”
It was Wednesday and Emily had taken her out to the garage after lunch to show off what she called “my present to myself.”
“It looks fast, with the hood thingy,” Betty said. “What do they call it—the Fast and the Furious.”
“It’s not too much, is it? I don’t want to be like one of those middle-aged men who buys a Porsche.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that.”
“Not that I qualify as middle-aged anymore.”
“It’s nice, it’s just different.”
“Not what you expected.”
“No, you said you were looking at them. I don’t know. Maybe it’s the color.”
“Too bright.”
“Maybe.”
Emily understood. She had trouble believing this sleek, nimble machine was hers as well. There was something incongruous, if not outright ironic, in the mismatch of car and driver. She felt decrepit, while it was brand-new, and at no time in her life, even as a long-legged teen, had she been sporty.
“I can wipe this off if you want,” Betty said, pointing to the roof, spotted with faint cat tracks.
“Honest to God,” Emily said, taking the rag from her and doing it herself. “I’ve only had the thing a week.”
“You think that matters to him?”
“Oh, he knows exactly what he’s doing. That’s the way cats are, very calculating.”
“I think you’re giving him too much credit.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t be happy if I let Rufus walk all over their cars.”
Betty chuckled to let her know she was being ridiculous. “That I’d like to see. Seriously, though, Emily, it’s a beautiful car. Toni would completely approve.”
“Thank you,” Emily said, but back inside, as they tended to their separate tasks, she worried that Betty, whose little Nissan was rusting, might think she’d been extravagant.
She was hanging the guest towels in the children’s bathroom when a truck rumbled down Grafton and squealed to a stop out front. She knew the putter of the mail van; this was larger, possibly FedEx or UPS. Belatedly, Rufus barked and struggled up from his spot beside her bed. He stood at the top of the stairs and looked at her as if waiting for permission, then, when the doorbell rang, charged down, frantic.
She had a number of items from Eddie Bauer on back order, including Margaret’s big gift, a goose-down comforter, and had been fretting that they wouldn’t arrive in time. She tried not to be too hopeful.
The bell rang again.
“You got it?” Betty called.
“I’m getting it.”
Rufus was still sounding the alarm, as if no one else could hear.
“Move,” Emily said, blocking him as she cracked the door.
The deliveryman held a poinsettia, the pot wrapped in gold foil—Kenneth and Lisa’s traditional gift, a polite, not quite personal offering, accepted by Emily in the same spirit.
“Mrs. Maxwell?”
“That would be me. Just ignore him, he’s harmless.”
There was nothing to sign. The man wished her happy holidays, hustled back to his step van and was off before she could set the pot on the front hall table and close the storm door.
There was a miniature red envelope taped to the foil. The card was bordered with jaunty holly. In the florist’s careless hand, the message read: MERRY CHRISTMAS WITH LOVE FROM THE MAXWELLS.
Emily wondered how much it cost, and whether Lisa had phoned in her order or gone online. Not that it mattered.
The plant itself was flawless, the leaves a brilliant vermillion, the delicate flowers in the center just beginning to bud, the result of a long, involved hothouse process, keeping it in the dark much of the day so it would bloom at just the right time. Twice in the past Emily had tried to transplant them outside, but they weren’t hardy enough. Like the others, this one would have its few weeks of glory in the front window and then linger on in Kenneth’s room, another thing to remember, slowly dropping its leaves, its stems drying to twigs as the winter months passed, until she would have to throw it, pot and all, in the trash. Over the years she’d mentioned the waste of it to Lisa several times, not to complain—she wasn’t ungrateful or trying to be unkind—but to suggest more practical and affordable choices, yet every Christmas another perfect poinsettia arrived.
She pushed her geraniums and African violets aside to make room. In the sun, the leaves were even brighter.
“Wow,” Betty said. “That’s a nice one.”
“Isn’t it,” Emily said.