Major Vices Read online

  But the war wasn’t over; the truce was tenuous. Judith knew that the twenty yards of garden that separated Joe and Gertrude was really a demilitarized zone. She wished it were not so.

  Over the rim of her highball glass, Renie gave Judith a sympathetic look. Two years apart in age, the cousins were without siblings. A mere three blocks had separated them while growing up, and the emotional distance was even closer. Judith and Renie could almost read each other’s minds.

  “You’ve done your best, coz,” Renie declared. “It was hell on wheels when we had to move my mother out of her house and into the apartment a few years back. You remember. But we had no choice. She simply couldn’t manage on her own once she had to stay in the wheelchair.”

  Judith nodded in sympathy. While Renie’s mother didn’t have Gertrude’s sharp tongue, she was a world-class whiner. “Getting old is the pits,” Judith said, “but being middle-aged isn’t always a lot of fun, either. Between Mike at one end and Mother at the other, I feel like sandwich filling. When I was young, I figured that by the time I reached my late forties, life ought to have smoothed out, with some sort of watershed before—”

  The phone interrupted Judith. She got off the sofa and went over to the extension on a small cherry-wood table. If her frown hadn’t told Renie and Joe that the call wasn’t welcome, her words would have conveyed the message:

  “Of course, Aunt Toadie…Yes, we can do that…No, we don’t wear uniforms…Well, we’d have to rent them and charge you for…No, I’m never asked to do that…A skit?…I don’t think so. Why don’t you hire a couple of actors? Yes…yes…yes…no. Right, thanks for calling. ’Bye.” Judith slammed the phone down and stalked back to the sofa. “Witch. She wants us to wear uniforms and put on a little play about the beginnings of the Major Mush Company. I’ll bet she wants to see me dressed up as a bag of oats.”

  “Oh, Gawd!” Renie collapsed against the sofa and rolled her eyes. “You did say no, didn’t you?”

  Judith’s black eyes snapped at Renie. “You heard me. Of course I said no. If she wants a skit, she can hire somebody—or get her loathsome daughter, Trixie, to do it. If anybody can play a part, it’s that phony baggage. She’s acted her way through more divorce hearings than the Gabor sisters.”

  “Trixie!” Renie was now looking appalled. “She’ll be there, too?” She saw Judith nod. “Which husband is it now? I stopped counting at Rafe Longrod, or whatever his name was.”

  “The Porno King?” Judith shook her head. “She dumped him a year or so ago. He was Number Three, officially. Trixie’s engaged, as she so quaintly puts it when she’s between legal mates, to some guy named Mason Meade. I think he’s into concrete.”

  “That makes sense,” mused Joe. “The last time I ate a bowl of Major Mush, it tasted like concrete.”

  Judith gave her husband a mocking glance. “Your palate is too refined, my darling. The unwashed masses have been slopping up Major Mush since World War One. Uncle Boo’s grandfather started out with a few acres of corn in the Midwest a hundred years ago, bought up more land, sowed more crops, and hauled in big bucks during the glory years of the American farmer. Then his son got the bright idea of starting his own breakfast cereal company. Dunlop Major founded his mush business in Minneapolis in 1918, made a killing, and retired to the Pacific Northwest. I guess he couldn’t stand the cold winters and the hot summers on the Great Plains. Maybe he couldn’t stand the mush.”

  Renie, who had taken in Judith’s recital without batting an eye, yawned. “All I know is that Uncle Boo has never lifted a finger in his life. He’s the laziest man I ever met. Talk about sloth being one of the Seven Deadly Sins! It’s also a major vice with Uncle Boo—pardon the pun. One Christmas I saw him go to sleep while he was filling his face with my mother’s plum pudding. He was snoring when he ate the plastic holly decoration.”

  Judith shrugged. “I don’t doubt it. Uncle Boo has never had to work. Old Dunlop left him millions. He just sits there in his big mansion over on The Bluff and dozes in front of the TV and talks to invisible green spacemen. At least when Aunt Rosie was alive, she made him get out once in a while.”

  Joe had gotten off the sofa to pile kindling in the fireplace. “Hold it,” he said in his mild, mellow voice. “I know that Uncle Boo and Aunt Toadie and Aunt Rosie and the rest of them aren’t related to you two except by marriage to Uncle Corky and that you’re thankful for it, but how the hell are they related to each other?”

  “Easy,” Renie replied. “Aunt Toadie’s eldest sister, Rosie, married Uncle Boo late in life. Like over forty, though I now consider that later in youth. Uncle Boo never had much energy to do anything, including getting married. I suspect Rosie swept him off his feet. There’s another sister, Vivvie, who’s a widow. She’s the middle one of the three Lott girls, right, coz?”

  Judith nodded. “Right. Real names Rosalinda, Viveca, and Theodora. Thus Rosie, Vivvie, and Toadie. They fight constantly. Or at least they did when Aunt Rosie was still alive.” She paused, giving Renie a sheepish look. “Uh—I forgot to tell you—Aunt Vivvie is coming to the party. So is her son, Derek, his wife, and their daughter.”

  Renie’s initial dismay turned to resignation. “Oh, well—you said there’d be other family members present. I guess I was hoping they’d be from Uncle Boo’s side, not Toadie’s.”

  “There isn’t anybody on Uncle Boo’s side,” Judith said, taking a small sip of scotch. “That’s how he ended up so rich and lazy. He was the sole heir.”

  Finishing her drink, Renie got to her feet. “We’ll manage. After all, it’s only for a few hours. Got to run and get dinner for—”

  The buzzer again shattered the peace of the living room. Joe, in the act of setting off his fire, dropped the match and burned his fingers. He swore. Judith leaped from the sofa, heading for the French doors. Renie followed.

  “Maybe she melted her teeth,” Renie suggested as they went outside.

  “Maybe,” Judith responded. “I wish I’d never had the bright idea for that buzzer system. Mother’s going to drive me nuts.”

  At the edge of the walk, Renie started for her car, which was parked in the driveway. “Stop bitching.” She grinned. “Thank your lucky stars she’s as good as she is.”

  Halfway to the toolshed, Judith whirled and stared at Renie. “Good? As in good for what?”

  Renie shook her head. “Not for what—for who. She’s not Aunt Toadie. What more could you ask?”

  Judith considered. Maybe Renie was right. By comparison, Gertrude Grover was a gem. “Mother!” Judith called, all but running. “I’m coming! Hey, Mother—have I told you lately that I love you? Mother! Yoo-hoo, you sweet thing!”

  In the doorway, Gertrude leaned on her walker, looking astonished. For once she was speechless. Judith gave her a big hug.

  “Whath thith all about?” Gertrude demanded, shaking free of her daughter. “You want to borrow money?”

  “No,” Judith answered with a wide smile. She paused, waving to Renie, who was backing out of the driveway. “It’s just that…hey, where are your teeth?”

  Gertrude snorted. “Thath why I called for you. They’re gone.”

  “Gone where?” Judith shut the door behind her, noting that the apartment was warm and cozy.

  “Tholen,” replied Gertrude. “Hidden, to be egthact. Under my bed. I can’t reach ’em.”

  Judith eyed her mother curiously. “Hidden under your bed? By—oh!”

  The perpetrator sat on a braided rug Grandma Grover had made some fifty years earlier. The long tail curled around the furry body, and the yellow eyes were defiant. Judith made a face.

  “You got it,” said Gertrude. “Thweetumth. That cat’th a petht.”

  “Yeth,” said Judith. “Ah—yes, Mother—he sure is.”

  TWO

  THE TUDOR MANSION on The Bluff had once offered a commanding western view of the bay, the islands that sprawled across the sound, and the majestic mountain range on the peninsula. To the north, Dunlop Majo
r had enjoyed gazing at his own gardens, complete with rose arbors and a lily pond. South, and slightly to the east, he could have seen the burgeoning downtown, a pretty, if not impressive sight in 1933. And out of the windows which faced east, he had looked over the rest of the city and beyond, to the towering peaks that split the state in two.

  Some sixty years later, if his son, Boo Major, had the energy to get out of his easy chair, he would find the view from the main floor cut off on all sides—except for the garden. Other houses surrounded the block on which Major Manor stood, and while they were costly and handsome, none could compare with the mansion built by mush.

  “We’re supposed to go in through the tradesmen’s entrance,” Judith said to Renie as they pulled up across the street on a cold, gray, late Friday afternoon. “Aunt Toadie said to park at least a block away because of all the guests. Only the family can use the driveway. I say screw it, I’m parking the Nissan here. This neighborhood is so stodgy that nobody leaves a car on the street anyway. They all have double and triple garages. We need to be close to the house because we’ve got so much stuff to carry.”

  Renie was staring at the imposing brick and half-timbered mansion. “I’ve never been here before. Have you?”

  Judith shook her head. “I’ve only met Uncle Boo at family doings where we generous Grovers included all the shirttail relations. He and Aunt Rosie used to come for Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve, remember?”

  Renie nodded. “How could I forget? All the entertaining with the Majors and the Lotts has been one-sided. They may have the money, but we’ve got the time. And still we’ve always gotten stuck paying for everything. Leeches, my mother calls them, though she uses a more tactful word.”

  Judith nodded agreement as she clicked on the overhead light and lifted the cake-box lid to make sure the frosting hadn’t been damaged in transit. She had finally convinced Aunt Toadie that a birthday party required a birthday cake. With ill grace, Toadie had asked Judith to place an order with Begelman’s Bakery, insisting that the cake should be baked in the shape of a cereal bowl with frosting that would resemble oatmeal mush. The visual result was repellent, resembling curdled cottage cheese, but the cake itself would taste delicious. The added expense had forced Aunt Toadie to dump her plan for a skit.

  “The icing survived,” Judith noted. “You’re right, coz—we’re a long-suffering family. Aunt Rosie hated to entertain and Aunt Toadie hated us.”

  Renie glanced at the cake before Judith closed the lid. “Gruesome,” she remarked, making a face. “But appropriate in oh-so-many ways. If I hadn’t loved the rest of our relatives, inviting the Lotts to family gatherings would have spoiled everything, even when I was a kid.”

  “Grandma and Grandpa Grover were too kind about including strays,” Judith said, securing the cake box with extra tape.

  “Being imposed upon is a Grover family tradition,” Renie observed with a grimace. “We’re too well mannered to complain. Remember how Uncle Boo would sit down in Grandpa Grover’s favorite chair and never get up? Still, he’s kind of sweet. I haven’t seen him since Aunt Rosie’s funeral three years ago.”

  “That was something,” Judith remarked, checking through the carton on the floor by Renie’s feet to make sure she had all of her catering gadgets. “Uncle Boo and Aunt Rosie never went to church, and when Father Hoyle came into the funeral parlor, he thought Uncle Boo was the one who had died. Aunt Rosie looked a lot livelier.” She fingered a corkscrew, a sharp knife, a box of cocktail napkins, a blender, and a hand mixer. Judith had learned from sad experience never to count on any kitchen being fully equipped.

  Loaded down with boxes, the cousins crossed the street. They would have to go back to the car for the cases of wine and sparkling cider. The neighborhood was very quiet. While Hillside Manor was situated at the end of a relatively peaceful cul-de-sac, the Rankerses, the Dooleys, the Ericsons, the Porters, and the Steins provided enough bustle to give the street a sense of vitality. By contrast, The Bluff seemed moribund. Judith wondered if Uncle Boo wasn’t the only one who was asleep on his feet.

  The three-car garage was closed up, but a new Buick Park Avenue was parked in the drive. In the wan winter light, Judith studied the mansion. The garage jutted out from the house, with a flat roof discreetly hidden by crenellated masonry. A scaffolding stood at the south end, and it appeared that some brickwork was in progress. A stack of lumber sat at one side of the garden near a huge birdbath fashioned from volcanic rock. The latticed gazebo sported a new shake roof. Judith wondered what had inspired the improvements.

  The so-called tradesmen’s entrance was actually the back door, which was reached off the small cement porch by a short passageway. Next to the porch itself were two recessed garbage cans. At ground level, concrete steps led into the basement. Evidence of an old-fashioned cooler was at the cousins’ left; a carefully stacked woodpile and an empty shelf marked “Deliveries” were on the right. It was tricky to ring the bell while hanging onto the cartons, but Judith managed. Though the lights were on inside, no one responded. Judith tackled the bell a second time.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” shouted a husky female voice. Judith frowned at Renie. The voice didn’t belong to Aunt Toadie.

  The door was jerked open by a stout, red-haired, middle-aged woman in a purple velour sweat suit. “Whaddya want?” she demanded. “You from the upholsterers?”

  Judith’s mind raced: The woman was staff, part of a family that had been with Uncle Boo for years. But Judith couldn’t remember the name. “No, ma’am,” she replied, “we’re the caterers.”

  The woman eyed Judith and Renie with suspicious green eyes. “Caterers? Where’s your van?”

  “We have a car. It’s across the street.” Judith tried to smile but failed. The boxes teetered awkwardly in her grasp.

  “Caterers have vans,” the woman asserted, planting herself so that she neatly blocked the door. “Who hired you? That old bat, Toadie Grover?”

  Judith felt a sudden kinship with the redoubtable woman who barred their way. Renie, however, felt no such thing. She could barely see over her boxes and was now jumping up and down on the small side porch.

  “Hurry up, lady,” Renie ordered. “I’m about to drop a load of shrimp balls.”

  “You can drop triplets for all I care,” the woman snapped. But she moved aside. “Put your junk on that counter. Don’t get the floor dirty. Use the green garbage can for glass, the blue for aluminum, the red for paper, the yellow for—”

  “Rubbish!” snapped Renie. “I didn’t get drafted into this army, I volunteered! Who are you, and why do I want to beat you up?”

  Taken aback, the stout, redheaded woman gave Renie the once-over. “You’re kind of puny, but you might be tough,” she allowed, then put out her hand. “Hi, I’m Mrs. Wakefield, the Major housekeeper. Weed’s resting.”

  Startled, Judith almost dropped a box of sesame crackers. “What?”

  Mrs. Wakefield sneered. “Weed. My husband, the valet and chauffeur and butler and gardener and general handyman. Except he doesn’t do much of that stuff because he doesn’t like to waste his energy. And who needs it? I work hard enough for both of us.”

  Judith gazed around the kitchen. It was not big—indeed, it was somewhat smaller than her own at Hillside Manor. The small green-and-white tiles which covered the counters looked as if they were the original craftsmanship. So did the light green paint which was peeling in places on the cabinets. The sink was vintage Depression era, as was the flecked white linoleum. The refrigerator was also old, though large. Only the dishwasher bespoke a more modern age. The effect was tasteful, efficient, and designed strictly for the hired help. No gracious hostess ever whipped up omelettes or pan-fried chicken in this kitchen, thought Judith. She felt as if she’d stepped into a time warp.

  Mrs. Wakefield was looking at her watch, a large-faced model with a wide red band. “It’s four-forty. The guests’ll be here at six. Go to it. You’re serving sixty-eight.” She started towa
rd one of two doors which stood side by side at the far end of the kitchen.

  “Wait a minute,” Judith exclaimed. “Aunt Toadie said fifty-five. What’s going on here?”

  Over her shoulder, Mrs. Wakefield shot Judith a grazing glance. “Don’t ask me, honey. Go ask Aunt Toadie. She’s in the living room, drinking like a sailor.” Wide hips swaying, the housekeeper opened the door with frosted glass and tromped down a flight of stairs. She didn’t bother to close the door behind her.

  Judith stared at Renie. “What a zoo! Why did I ever agree to this?”

  Renie’s brown eyes were wide. “Because you’re getting paid for it?”

  Judith shut the door to the downstairs. “If that’s up to Aunt Toadie, I wouldn’t guarantee the check won’t bounce. You start hauling in the wine. I’ll be right back.” She headed in what she hoped was the direction of the living room.

  It was, but first she passed through a paneled dining room featuring a big bay window, a large entry hall with a handsome staircase, and several doors which led, she presumed, to coat closets, bathrooms, and possibly a den.

  Aunt Toadie wasn’t drinking like a sailor. She was drinking like Aunt Toadie, which was genteel swizzling, at least as far as Judith could recall from family gatherings. In her late sixties, Theodora Lott Bellew Grover had pale, bleached blond hair, a once-shapely figure now corseted into planes and angles, and a pretty face that owed much to Nature and even more to plastic surgery. She took one look at Judith and began to gush.

  “Judith! Dear heart! How sweet of you to come! Where’s darling Serena? I always just loved her pug nose and buckteeth!”

  Judith tried not to reel in Aunt Toadie’s heavily perfumed embrace. “Renie’s in the kitchen,” she murmured, her chin stuck somewhere in the furls of Aunt Toadie’s dye job. “Her teeth aren’t buck, they’re just big.”