Best Kept Secret Page 11

In the audience, Peter stealthily pulled a package of M&M’s out of his pocket. Dana noticed this immediately, took the package from him, and dropped it into her purse.

  “We will now,” Ms. Danow continued, “announce the winners of our eighth-grade awards. Award recipients will be presented their plaques along with their diplomas. We’ll start with our scholastic achievements. The John Barr Award for excellence in science goes to Genetha Gray. The Hamilton Palmer Mathematics Award goes to Kendall LaPlaca….”

  Francie grew so interested in watching Peter, who apparently had hidden a second bag of M&M’s in his pocket and was now surreptitiously eating the candies, that she almost missed hearing Ms. Danow say, “And finally, the John Witherspoon Award for excellence in written composition goes to Frances Goldberg.”

  Francie jumped at the sound of her name and grinned when her family leaped to their feet and began applauding, Peter scattering M&M’s as he did so.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, the ceremony was over and the graduates, shirts untucked, ribboned diplomas stuffed into their pockets, streamed off the bleachers and onto the lawn, where they joined their families.

  “Francie!” Kaycee called. “Over here!”

  Francie, who hadn’t yet located her parents in the shouting, jostling crowd, turned in the direction of Kaycee’s voice. They ran into each other’s arms.

  “We did it!” cried Francie.

  Kaycee pointed to the plaque Francie was clutching. “Way to go! Excellence in composition. You’re going to be a writer someday, just like your mom.”

  “And my grandfather,” said Francie.

  “Girls! Look this way!”

  Francie and Kaycee turned around to find Kaycee’s father aiming his camera at them. They grinned. Then they grinned for Matthew’s camera, for Dana’s camera, for Mrs. Noble’s camera, for Adele’s camera, and finally, for Peter’s old Instamatic.

  When the picture taking ended, Kaycee pulled Francie aside and whispered urgently, “Guess what! We just got invited to a party.”

  “A party? What party?”

  “Tonight. At Junette’s house. Everyone is going. It’s a boy-girl party.”

  “Are you sure we’re invited?” asked Francie.

  “It’s like I said. Everyone is invited. Junette’s going up to anyone and saying they can come. It’s sort of spur-of-the-moment.”

  Adele put her arms around Francie and Kaycee. “What’s all the whispering, girls?”

  “We got invited to a party!” exclaimed Francie. “A boy-girl party. Do you mind if I go, Adele? I know you’re only spending one night with us.” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Dana,” she said. “Come here.” She tugged her mother away from Matthew and Maura. “Junette’s having a party tonight and she’s inviting everyone. Can I go? Please?”

  “Who’s Junette?” asked Dana. “Where are her parents? I need to talk to them.”

  “Mom! You can’t do that! That’s so embarrassing.” Francie looked helplessly at Kaycee, who was saying to her own parents, “It’s the first time Junette’s ever invited us to anything. Please, can we go?”

  “If we talk to her parents first,” said Mr. Noble. “We have to make sure they’ll be on hand tonight.”

  “Dad, no!” cried Kaycee.

  “Honey, all we need to do is talk to them.”

  “Absolutely,” agreed Dana.

  “We’re not babies,” said Francie and Kaycee.

  “Exactly. You’re teenagers,” said Kaycee’s mother. “We need to know that there won’t be any drinking or —”

  “Mom!” cried Kaycee again.

  “I’m sorry. No party unless we talk to the parents,” said Dana.

  “Oh, man,” said Francie. “Then I guess I’ll just stay home tonight. Thank you for ruining my life.”

  * * *

  Francie’s anger dwindled as the day went on. It was hard to stay angry during a pizza celebration at Conte’s with the Nobles and later at home as she was presented with gifts from her parents and Adele and Peter.

  “Do you like it? It’s a journal,” said Peter as Francie tore the paper off a gift that her uncle had apparently wrapped himself. “I bought it with my own money.”

  “It’s wonderful,” said Francie. “Thank you.” She hugged her uncle.

  It was later, after Peter had gone to bed and Matthew and Maura had left, that Adele suddenly seemed to droop on the living room couch.

  “Tired?” Dana asked her. “It was a long day.”

  Francie flopped onto the couch beside her aunt. “I’m tired, too,” she admitted, and then leaned over to whisper to Adele, “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m glad I didn’t go to Junette’s party after all.”

  Adele gave her a half smile.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” said Dana, settling herself on the arm of the couch.

  Adele didn’t answer, so Dana, frowning, said, “Francie, put on the water for tea.”

  Francie left the living room but returned as fast as she could, just in time to hear Adele say, “… wasn’t going to tell you right away, but the cancer is back. I got the test results the day before yesterday. There’s a spot on my lung and several spots on my bones.”

  Dana sagged against Adele. “Oh no.”

  “The doctors say there are lots of things they can try,” Adele went on. “More chemo. But nothing they can operate on.”

  Dana leaned forward, head bowed. “No,” she said. “I thought you were out of the woods. I thought this was over. It can’t be.”

  Adele pressed her fingers to her lips and said nothing further.

  After a moment, Dana put her arms around her aunt and rocked her back and forth.

  Francie pressed her fingers against her eyes.

  Finally, Adele forced a smile. “No more surgery,” she said shakily. “At least I won’t have to go under the knife again.”

  Francie couldn’t speak. She sat down on the couch, and she and her mother hugged Adele from both sides. “I love you,” she said into Adele’s shoulder.

  “Francie? Are you sad today?” asked Peter.

  “Yes. I’m very sad. I’ve been sad for a long time.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I know,” said Francie. “And it’s okay to be sad. We’re all sad.”

  “I don’t like feeling sad.”

  “Well, no. I don’t either. I’m just saying it’s okay to feel that way.”

  “How long will we?”

  “How long will we what? Feel sad?”

  Peter nodded and Francie shrugged.

  “Will we feel better after the funeral?” Peter persisted.

  “Maybe. A little.” Francie was growing tired of his questions. “Uncle Peter,” she said, “why don’t I start breakfast while you feed Sadie? Matthew will be up soon —”

  Peter, who had been sitting patiently at the kitchen table, even though it wasn’t set and he had been the only one awake in the house, suddenly leaped to his feet and exclaimed, “Everything is different!”

  “I know,” said Francie. “I know it is.” She put her arms around her uncle and whispered, “I’m sorry. But it won’t last forever, I promise.”

  Peter pulled away from her. “When is Dana coming back?”

  “In a few days. But you’ll see her today.”

  “At the funeral?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay,” said Peter, who, instead of feeling comforted, suddenly burst into tears. Which was all it took for Francie to burst into tears as well.

  “Oh dear,” said a voice from the doorway.

  Francie turned to see Matthew, still in his pajamas, tufts of hair sticking up stiffly. He’d been sleeping in Dana’s room for several weeks, ever since Dana, on a visit to New York, had called Francie to say, “Adele’s going back into the hospital and I think I need to stay here for a while.”

  “How long is a while?” Francie had wanted to know.

  “I’m not sure, pumpkin. Several weeks, maybe.”

  What Fr
ancie had wanted to say was “Several weeks? Why are you staying for several weeks? Adele must be really sick this time.” But she hadn’t wanted to jinx things by speaking those words. So what she’d said instead was “Several weeks? But what about Uncle Peter? I can go to Matthew’s, but Uncle Peter’s never stayed there before.”

  “I’m going to call your father next,” Dana had replied. “I’ll see if he can move in with you and Peter.”

  That had been the beginning of the long, slow weeks during which, Peter complained, nothing was the same. Dana stayed in Manhattan, living in Adele’s apartment, and spent her days at the hospital with Adele. Matthew moved into Dana’s house to take care of Francie and Peter and Sadie. Sometimes, Maura stayed with them; sometimes, she stayed at her own place. Francie slogged through her days at Princeton High, days that were as lonely as she had feared they would be. She’d worked hard that fall, and she liked her teachers, but she missed Kaycee and found that her energy was focused on Adele, not on making new friends. She got up, went to school, came home, and closed herself into her room with her homework. She phoned Adele frequently, and on weekends, if Adele wasn’t in the hospital, she and Dana and Peter drove into New York to visit her. Sometimes, Grandma Abby and Orrin would visit then, too; sometimes, Aunt Rose and Uncle Harry. Once, to Francie’s surprise, Papa Luther and Helen had been at Adele’s apartment, both of them standing formally in front of the window, while Adele rested on the daybed, looking as though she wished they would leave. Then, when they finally began to say their good-byes, Adele had burst into tears and clung to Papa Luther, who had patted her back awkwardly.

  At last, there came the Saturday in December when Dana had visited on her own, leaving Peter in the care of Francie and Kaycee. It was late that afternoon when she’d called to say she needed to stay in New York. Matthew moved into Dana’s house, and after that, the weeks had rolled out torturously slowly until there was another phone call from Dana, this one placed from the hospital. “She’s gone,” Dana had said.

  Francie had handed the phone wordlessly to Matthew, crept to her room, and sobbed into her pillow.

  Three days later, it was time for Adele’s funeral.

  “I want —” Peter started to say vehemently, but Francie interrupted him.

  “Uncle Peter’s going to feed Sadie now,” she told her father. “And I said I would start breakfast. When are we leaving for New York?”

  “In an hour and a half,” replied Matthew. He hugged first Francie, then Peter, and added, “I know this is a hard day, but let’s get on with things. We have a lot to do, and we don’t want to be late.”

  “But we’re sad,” said Peter.

  “We’re all very sad,” Matthew agreed, “but you know what Adele would say.”

  “What?” asked Peter.

  “She would tell us to buck up.”

  “Or she’d make a joke,” added Francie.

  “I can’t think of any jokes,” said Peter. “Not today.”

  Francie turned and began rummaging in the refrigerator. She couldn’t prop Peter up any longer. She had run out of energy.

  * * *

  Adele’s funeral was held in a church not far from her apartment. She had never attended the church — she hadn’t attended any church since she’d moved to Manhattan — but Bobbie Palombo, who helped Dana arrange the service, pointed out how much Adele had liked her neighborhood. “I think she’d want us all together in this place she loved, don’t you?” she’d said.

  Dana later told Francie she thought that what Adele would really have wanted was a rousing funeral held in a Broadway theatre, with an orchestra and costumes and an audience sing-along, but Dana had agreed to the church, grateful for Bobbie’s help.

  “We aren’t going to the funeral in Maine, are we?” Francie asked Matthew as they wound their way through Adele’s west side neighborhood, looking for a parking spot near the church. “I love Maine and Grandma Abby and all, but I don’t feel like seeing Papa Luther again. I mean …”

  Matthew held up his hand. “Say no more. I know exactly what you mean. And Adele would know, too. That’s why she wanted two separate services.”

  Matthew found a spot at last, and he and Francie and Peter stepped out of the car and walked toward the church, sloshing through graying snow and avoiding icy patches, Peter crying, “Don’t let me fall!” every few steps.

  When Francie saw her mother, she left Peter with Matthew and ran into Dana’s arms. “I hope you have Kleenex with you,” said Francie at last, pulling back from Dana, “because I forgot mine.”

  Dana wiped away tears, hers and Francie’s, and opened her pocketbook. “I stuffed almost a whole boxful in here,” she said shakily.

  Francie looked at the wads of Kleenex and tried to smile. “I don’t see anything in there but Kleenex.”

  “Where is she?” asked Peter, shuffling up to Dana and Francie, on Matthew’s arm.

  “Who?” asked Dana.

  “Adele,” said Peter, frowning, as if Dana had forgotten something as basic as what the cow says.

  “Adele?”

  “I want to see what a dead person looks like.”

  Dana burst into tears again, and Matthew took Peter aside to say that there would be no casket at the service and that no one would be seeing any dead bodies. “She’s going to be buried in Maine,” he said.

  Inside the church, Francie and her family met with Bobbie Palombo in a private room. “We want you to sit with us,” Dana told Bobbie. “You’ve been like family to Adele.”

  Bobbie’s face, which Adele had once said looked as if it were made of granite, crumbled and her lips quivered. “And I know what you meant to Adele,” she replied. “You were like her daughter.” She rummaged in her own purse, which turned out to hold as much Kleenex as Dana’s did.

  Francie looked at Dana with a start. Dana had lost her mother, she realized. She supposed it didn’t matter how old you were when your mother, or the person you considered your mother, died. When that connection was severed, you were suddenly — whether you were prepared or not — let loose in the world, on your very own at last. Francie thought Dana looked terrified.

  The priest of the little church stepped into the room and looked at Dana. “It’s time,” she said. “Everybody ready?”

  Dana nodded. “I’ll go first, then you, Francie. After that, Peter, then Matthew, then Bobbie. We’ll sit in the first pew.”

  Francie had expected to see a scattering of people in the seats behind the first pew. When she followed her mother and the priest into the front of the church, she was so surprised by the crowd that had gathered that she faltered, missing a step, and Peter bumped into her from behind.

  “Dana!” Francie whispered loudly. Every pew was filled, and more people stood at the back of the church, and even up and down the side aisles.

  Dana reached for Francie’s hand as they slid into their pew. “Adele had a lot of friends,” she whispered back.

  The service began. The organist played “Sheep May Safely Graze” by Bach, followed by Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue.

  Dana subtly withdrew several tissues from her purse and handed one to Francie.

  Bobbie, granite face once again in place, walked to the front of the church and spoke about Adele, recalling the day she’d applied for her job at the costume shop nearly thirty years earlier and told Bobbie she had no experience in the costume-making business whatsoever. Francie smiled, expecting a joke, but all Bobbie said was that Adele had assured her that if she hired her, she wouldn’t regret it.

  “And of course I didn’t,” said Bobbie. “She turned out to be one of my most talented designers.”

  Francie heard sniffles behind her. Then Peter started to sob loudly and the sniffling in the church increased. Bobbie waited for a moment, began to say something else, hesitated, held a tissue to her eyes, and retreated to the pew.

  The service continued. Later, when Kaycee asked Francie about the funeral, Francie was able to give her only the vaguest
information. She couldn’t remember specifically what Bobbie had said, couldn’t remember what had happened after Bobbie sat down. Her memories involved Kleenex, leaving the church, and later arriving at Adele’s old apartment with Dana, Matthew, and Peter.

  “Now you come home with us?” Peter said hopefully to Dana as they shed their coats and stood in the tiny living room.

  “No, honey. Remember? I have to stay here to clean out the apartment. But I’ll be home in a few days. Probably by the weekend.”

  Peter flopped onto the couch and pouted.

  “Could I stay with you?” Francie asked Dana. “Please? I could help you go through everything. We’d get it done twice as fast.”

  “That’s a nice offer, but you already missed school yesterday and today. You’d better go back with Matthew and Peter.” Dana drew Francie aside and whispered to her, “Peter will be lost without you, honey. He’s not ready to be separated from both of us. He needs you.”

  Francie sat next to Peter on the couch and looked around at Adele’s things — the birdcage that had never held a bird, the lamp with the beaded shade. She looked at the pink and blue walls, at the bed and dresser that had belonged to Dana when she’d left her family in Maine and moved in with Adele.

  “What are you going to do with everything?” she asked her mother.

  Dana shrugged and pursed her lips. She couldn’t speak.

  “Can I have something of Adele’s?”

  “Of course,” Dana said. “Of course you can. Anything you want. Peter, you, too. Take a look around and see what you want.”

  Peter asked for the lamp shade (just the shade), even though he didn’t have a standing lamp in his room.

  “I don’t know what I want,” said Francie. And then her eyes fell on a row of photo albums on the bottom shelf of Adele’s bookcase. She sat on the floor and paged through them while her parents talked about plans for the next few days. Francie looked at pictures of Adele in front of theatres with people she didn’t recognize, and pictures of Adele on vacation with people she didn’t recognize. Then she found an album of photos of Adele with Dana and her family when Dana was a little girl, and finally, an album of photos from the 1940s and even earlier. She realized it was the album Adele had brought to Thanksgiving dinner the year before they’d found Fred. She wondered if anyone had told Fred that Adele had died, and whether he would even remember her.