A Quiche Before Dying

smiled. Desiree was one of her favorite neighborhood weirdos. A woman well into her sixties, if not seventies, Desiree had the energy and aggressive outrageousness of a girl of twenty. She dressed in a style that could best be described as “demented flapper/artist,“ all flowing scarves, spangled headbands, feathers, chunky jewelry, and long cigarette holders. She was still a very pretty woman, with long, elegant hands (usually smudged with artist’s oils) and a fall of chestnut hair that looked as if it were still naturally that color, in spite of her age.
    Jane was fascinated not only with Desiree’s interesting appearance, but also with Desiree’s views. She could be counted on to have an offbeat opinion on practically everything. Jane had often run into her at the grocery store. Once, chatting over the asparagus, which should have had platinum tips if the price were to be believed, they discovered that they’d both lived in Rouen, France, for a short time, albeit decades apart. Desiree had apparently taken this as a sign that they were soul sisters, and subsequently bent Jane’s ear with her current enthusiasm every time they met. Last week it had been cryogenics; the time before it had been a theory that sunspots were responsible for everything from split ends to the decline in SAT scores. Desiree was so bright and fluent that she made all of her bizarre views seem downright sensible. Jane looked forward to running into her.
    Picking up Desiree’s first chapter, Jane started reading: “I was born to parents who didn’t want a child, so they gave birth to an adult....”
    Jane was sorry when the first chapter ended and there wasn’t any more to read. The writing was as weird and wonderful as Desiree herself. In a few short pages, she’d made Jane smile twice and almost get teary once. She told of being born to parents who actually liked being compared to Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. She recounted a visit to an aunt as eccentric as she herself was now. In fact, the aunt could have been a model for the Desiree Jane knew. She hinted at lovers and marriages to come, at famous people yet to be met and savored, at heartbreak and hilarity that would unfold in good time. Desiree was an example of an interesting life coupled with a gift of storytelling. Jane hoped the rest of the autobiography was actually written and she could talk Desiree out of a copy.
    “Mom! My swimsuit’s got a hole in it!“ Katie’s banshee screech jerked Jane out of her reverie.
    “Katie,“ Jane said with all the patience she could muster, “don’t yell at me as if it’s my fault.“
    “But what am I going to do? I have to be at the pool in half an hour!“
    “Well, two solutions come immediately to my mind. One, you could fix it. Two, you could wear another one. You’ve got a whole drawer full of suits.“
    “Oh, Mother, they’re all gross!”
    The words “They weren’t gross when I paid for them“ were crawling up Jane’s throat, trying to make a break for it. “Thread and needles are downstairs in the sewing cabinet,“ she said mildly instead. She got up to unload the dishwasher—just to drive home the point that she was too busy to volunteer for sewing duty.
    Katie flounced off down the stairs to the basement, where Jane had a combination household office/ sewing room, and Jane settled in again with her manuscripts. She picked up one belonging to Bob Neufield. She had only a vague recollection of him from the time she had to go to a city council meeting. She’d been there on her husband’s behalf when he wanted to widen the driveway and needed zoning approval. Mr. Neufield had attended with plans for a garden shed that would violate the setback regulations. Mr. Neufield, if she was remembering the right person, was in his late fifties perhaps, with a rigid military manner. Very tidy man. Extremely well pressed, short-haired, with a brisk, curt manner.
    His manuscript was abrupt and bloodless. He stated his birth data—date, place, parents—as if filling in a resume. The sentences were short, and repetitive with their singsong subject-predicate cadence. There were very few adjectives to liven it up, and no mention of how he felt about anything he was recounting. Poor, boring man! Jane thought, skipping ahead through lists of childhood friends and endless reports of school activities.
    Katie came bounding up from the basement wearing the now-repaired swimming suit. “Mom? Aren’t you ready? I’m going to