TWELVE

Wouldn’t Mamie ever finish eating? Bone after bone got piled on the woman’s plate. A second and third helping of potato salad. Endless one-sided conversation about Miles Arenheim’s delight with Payton’s house. Finally, she pushed back from the table and patted her round tummy. “I could really go for a cup of herb tea.”

Claire leaped up. “I’ll get it. Why don’t you go watch television and I’ll bring it.”

Mamie patted her stomach again and waddled out of the room. The television came on.

Minutes later Claire placed the steaming cups of tea on the coffee table.

“There, finished.” Mamie turned the easel so Claire could see. “What do you think?”

Mamie was undoubtedly the worst painter in the world. Everything was one-dimensional, unimaginative. Which made being her friend very hard at times like this. Claire wanted to be honest, but Mamie loved to paint more than anything else. Once, Claire had lied and said how great the thing was, then received the damned thing as a Christmas present. She stole a glance at the painting on the far living room wall, a wild landscape of the arctic tundra with a polar bear chasing a frantic seal. It wasn’t as though it had been given to her by a far-away relative and could be relegated to a spot in the spare bedroom. Mamie came here often, and Claire was faced with looking at it day in and day out.

Claire went for a closer inspection of Mamie’s work in progress. “You’ve really captured the mother’s love for her pups. Do you have a buyer yet?”

Mamie sighed. “Claire, you know no one ever buys my paintings. I’m a terrible artist and everyone knows it.” She gave a wistful smile. “It’s just that I love it so.”

“That’s what’s important.”

Mamie stood and arched her back. “I’ve got the munchies. Got anything sweet to eat?”

Claire nearly lost her balance and toppled into the wet painting. “How can you be hungry after what you just ate?”

“It’s probably the excitement of the gallery opening.” By now, she was halfway down the hallway.

“I don’t have anything in the house. You told me you were cutting back on sweets, so I didn’t make anything.”

Claire heard cabinets opening and shutting and launched herself from the room as total silence descended upon the house. She ran, choking down a mouthful of panic similar to the feeling of waking to the sound of a wailing smoke detector. She stopped dead in the doorway; Mamie stood on a chair clutching Sean’s cake in her chubby hands. She narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean you don’t have anything in the house?”

Was it too late to pray? “That’s…ah, for the potluck tomorrow.”

Mamie stepped down from the chair holding the cake at eye level turning it this way and that as if it were a pair of shoes in a store. She brought the plate to her nose and sniffed. “Yum. Come on, let’s have a slice.”

“Mamie, I just told you…”

“If you made it for the group, why is there a slice missing?”

“I-I couldn’t help myself. That’s why I hid it in the cabinet.”

“In that case, it shouldn’t matter if I have just a skinny little piece.” She set the cake on the counter and plundered in the silverware drawer.

Claire vaulted into the room. The unexpected movement shot pain up her leg. Her ankle went out from under her and she crashed to the floor.

Mamie slammed the drawer. “Goodness, are you all right?”

“Twisted my ankle again.”

“Did you hurt anything else? Can you get up?”

Claire allowed Mamie to help her up. She braced herself with one hand on the doorframe. Oh god, there was chocolate frosting in the corner of Mamie’s mouth!

Claire stood for a moment, testing the ankle. Finally she’d delayed long enough and shook off Mamie’s hand. She limped to a chair and dropped into it. One corner of the cake wrapping gaped open. A three-inch scrape marred the frosting on one side. “Mamie! I told you that cake was for the sailing club.”

“Sorry. I couldn’t help myself. Your cakes are to die for.”

Mamie reached out a pair of fingers to take another swipe at the frosting. Claire’s hand thrust out and slapped her arm. Mamie reeled back.

“Oh God, I’m sorry, Mamie.”

“It’s not like this is the first time we’ve had to make another dessert.”

“I know. I just…”

“Okay, okay. It’s your damned cake. Do what you want with it.”

“Mamie, don’t be mad. It’s just a cake.”

“Exactly my point.”

Their eyes met in a silent challenge/apology. Mamie was the first to break the gaze. She took two plates from the dish drainer and fumbled in the drawer for several seconds. “Where’s your cake knife?”

She opened the dishwasher and uttered a gratified grunt. Claire’s blood went sour. She bounded out of the chair. Her ankle turned and she fell forward clawing the air. Her fingers found only the edge of the cake plate. They closed around it. She went down, banging her chin on the counter and taking the cake with her.

Mamie knelt on the floor beside her friend, now painted psychedelically in brown and red. Claire’s face was a mask of pain. Blood trickled from a gash on her chin. A wad of chocolate cake clung to her left ear. Mamie removed it with an index finger and started to put it in her mouth.

Claire’s hand flashed up and batted it away.

“What the hell’s gotten into you!”

“Help me up.” Claire struggled to rise, deliberately slipping and sliding and mashing the cake into brown goo on her once-spotless tile floor.