Here's the next installment:
* * *
So now Lottie was in the ground. On
a lovely spring day, the air ringing with flocks of tweeting birds and scented
with the aroma of freshly mown grass on the groomed grounds of St. Ann’s
cemetery, Anderson Hot watched Lottie Hot laid to rest. It was appalling to
Hot. The visceral wrench upon the lowering of the casket was the final straw.
Nauseated, Lot had to remain seated until most of the crowd had dispersed. The
whole post-death process was unspeakably macabre and grotesque to Hot, and he
had had enough. But still it wasn’t over. Upon arriving home there were throngs
to meet and comfort--friends of Lottie who never had two words to say to Hot
were suddenly embracing him. Crying over him and assuring him that “whatever he
needed” they were ready and able to provide. Swarms of people, all of whom
moshed on the appearance of the deceased’s parents, unleashing another storm of
mother-in-law tears. So many tears from so many people and somehow Maggie’s
wailing grew lustier and increasingly theatrical as the onslaught of guests swelled.
Emily, arriving just in time for the
funeral, looked spooked by the proceedings and couldn’t stop hugging and
clinging to her dad and siblings. She was accompanied by a tall, well-dressed
guy whom Hot assumed was her next heartbreak and who hung back by the kitchen
while the uproar of visitors swelled. Margot collected her dad, sister and
brother and installed them by the front door. This was sensible because it
formed a kind of greeting line, so that the Hot family could receive each guest
one at a time, accept their condolences and move things along in an orderly
fashion.
Margot had a lot of her mother in
her. It made it easy for Hot, who could respond to each individual with a tragic
smile and a quick nod of the head without uttering a word.
“Dad! Dad! Mr. Bellini was talking
to you,” Margot cried.
“Oh, sorry,” said Hot, who had
allowed himself to zone out as the line moved along and a rhythm established.
“Yes Marco.”
“We’re going to name something after
Lottie. I’m not sure what yet but we’re thinking the Borough Hall or possibly a
new scholarship in her name. This town will never forget everything Lottie Hot
has done through the years--such a legacy!” said Marco Bellini as tears
streaked down his cheeks. That exhortation was overheard by the masses and the
room spontaneously burst into applause.
Hot nodded. Lottie Hot was the FDR
of West Stemper. The Gandhi of West Stemper. The Abraham Lincoln of West
Stemper. How was the town going to survive without its mighty pillar? How was
he, Anderson Hot, going to survive without his own mighty pillar? His boredom
and sadness was gradually replaced by a surging tide of helplessness. Each of
his kids asked the same thing over the past two days: “Daddy, what are you
going to do without mom?” Hot understood. The question was not rhetorical. What
was Hot going to do?
“Cmon, Emily, let’s get some food.”
He took his daughter’s hand and weaved through the masses to the dining room
where he considered the enormous spread donated by the neighbors, various
guests, and assorted well-wishers.
“Okay, Dad. But please don’t
criticize…”
“I’ll try.” But it was hard. It was the usual. Creamy
mayonnaise-y potato salad with over-cooked Yukon Gold potatoes, zero-spicing,
and a weird granular mouth feel; an assortment of flavorless canned olives and
pickles; gloppy lasagna with mushy noodles, Ragu spaghetti sauce, and packaged
mozzarella; a shrimp ring with soggy undersized shrimp and spicy catsup for
sauce; shiny dinner rolls the texture of Styrofoam; an overcooked roast beef as
tough as a puppy’s chew toy; a store-bought platter of aging, curling
vegetables, some with a curious white glaze indicating excessive refrigeration
and meant to be dipped in a white concoction that Hot surmised as Miracle Whip
masquerading as a ranch-style dressing. There were bowls with M & M’s,
salty salty salty assorted nuts, hummus with a slightly rancid aftertaste
paired with water crackers that had lost their snap; unspeakably soggy rice
pudding, runny chocolate pudding, sliced turkey breast with a thin layer of
slime, pale tomato slices, and lots of French’s mustard. A fatty meatloaf of underdone chuck and
pocked with balls of semi-cooked white bread to extend…the chuck. No hint of
herbs, spices, eggs or even bread crumbs. And there was the macaroni and
cheese--how do you blow macaroni and cheese? thought Hot. But there it was.
Undercooked elbows, totally un-sharp store brand cheddar, too much skim
milk…and that’s how it went.
“Nothing to eat,” said Hot.
“Dad, you promised,” said Emily. “It
was very considerate of everyone to pitch in with the food. We have very
generous friends. Look, at least take some meatloaf and a few carrots.”
Hot looked stricken. The mere
suggestion from Emily led to involuntary intestinal contractions, but he
carefully perused the spread to find something relatively less offensive to
satisfy the urgings of his daughter. The fact that he wasn’t especially hungry
was beside the point.
“Oh good, so glad to see you
eating,” said a large blond woman who Hot couldn’t place. “It’s the thing when
these tragedies happen--people keep wanting to feed the widow, or widower,
whatever the case. When my Harvey passed, people kept trying to stuff food down
my throat, but I was so messed up it was weeks before my appetite returned. But
it’s great to see you with a plate in your hand.”
“I’m not really hungry,” said Hot.
“See what I mean? That’s
smart--looking like you’re eating something just to keep people off your back.
And look--you got shrimp cocktail. And a homemade meatloaf. This is an amazing
spread! Can I help you with your plate?”
“No, that’s okay, I can manage. Go
ahead, you help yourself. The food shouldn’t stay out for more than an hour.
It’s not safe.”
“I know. Let me get you some wine. I
think someone brought some Barefoot blush. The good stuff. I found that it
helped when Harvey passed. Couldn’t keep the stuff in the house the first few
weeks. In fact, I guess you could say it became something of an issue. But I
met some really good people at the meetings in the church.”
“Thank you, that’s good to know. But
I have to apologize. I’m not sure that I remember who you are. I know I should,
but..”
“Oh, how silly of me. I’m so sorry,
Anderson. I’m Sandy Springer, Lottie’s hair colorist. Of course you wouldn’t
know me. Been doing Lottie’s hair now for more than 30 years--you know she told
me her mom started going gray in her twenties, so poor Lottie inherited the
gene. “I’ll miss Lottie so much--such a sweet lady.”
“So will I,” broke in an elderly
gent who Hot also couldn’t place. He wore a rumpled three- piece brown suit and
brown fedora with a small duck feather sticking out. “Best mayor this town ever
had--and we need her now more than ever. I should know, I was the mayor of this
town before passing the torch to your wonderful wife. I’m sorry for your loss,
Mr. Hot.”
Hot nodded and shook the man’s weak
veiny hand. “We’ll all miss Lottie, me especially,” said Hot. And to his
chagrin, he saw others queuing behind former Mayor Lipinski and Hot had a
feeling it wasn’t to have at the buffet, but to reiterate their fond tidings
regarding his dead wife, express their “sorrow for your loss,” and the well
exercised “thoughts and prayers,” but Hot had had enough. People who mean well
can often be the worst people of all, and three days of well-meaning people was
becoming a kind of recurring purgatory for Hot. He looked past Mayor Lipinski,
down at the macaroni and cheese, back at the gathering line, down at the
macaroni and cheers. He put down his plate and picked up the casserole and
politely excused himself. With Emily on his heels, Hot made his way to the
kitchen, turned on the oven and pulled out his large Le Creuset casserole dish
and dumped the contents of the mac and cheese into it.
“Dad?”
“I’m fixing this.”
“No, you’re not cooking. The mac and
cheese is fine.”
“No, it’s not. Can you grab the
ground mustard?”
“Dad, you’re not making your
macaroni and cheese.”
“No, not exactly, we don’t have any
Brussel sprouts in the house and we’re out of Worcester Sauce, but I think I
can rescue this.” Hot rifled open his spice drawer and pulled out the white
pepper, onion powder, and dried parsley. He melted butter in a small sauce pan
and measured out some milk, shredded cheddar and a couple of tablespoons of
flour, whisking with a heavy hand until he whipped up a roux. He had a low
flame under the casserole, to which he added the cheese sauce in hopes of
softening the noodles and integrating additional flavor elements.
“You got to go back in the living room,
Dad. People are here to see you--you can’t be rude to them. You’re just trying
to hide, right? Please, it will be over soon enough.” Emily’s hands were on her
hips as she tried to remain stern even as her dad expertly prepared her
favorite dish. Emily loved her dad through his food. He was never much for hugs
and kisses and long talks at bedtime. He connected to his youngest in the
kitchen and she knew she couldn’t stop him--his safe place. Their safe place
since a very young age, when the first thing he taught her was how to make the
perfect egg-in-the-hole-in-the-bread. At the age of seven, he schooled her on scrupulous
flame management--the key to a perfectly cooked egg while simultaneously
producing a golden-brown slice of bread. Even though her mom was not a big fan of high
flame and broilers for a child in the second grade.
“I’m not hiding,” lied Hot. “If
people are going to take time out of their day to pay their respects, the least
we can do is provide at least a single edible dish. I need some chili sauce.
Fortunately, I roasted some peppers last week, they’re in the Ball jar in the
fridge if you could grab some of those, too.”
“Maybe some garlic?” offered Emily.
“I don’t think for this crowd.” Hot
finished finished the top of the simmering dish with Italian seasoned bread
crumbs and shavings of sharp provolone. He then placed it under the broiler
until the top was browned and bubbling.
“Dad, are you ready?” asked Emily.
“It looks great.”
“Yeah, my public awaits.”
