All I Ever Wanted Read online

  “Doesn’t it look so pretty, Auntie?” asked Josephine grabbing my hand. Today, my five-year-old niece was dressed like a tiny, trashy pop star, fishnet vest over leopard leotard, ruffled pink skirt and flip-flops.

  “So pretty,” I answered, smiling down at her. “Almost as pretty as you.” She beamed up at me, showing me her adorable, tiny teeth, and I touched her button nose.

  The Serenity Room was strewn with pink and yellow streamers. Matching balloons drifted lazily past the stained-glass window depicting Lazarus coming forth from the tomb, and a table holding my birthday cake sat up in front, where the casket usually went. Bronte had made a big sign that said, “Happy 30th, Callie!”

  The room was filled with an array of friends and relatives, as well as a couple of rather confused-looking people who were probably here for the wake in the Tranquility Room. There was Freddie, my brother, who was taking a year off from Tufts University, where he seemed to be majoring in skipping classes and drinking. He raised a glass to me and I waved fondly. My sister, built like a strong rhino, towered over him in full lecture mode, judging from the glazed look in his eyes. Pete and Leila, my fused-at-the-hip coworkers, surveyed the cheese tray (thank God for Cabot’s!).

  “Happy birthday, Calliope,” came a low and very silken voice behind me. My uterus seemed to shrivel as my blood ran icy cold. “You look very beautiful today. Perfect, in fact.”

  “Thanks, Louis,” I murmured, immediately glancing around desperately for a sibling or parent or friend (or priest, just in case it was true and that Louis was a ghoul who needed to be exorcised by an agent of Christ).

  Louis Pinser was my mother’s mortuarial assistant, and quite beloved by Mom and Mom alone. Since her children had all refused to go into the family business, she’d had to look elsewhere. Elsewhere (somewhere damp and underground, I imagined) yielded Louis, a tall, chubby man with a receding hairline, slightly bulging green eyes and the requisite deep and soothing (and terrifying) voice of a funeral director. Once I’d overheard him in the bathroom reciting, “I’m so sorry for your loss, I’m so sorry for your loss.” Needless to say, he found me very attractive. All the weird ones did.

  “I’d like to take you out to celebrate properly,” he murmured, dropping his gaze to my breasts. He held up his drink to his mouth, and his tongue darted out, seeking but not finding the straw as he continued to stare at my boobs. Blerk!

  “Ah. Well. That’s nice of you,” I said. “But I’m so…it’s been a crazy…you know. Work. Stuff. What’s that?” I pretended to hear something. “Yes, Hester? You need me? Sure!” With that, I bounded out into the foyer, where my sister had just gone, and took a few deep breaths. Being around Louis always made me want to run out into the sunlight and play with puppies.

  “No, you can’t straighten your hair,” Hester was saying to her older daughter. “Next question?”

  Bronte turned to me. “Don’t you think a teenager should be able to do what she wants with her hair?” she asked, hoping for solidarity.

  “Um…Mother knows best?” I suggested.

  “You try being the only black kid in school,” Bronte muttered. “Let alone having this stupid name.”

  “Hey,” I said. “You’re talking to Aunt Calliope here, named for Homer’s muse. No sympathy on the name.”

  “And I was named after the slut in The Scarlet Letter,” Hester said. “At least you have a cool author’s name. Which, once again, I didn’t even pick, as you well know.” Bronte had been seven when Hester adopted her. Though my sister was a fertility doctor and could’ve had her children the old-fashioned way (artificial insemination, that is), she’d adopted both her children. Bronte’s biological father had been African-American, her birth mother was Korean, and the result was a stunningly beautiful girl. But as Vermont is the whitest state in the union, she felt her difference keenly, especially since she’d hit adolescence, when looking like everyone else is so important. Josephine, on the other hand, was white and looked very much like Hester, which was pure coincidence.

  “Well, I’m changing my name to Sheniqua when I’m sixteen,” Bronte said, narrowing her eyes at her mother and me.

  “I love it,” Hester answered calmly, which caused Bronte to flounce off. My sister glanced at me. “You doing okay?” she asked.

  “Oh, sure,” I lied, though the question made my heart squeeze. “Much better. Thanks for listening earlier.”

  At that moment, my mother came out of the Tranquility Room. “Did you girls happen to see Mr. Paulson?” she asked, referring to the man whose wake was currently under way. “Gorgeous work. That Louis is so talented.” She bustled off.

  “Happy birthday, Callie,” said Pete, emerging from the Serenity Room, his lady love firmly welded to his side. “We’d love to stay…”

  “…but we need to go,” finished Leila. She glanced nervously at the other room, where we could just glimpse Mr. Paulson in his casket.

  “Thanks for coming, guys.” I smiled gamely.

  “Callie, when does Muriel start?” Pete asked.

  At the name, my face ignited. “Don’t know,” I said, feigning a lack of interest. The young lovers exchanged a look. Poor Callie. Let’s pretend we don’t know about her and Mark.

  “See you Monday, Callie,” Pete said at the same time Leila murmured, “Have a nice weekend.”

  Off they went, into the sunshine and fresh air. Before the door closed, a most welcome sight appeared.

  “Come on outside,” my best friend said. “I have wine, and it’s gorgeous. We’re not sitting in a fucking funeral home on your birthday.” Despite the fact that Annie was a school librarian, she swore like a drunken pirate when young ears were not around, which made me love her all the more.

  The air was dry and sweet outside, and Annie was indeed clutching a bottle and a few paper cups. She gave me a quick hug, then trotted around the side of Misinski’s to the pretty backyard of my childhood.

  “Hallo, what’ve we got here? Nipping off? Abdicating the throne, Callie?”

  Annie grimaced. “Hi!” I said. “Join us, Fleur. It’s so nice out.”

  Fleur and Annie were both my friends. Well, Annie was in a different class, as we’d known each other for eons. But she’d married her childhood sweetheart at the age of twenty-three and had Seamus, my darling godson, a year later, and was blissfully happy. Fleur was single, like me, and we occasionally had drinks or lunch and commiserated over the single life. Due to three weeks spent in England during college, Fleur spoke with a varying British accent and could be quite funny. The two women didn’t quite like each other, which I found rather flattering.

  The three of us sat at the picnic table Mom still kept under the big maple in the backyard, though to the best of my knowledge, no one ate out here anymore. A wood thrush sang overhead, and a chickadee surveyed us wisely.

  “So. Fuck all about Mark and Muriel, eh?” Fleur lit an English Oval and took a drag, then exhaled in a stream away from Annie and me.

  “Yeah,” I said, gratefully accepting the paper cup of wine from Annie.

  “You’re better off without him,” Annie said firmly, handing Fleur a cup, then pouring one for herself. She’d endured a long e-mail from me earlier this afternoon with all the details of my misery. “He’s an ass-wipe.”

  I sighed. “The thing is, he’s not,” I told Annie.

  “He’s really not,” Fleur echoed.

  “Callie, I’m sorry. I hate him. He dumped you, made up some bullshit line about timing, and now he’s seeing another woman! Ass. Wipe.” She glared at Fleur and me over her gold-rimmed glasses.

  “Okay, you have a point,” I conceded. “But those are just the details. Mark’s…he’s…” I sighed. “Kind of perfect.”

  “Christly, you’re defending him,” Annie muttered. “You’re pathetic.”

  “You sound like my grandfather,” I said.

  “Right, well, not everyone gets to marry their little Prince Charming from third grade, yeah?” Fleur said to Annie.
“For the rest of us, there’s a limited pool. Mark’s pretty great compared to what-all else is out there. And if he’s the love of Callie’s life, I say go for it, Callie. Take no prisoners.”

  “Well, I think you can do much better,” Annie said loyally. “And Fleur, I forget. How long did you live in England?”

  Fleur narrowed her eyes. “A good bit of time,” she said tightly.

  “You just have to get out there, Callie. Find someone else,” Annie said.

  “Or better yet,” Fleur said, “win him back. Remind him of how fab you are. Find some man, make Mark screamingly jealous and bam! You’re back in.”

  Though I’d thought the same thing earlier, I said nothing.

  “Nope. Leave him in the dust, Callie,” Annie countered. “You deserve better. Write that down and tape it to your mirror. ‘I deserve better than the ass-wipe formerly known as Mark.’”

  “You need to get laid, Calorie?” my brother asked, appearing at the back door. “My buddies back at school think you’re hot. You could be a cougar, how’s that?”

  “I’m too young to be a cougar,” I said. “I’m only thirty! Besides, I want someone who doesn’t live with his mom.” I turned to my friends. “Is Gerard Butler single?”

  “Setting your sights a bit high,” Fleur murmured. Hmmph.

  “How about Kevin Youkilis?” Freddie suggested, joining us. “Then we could get Sox tickets.”

  “Nah,” Annie said. “He has a lightbulb head. Consider your nieces and nephews, Freddie. Oh! How about the center-fielder, the cute one. Ellsbury? Now he’s hot!”

  As my friends and brother suggested increasingly ridiculous choices for my new boyfriend, my brain was busy. Annie was right. I had to get over Mark. For months now, a stone had been sitting on my heart. I’d shed a lot of tears over Mark Rousseau, lost a lot of sleep, eaten a lot of cake batter. Somehow, I had to move on. Work would be hell if I didn’t shake loose from the grip he had on my heart. I most definitely didn’t want to keep feeling this way, alone in a love affair meant for two.

  Even if he’d felt like The One. Even if I’d always thought we’d end up together. Even if he still had a choke chain on my heart.

  CHAPTER THREE

  UPON RETURNING HOME that night, I tripped over an appendage, an all too common experience for me. “Noah,” I called out, “if you don’t start picking up your legs, I’m going to bludgeon you with one of them.”

  My grandfather’s rusty voice came from the living room. “That’s right. Pick on the poor cripple.”

  “You think I’m kidding, old man?” I asked.

  Bowie, my husky mutt, came leaping into the kitchen, singing with joy and canine love, his tail whacking me, great clumps of fur falling to the ground. “Hello, Bowie,” I crooned back at him in my special dog voice. “Yes, I love you, too! Yes, I do! I love you, handsome!” When Bowie had licked me, nipped my chin and turned in a dozen or so frenzied circles, he raced back into the living room. I picked up Noah’s leg and followed my faithful dog.

  “The doctor said you need to wear this,” I said, bending to kiss my grandfather’s bearded cheek.

  “Fuck the doctor,” Noah said amiably. His stump was propped on some pillows.

  “Watch your language, Grumpy,” I said. “Is your leg giving you trouble?”

  “My lack of leg is giving me trouble,” he retorted. “But no more than usual.” He rubbed the stump idly, not taking his eyes from the television screen.

  Noah was a boat builder, the founder and sole operator of Noah’s Arks (a name I’d thought up when I was four and something I was still pretty proud of). His boats were the stuff of legend—beautiful wooden rowboats, kayaks and canoes, each one made from Noah’s design, by Noah’s hand, selling for thousands of dollars apiece. Up here in the Northeast Kingdom, where the rivers ran wild, he was pretty much a god.

  Unfortunately, he’d suffered a small stroke two years ago. Even more unfortunately, he’d been holding a running radial saw at the time, and the result was a cut so bad that his leg had to be amputated just above the knee. At a family meeting, the doctor had recommended an assisted living facility for seniors. Noah, who’d lived alone since my grandmother had died years ago, had gone white. Without forethought, I found myself offering to live with him for a while ’til he got used to his new situation. And though the curmudgeonly old bastard would never say so, I liked to think he appreciated it.

  Noah was watching a Deadliest Catch rerun. We both loved reality TV, but this one was our favorite. As the hardy Alaskans battled it out on the Bering Sea, I sat on the couch, Bowie leaping neatly up beside me and laying his beautiful gray and white head in my lap, blinking up at me in adoration. My dog had one brown eye, one blue, which I found very appealing. I made a kissing noise at him, and his ridiculously cute triangle ears swiveled toward me, as if I were about to tell him the most important news ever. “You,” I said, “are a very good dog.” Because really, what message could be more important than that?

  Glancing around, I saw that Noah, as usual, had ignored my pleas to keep our place tidy. Newspapers were strewn around his chair, as well as a bowl filled with a puddle of melted ice cream and an empty beer bottle. Yummy.

  Noah and I lived in an old mill building, half of which was his workshop, the other half our living quarters. The downstairs housed the kitchen, a den and a huge great room with forty-foot ceilings and massive rafters. The great room was circled by a second-floor catwalk, off which were two bedrooms. My own was quite big and sunny, with plenty of space for my bed, a desk and my rocking chair, which was set in front of two wide windows that overlooked the Trout River. I also had a gorgeous bathroom, complete with Jacuzzi and separate shower. Noah was down the hall from me and mercifully had his own bathroom. There’s only so much a granddaughter will put up with.

  At the commercial break, Noah hit Mute. “So? You have a good time?”

  I hesitated. “Um…well, the party was at the funeral home. Mom and Dad were there. It was fine.”

  “Sounds like a shit bath to me,” he said.

  “You were right to stay home,” I confirmed. Noah avoided family get-togethers as if they were hotbeds of ebola. He wasn’t exactly close with my father, his son. Dad’s brother, Remy, had died in a car accident at age twenty, and I gathered from the little Dad said that Remy was the type of son Noah had expected: rugged, quiet, good with his hands. My father, on the other hand, had spent his life schmoozing people as a drug sales rep. And, of course, there was my parents’ divorce. Noah, who had adored my grandmother and nursed her through the horrors of pancreatic cancer, fiercely disapproved. “I brought you some cake, though,” I added.

  “Knew I kept you around for a reason,” he said. “Here.” He reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a little hand-carved animal…a dog. A husky.

  “Oh! Thank you, Noah!” I gave him a kiss, which he tolerated with a mere grumble. He’d been making his grandchildren—and great-grandchildren—these little animals all our lives. I had quite a collection.

  “You seem down,” Noah observed. This was deep in Dr. Phil territory from a man who didn’t spend a whole lot of time navel-gazing…in fact, Noah was the least sentimental person I’d ever met. He never spoke of my uncle Remy, but there was a picture of him in Noah’s room, the one thing that never needed dusting. When Gran died—I was six at the time—Noah didn’t shed a single tear, but his sorrow was palpable. I’d drawn him a card every week for months to try to cheer him up. Even when the bandages came off his leg for the first time, his only comment was, “Fuckin’ foolish.” No self-pity, no maudlin mourning of his limb. To comment on my emotional state…shocking.

  I stared at him, but he didn’t look away from the muted television set. “Um…no. I’m fine.” I glanced at my wrist. Still wearing Mark’s gift, loser that I was. “Noah, I’m thinking I should probably find a…” the word boyfriend sounded so lame “…a special someone.” Ooh. Not much better. Far worse, in fact. “Care to share the wisdom of you
r long life?”

  “Don’t do it,” he said. “Nothing but heartache and misery.” Underneath his white beard (Noah looked like a malnourished, possibly homeless Santa), his mouth twitched. “You can live here forever and take care of me.”

  “And I do so love taking care of you,” I said. “How about a nice enema before bed?”

  “Watch your mouth, smart-ass,” he said.

  “Hey. Be sweet to me. I turned thirty today,” I reminded him. Bowie licked my hand, then turned on his back so I could see that his big white belly was just lying there, all alone and unrubbed.

  “On second thought, ’twouldn’t hurt for you to get a move on with life, Callie,” Noah said unexpectedly. “Don’t have to stay here forever.”

  “Who else would put up with you?” I asked.

  “Got a point there. You gonna talk all night, or can I watch Johnathan save this guy?”

  “I’m going to bed. You need anything?”

  “I’m fine, sweetheart.” He dragged his eyes off the TV. “Happy birthday, pretty girl.”

  I paused. “Wow. It’s that bad?”

  His beard twitched. “Cahn’t say I didn’t try.”

  A few minutes later, washed and brushed and in my comfiest jammies (pink-and-yellow striped shorts, yellow cami), I was sitting in my rocking chair. Turning thirty was a momentous event in a woman’s life. Also, I needed to…I don’t know. Process things. And there was no better place to process anything than my Morelock chair, which I’d received twenty-two years ago to this very day.

  There are two halves of Vermont—Old Vermont and New. Old Vermont was made up of crusty, rugged people who dropped their Rs and owned the same American-made pickup truck for thirty years, didn’t feel the cold and were immune to blackflies. Noah was Old, of course…he might not speak to his neighbor, but he’d cut and stack five cords of wood if that neighbor became sick. New Vermont…well, they were people who drove Volvos and Priuses, owned expensive hiking boots and hung out their laundry as a political statement as much as to get the clothes dry. They were friendly and cheerful…not like Noah at all, in other words.