Dying for Chocolate

“Here,” he said as he handed me The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe. “All the parents are supposed to read along so you can help with the final project. There’s a note inside,” he indicated a mimeographed sheet, “that explains the project. The teacher’s really nice, she’ll talk to you about the different projects, if you want.”

Julian honked again and Arch whipped out the front door. Behind them, Adele and the general waved from the back of the Range Rover. I opened the sheet Arch had given me. It detailed all my Poe homework: Read two short stories. Discuss them with your child. Develop ideas for projects. You could make a model of a gold bug. Sure. You could make a tape of the beating of a telltale heart. Uh-huh.

I wondered if the teacher would like to be a caterer. What was I paying tuition for, anyway? Oh yes. Arch said she was nice.

The phone was ringing in the kitchen. It was the Audubon Society. Would I please have the general call about an outing? Was it this Saturday, the eleventh, that he wanted? You bet I’d have him call. I wanted to add, You and General Farquhar have nothing in common, but refrained. Instead, I stabbed the block of frozen soup so that it would heat more quickly. I had an hour before I had to rush off to do the barbecue for George Rumslinger’s ranch hands and staff.

I put the phone recorder on and did a yoga centering exercise. Arch had a girlfriend and wanted two hundred dollars for a magician’s costume. Adele needed lunch for two before I did a picnic for forty. There was going to be another rotten review in the Mountain Journal. I needed to call my lawyer about the name change. I had a birding expedition and picnic to plan, while Edgar Allan Poe homework awaited me. I chewed the inside of my cheek. How much worse could things get?

The phone rang and I listened to the message as it recorded. It was Marla.

The funeral for Philip Miller was at two P.M. the next day.

Somehow, I finished the cooking and set the table on the Farquhars’ covered porch. I banished thoughts about the funeral, went out to the garage and found a small pair of pruning shears next to the camping equipment. The new flowering plants Julian and General Bo had put into the smoothed-over garden crater yielded an acceptable arrangement for the luncheon with the Irascible Rasmussen. Adele and the general arrived in convoy with my van.

My van! The grille seemed to grin at me like an old friend. I started it up, checked the bungee cords that would hold the food on racks, checked to make sure the glove compartment still held my safety kit, with its bandages, sunscreen, instructions for doing the Heimlich maneuver in case someone choked, and my little bottle of ipecac, in case, God forbid, someone ate something he shouldn’t.

I tried to think positive thoughts as I drove to the Rumslinger ranch. Sure enough, the barbecue was an enormous success. George Rumslinger was a country-music star who had moved to Aspen Meadow and spent hundreds of thousands of dollars establishing a cattle ranch. The hands loved him not only for the good pay but because they regularly were treated to food and song. They pulled on the pony keg of Coors and dug heartily into the hills of barbecued chicken and ribs, bowls and baskets of salads and rolls, and stacks of Scout’s Brownies. Highlight of the day was when Rumslinger serenaded the crowd with his new hit remake of “I’m Just Roadkill on the Highway of Love.”

The foreman paid in cash and gave me a fifty-dollar tip. He was feeling so good he even asked if I had a favorite charity. In the spirit of killing two birds with one stone I mentioned the Elk Park Prep Pool project. I pointed out how good the decal would look on the rear window of his pickup truck.

He said, “Pretty ritzy school for the son of a caterer.”

I placed the cash in my zip bag and said nothing. If he wanted a decal, he could get it himself.

The black-capped chickadee’s plaintive song woke me Tuesday, the morning of Philip’s funeral. Adele had given me the day off from cooking and answering the phone. It was wonderful to be free. Part of the message from Marla was that some of us would gather before the service at Elizabeth’s house. When I was there Elizabeth said the two of us must get together soon. I nodded. Then we all took off for the Episcopal church. Even a latter-day hippie could revert to the faith of her childhood when facing the burial of a brother.

Into your hands, O Lord, we commend our brother, Philip.