Chapter Twelve. The Body in The Pantry
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE 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 quick tap tap to 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 a could be shrug, 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 opposed to 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.”
“More like babbling. Your grandma’s kind of scary.”
“I know.” Talk about hashtag goals. Sometimes I worry I’ll never be as cool as she is, but then again, I have sixty years to hone my skills.
When I push through the door to the garden the humidity hits me like a wet towel to the face. It’s like the regular heat decided to supersize itself. I step back without thinking, driven by a basic survival instinct that doesn’t care whether Felix is standing between me and the sweet relief of AC.
One of us grunts; the other makes a cartoonish “oof.” I’m not sure which noise came from me because I’m too busy bouncing off Felix’s bony chest.
“Sorry,” we say in unison.
I push past him before the awkwardness can go nuclear.
“Where do you want to—” I start to ask.
“Someplace private,” he blurts, before I can finish.
“Butler’s pantry?”
He nods.
The narrow space between the kitchen and the dining room is lined with shelves.
Most of them are crammed full of props, with a few punch bowls and chafing dishes mixed in.
What the pantry doesn’t have is a place to sit, so after a moment’s hesitation I hoist myself onto the narrow counter, assuming Felix will take the opposite side.
When he comes to lean against the cabinets beside me, doubt rears its head. Is he about to make a move?
“I thought we could— What?” he asks, breaking off before he gets to the good part.
“You tell me.”
“You’re making a weird face.”
“This is just how I look. But thanks.”
Felix shakes his head. “You dialed it up. The whole”—he circles a hand in the direction of my head—“Virginia vibe.”
“Excuse me?” Also: I have a vibe?
“Exactly. Like that.” He touches his eyebrow, and I lower mine to a less aggressive angle.
“You were saying?”
He hesitates as if he’s about to sneeze or isn’t totally sure he can trust me.
“It’s weird, right?” Felix finally says, darting a glance at me before returning his attention to the moss-green carpet.
“I keep thinking about it, but pretending I’m not, so I don’t freak anyone out.
It’s like, ‘How am I supposed to play this?’ Because I could feel my grandfather watching me all night, in case I was about to fall apart. ”
Caught up in his monologue, he misses my flinch of guilt.
Grandma Lainey and I spent the evening rewatching The Way We Were so we could have a good cry and then dig into two of her pet subjects (Robert Redford and skin care), with a brief sidebar about Brad Pitt, who my grandmother believes to be the blond heartthrob of my generation, when in fact he is also old.
That led into a discussion of character actors vs.
leading men and which ones made better boyfriends, to which I had little to contribute as my main romantic experience to date was more of a comic relief.
Minus the relief.
Rather than getting into the details, I offer a closed-lip hmmm.
“That’s why I thought we could talk about it without triggering an intervention,” Felix continues, like a dam has burst and the words aren’t going to stop until he gets it all out.
“I don’t want to upset my grandpa, because then he’ll call my mom, and she’ll freak out and come racing down here. They already think I’m too sensitive.”
“You?” Probably I could have sounded less incredulous, but Felix doesn’t take offense.
“I don’t want to force you to go there. If you’re not there already, you know?” He makes a squeezing motion next to his temple, like he’s starring in a headache commercial. “I figured you must have a theory. About what happened.”
Part of me is flattered he’s asking, but I’m not sure I want to be the first to volunteer information. “You brought me here to talk about yesterday?”
“Why? What were you thinking?”
“Extortion.” It’s too soon to joke about murder, but I also have no intention of admitting that a tiny part of me thought this was headed someplace flirtier.
“I prefer blackmail. Mind games instead of brute force.” For a second, it’s like we’ve flashed back to a more innocent time—also known as yesterday—when slinging wisecracks was the most challenging thing on our agenda.
I break eye contact first.
“Listen,” Felix says, and I reflexively tense. It sounds like he’s about to let me down gently. It’s not you, it’s me. I need someone with a higher GPA. “I didn’t like him, but that doesn’t mean I wanted anything bad to happen to him.”
I’m nodding before he finishes, grateful he put it into words so I don’t have to. “Same.”
“It’s not like I want bad things to happen to other people,” he clarifies, though for once I haven’t been assuming the worst. “Especially not, you know, the ultimate bad thing.”
I nod again. There’s no need for either of us to say the D word out loud.
“I can’t even imagine hating another person so much you wish they’d …
not be alive anymore. Especially now that—” Felix trails off, but I get it.
Being in the same room with death changes your perspective.
I hadn’t even been to a funeral before this, or at least not the kind with an open casket.
There was a memorial open house for one of our neighbors a few years ago, but Mom and I only stayed long enough to drop off a casserole, and a photo collage doesn’t hit the same way.
I should probably say something comforting, but I can’t think of any helpful words, so I reach out and lightly touch his shoulder instead.
It’s less knobby than I’m expecting. I’m pondering whether to do more of a pat-pat or a squeeze when we hear footsteps approaching.
I have the irrational urge to hide, only there’s nowhere to go and no time.
And we’re definitely not doing anything shady—a fact I try to convey with my extra-bright smile as Malia comes into view.
“Oh!” She stops at the sight of us, one hand pressed to her chest while the other jerks behind her back.
I guess she doesn’t want us to notice the trash bag she’s carrying.
Maybe it’s one of those old-fashioned etiquette things, like not wearing white shoes after Labor Day.
Don’t let other people look at your garbage; it’s uncouth. “I didn’t see you there.”
Felix offers a stiff wave, barely moving his arm.
“I’ll leave you to your, ahem.” She makes a circle with her chin. Whatever that means.
My smile is so fixed, I’ll probably have to soak it in warm water to get it off my face. We watch Malia go, shuffling sideways to keep her body between us and the white bag she’s still hiding.
“That was weird,” Felix mutters once she’s out of sight. “Do you think she thought we were—”
“Maybe,” I interrupt, because there’s no point giving the idea more oxygen. “Or she could have had something embarrassing in the trash.” Especially since she went all the way outside (presumably to the dumpster) instead of using the black cans in the kitchen.
“Like … for her period?” It sounds like Felix is trying to act mature and evolved, but the fiery blush tells a different story.
“She’s in her seventies.” When he continues to stare at me blankly, I sigh. “Have you ever seen a pregnant eighty-year-old? No. Because eventually that stuff stops happening.” To make an uncomfortable conversation even worse, I wave a hand at my abdomen. Right here, Felix! Menstruation central!
“Huh. They didn’t cover that in Bio II. Too busy explaining photosynthesis. Again.” He shakes himself. “What do you think it was? In the bag?”
“Fish, maybe? Or a smelly cheese rind. But I guess it could be adult diapers.” Grandma Lainey says it’s important to find a balance between “constant vigilance” and “can’t be helped” by the time you hit fifty, because the human body is a fickle mistress, always ready to betray you in new and uncomfortable ways.
Not that we need to talk more about bodily functions.
“I heard your mom got married,” he says out of the blue.
“Yeah.” I can’t decide if a shrug would be overselling, so I leave it at that. As much as I wanted a subject change, this is not it.
“You and your stepdad don’t get along?” Felix lowers his voice and looks away, like that will make his prying more tactful.
“It’s not a big deal. He’s fine, I’m fine, it’s whatever. No one’s going to make an inspirational movie about it.”