The Quick-Change Artist: Stories

The Blue Monkey

The Blue Monkey AFTER MY HUSBAND Ed and I lost our only child, our daughter Cyndy, we were invited to join a supper club. People felt sorry for us. We don’t belong in a supper club. That’s for lawyers and surgeons, people like that. I didn’t want to join, but Ed insisted. The pressures of the supper club are enormous. You have to serve the right wines, plural, with the right flowers and music and china. You have to have the right talk, about travel. My husband Ed, the sheriff, is called a lawman by these people, a title they pronounce archly and which he relishes. They love his stories. They make exceptions to the travel talk, for him. When it was our turn to host, I served Seafood Newburg made from imitation crab, along with green rice, the kind with chopped parsley and chicken bouillon cubes, and my best dessert, chocolate pudding layered with toasted nuts and Cool Whip. Rosé wine all evening.  Mimsy, a lawyer’s wife, took me aside and said, “Why not serve canned spaghetti or tuna sandwiches? Rent a karaoke machine?” Only the curling fury in her voice gave her away. Those Botoxed faces look so reasonable. “You have to admit it was good,” I said. “Next time it’ll be oven-fried chicken, coated in instant potato flakes, and a cold salad made with LeSeur peas and Wish-Bone dressing.” Bereavement makes me untouchable. Mimsy said, “Oh, God, you’re fixing her favorite foods, aren’t you? Your daughter ’s favorites? I’ll clean up, Helen. It’s okay.” The kitchen door swung open, and there was my lover, Buddy, turning in his dessert plate and risking a kiss on my cheek. His wife is the best cook in the club. They both teach history at the college and give tours of historic Cedar Mount, their beautiful home. Buddy said to me, “That was a classic meal. Don’t you ever go faddish on us.” This was a dig at Mimsy, who cooks Thai. “If you ever serve tapas, Helen, honey, you’re out of the club.” “Nobody talks about tapas anymore,” said Mimsy. Loading the dishwasher, she gave the impression of dumping bodies into a trench. “Passé. Like Veal Oscar, or endive. Or watermelon with kirsch.” “You’ve done enough, Mimsy,” I said, and eased her and Buddy both out the swinging door. Buddy said over his shoulder, “Cool Whip tastes as good as crème fraîche. Better.” He mouthed, “Tomorrow?” And I nodded. Anything that wasn’t already loaded in the dishwasher, I threw away—wineglasses, salad forks I’d borrowed from Mimsy, and a platter I’d have had to wash by hand. That didn’t suit me, a big wasteful gesture. The next morning I fished everything out of the trash and washed and dried it.  The Quick-Change Artist What is it like to be married to the sheriff? Used to be, when I heard of a jailbreak, I took a wrapped sandwich and a dollar bill to the end of my driveway and left them on the road. Today an armed robber named Pigram got out of prison in the morning, and by lunchtime Ed had arrested him again. Pigram was at home. Who can blame somebody for just going home? But I don’t leave sandwiches and money on the road anymore. Cyndy would have liked the story of Pigram. She’d have said, “Awww” about Ed’s finding him at home. Our daughter, who sculpted in light, whose blue monkey neon sign I see at a popular bar every time I drive to town: when she was a child, she used to walk with me to drop off the sandwich and the dollar bill. The bar—the Blue Monkey—is shutting down. The manager has agreed to sell me the blue neon monkey that Cyndy made. It’s the most valuable thing in the place. Come get it today, the manager said, because tonight, after the last drink is sold, that’s it. Otherwise it’ll go at auction, along with the glasses, the stools, and the big TV. I’ll pay him an extraordinary sum for the blue monkey, but gladly. Cyndy was proud of it. Somebody always got the sandwiches and the money that Cyndy and I left on the road. Was it you? Cyndy and I asked...