Chapter 65

Muller stopped wearing his frozen underwear, complaining of chaffing and dreams of polar expeditions. As for his crush on Ruby, it’s waned. There’s still the occasional puppyish look, but I think we’re past the goofy part. Ruby’s been so busy lately, I doubt she’s even noticed. Three new contracts came in last week. It’ll be tough getting them finished before the cold weather comes, but one of them is interior work, so that’s a blessing. In any event, Ruby’s been so stressed, she started sounding like Margot the other day. “Stick your finger in his eye or something,” she said. Otis was crying for a woman over in Kenosha. “She’s getting a small cyst removed,” Ruby said, “not her lung.”

Margot has one of those big foam fingers you get at baseball games. She stenciled Idiot across it. Whenever Ruby tells her to shut Otis up, she sticks it in his ear. Then she pushes him out of his chair. Bisquick loves the finger. He likes to peck at it. “Listen, honey,” Margot said to the woman, “it’s minor surgery. You’ll be home the same day. Don’t listen to Otis.”

Margot’s officially moved into the downstairs bedroom. I think she just wants the company, even if it does include Otis. The brownies keep everyone on a certain level of tolerance. We’ve been drying Riley’s plants on the garage roof, gathering the crisp leaves.

I got a shocker the other day. Mary came and asked for some grass brownies. “They’re for Iris,” she said. Iris has insomnia. Mary saw something on Dateline about marijuana helping cancer patients sleep. Now Iris sleeps like a log and laughs at everything Frank says. I’m feeling a lot better myself. Maybe the occasional near drowning does a body good.

In a few weeks, I’ll be up at Oshkosh, fishing with Dewey and Nick. Dewey’s bought into his brother’s framing business. Nick’s been renting hockey arenas in small towns, putting on craft shows. This could be our last fishing trip for a while. Judy still wants me to take Muller along. The catering jobs are spread out, so she doesn’t see a problem. I keep thinking of excuses, but Judy wants us to bond. “We bond every day,” I tell her. She’s got this image of us out in a boat, Muller with hooks in his hat. I tell her they’re flies. “Fishing flies,” I say, but she keeps calling them hooks. It took her years to stop calling any button or dial a thingy.

Max has a new sideline business. One day, a few weeks ago, he got this idea. People were coming home to a new painted house, but a lot of mess as well. He figured he could start up a cleaning service. Three of our customers have signed up so far. You have to hand it to Max. He’s come a long way from being fodder for muggers. When I think about it—and I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately—I’m the only one without a business. In a sense, I’m flapping away in everyone else’s jet streams. We’re between jobs at the moment so I decide to give Margot a call. We haven’t really talked since she started her show. I call and suggest breakfast. “Why not?” she says. “Otis is giving me cramps.”

Muller, Judy and Mary are carrying platters to the car. They hop over the boxwoods like cartoon characters. Mary comes back for her keys. “Sam,” she calls out. “I’ve left you a list. Muller needs chick peas, pimentos, and a few other things.”

I drive to the supermarket on my way to meet Margot. The place is teeming with families. Little kids race down the aisles, nailing old ladies in the legs. I pick up everything and go to the cash. My heart starts pounding. I feel dizzy. “Could you hurry?” I say to the cashier.

I pay for the groceries, grab the bags and go outside. It’s hot in the parking lot, heat rising, people walking around in a daze. I put the groceries in a cooler behind the seat. Next, I drive over to pick up Margot. “I hope you’ve got a credit card,” she says when she gets in the car. “My invoices are piling up with no payments.” We drive to a local pub over on Winchester. “You look pale,” she says. “Drowning doesn’t agree with you.”

“No kidding.”

“What are you having? I could eat a horse.” She puts on her bifocals and flips through the menu.

“Coffee’s fine,” I say.

“You’re not eating? What’s gotten into you?”

“I just about collapsed at the supermarket.”

“Try home delivery.”

“I mean it, Margot. It scared the crap out of me.”

“What does your doctor say?”

“I should dance” I look out the window. Down the street, a dog’s running around a lamppost on a leash. I feel like I’m on a similar trajectory. “I was thinking about Don Conroy the other night,” I say.

“What made you think of him?”

“I don’t want to end up like that.”

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“You know what I mean.”

“What brought this on?”

“I don’t know. I’m feeling useless. Everyone’s making something of themselves. You, Ruby, Max, Otis—even Muller.”

“That’s what’s bugging you? We took a shot, Sam. No big deal. What does Mary say?”

“I haven’t talked to her.”

The waitress brings our coffees. “I’ll have the all-day breakfast,” Margot says, “an extra order of toast and a Caesar salad on the side.”

“I’m fine with my coffee,” I say.

“So you’re saying it’s us? We’re having all the fun?”

“Something like that.”

“Want my show? Take it, Sam. Those idiots would schtup a bus.”

“I don’t want your show.”

“What do you want?”

“I don’t know. What do you think I should do?”

The waitress brings the food and Margot starts wolfing. “I’m only good where there’s a clear case of stupidity,” she says, licking jam off her fingers. “Listen, Sam, you’re doing better than most of us. You’ve got a wife, a kid, a son-in-law, hopefully, grandkids. My closest relative is a cousin who bottles tap water.”

“Have you ever had a panic attack?”

“Can’t say I have, Sam. Why?”

“I’m wondering why it’s happening to me.”

“How should I know? Stop thinking so much. It’s a headache waiting to happen. Look on the bright side, Sam. You’re not dead. Wasn’t Conroy in his mid-fifties? You smoked and drank more than he did. Be thankful you’re just dizzy. You could be a wormy corpse. Want some of my salad?”

“Not if I’m going to be worm food.”