Dead Letters

“Thanks.”


“You too, Nadine.” Nadine doesn’t answer, just shuffles toward the couch. “Have you taken your meds yet, Nadine?” Opal asks.

“Shit. I forgot to give them to her. Let me just…” I dash up the stairs before Opal can offer. The pill dispenser is sitting on her dresser. This is the last day of her real meds; after tonight, I will have to figure out what her medication regimen is. Or.

Downstairs, I hand Nadine her pills, and she looks at me expectantly, almost puppylike. I’m torn; I want to keep her quiet and encourage her to take her pills without a fuss, but it’s going to be a long day, and once she starts drinking, it will be tough to slow her down. I bring her a glass of tonic water with lime, hoping she won’t notice the absence of gin.

“Right. So, we have to get these casseroles and things over to the tasting room. I don’t know whether to heat them up and then bring them, because they’ll be cold….Or maybe we should heat them during the service and bring them over right after?” Opal is staring helplessly at the countertops covered in Pyrex dishes wrapped in tinfoil, literally wringing her hands. I have a grim suspicion that our neighbor Betsy is responsible for most of these. Casseroles. Jesus. What happened to the catering? I discuss the minutiae with my grandmother, letting her micromanage.

Twenty minutes later, I find myself feeling thoroughly ridiculous, driving the tractor in my mother’s pearls and Zelda’s farm boots. I’m panting and sweaty by the time I’ve unloaded several armfuls of our neighbor’s goodwill and dragged them up the steps to the tasting room’s kitchen. It’s going to be a hot day, and I can already smell my own sweat. My hair has probably turned frizzy and disheveled, and I imagine my makeup has collapsed as well. People will be arriving in an hour, and I still haven’t brought over the tablecloths, candles, photos of Zelda….The wine hasn’t been brought up from the cellar, the dishes need to be unracked from the dishwasher. I wonder if the tasting room is supposed to open today—indeed, whether the tasting room is ever open. Did Zelda pour sips for tipsy tourists?

Taking a deep breath, I head back down to the tractor, making a list of everything that needs to be done in order of importance. Where the fuck is Marlon? Just one other person would make all the difference, and I’m stuck with an eighty-year-old busybody and a senile sixty-year-old who is likely to wander into the lake and drown. I add this to the list of things for which to upbraid Zelda when she finally reappears. I wouldn’t put it past her to make an entrance during her funeral, the unforgivable maniac. It would rather undermine her devious scheme, though. Fuming at her silently, I realize how on edge I’ve felt all day—I’m nervous but also excited. We’re nearing the end of the alphabet. Maybe today I will get to see my sister. The commingling of joy and relief I will feel at the sight of her, the smell of her.

As I drive the tractor back toward the big house, a battered station wagon pulls into our driveway, and I feel a surge of panic. That can’t be guests, can it? But as the car crunches to a halt, Wyatt steps out of the backseat, and I almost leap off the tractor to run to him. His parents emerge from their ancient Volvo and wave to me.

“Hi, guys,” I call, dismounting from the tractor and sprinting up the hill toward them. My cheeks are flushed, and sweat is trickling down the small of my back.

“Ava! We came early to help,” Wyatt says.

“Put us to work!” Dora says.

I almost cry with relief. “Christ, thank you. I thought this whole fucking thing was going to fall apart.”

Steve laughs uproariously at my tone, and I realize they’ve probably never heard me swear before. With a wild upwelling of hope, I wonder if I can change, if they could learn to like me.

“How about the wine?” Wyatt prompts. “Have you already brought it up from the cellar?”

“Nope. I’ll come over with you and show you which cases we want. Um, Dora…” I pause, uncomfortable at the thought of ordering her around, but she looks capable and keen to help out. “There are some tablecloths and decorations for the tasting room inside. Maybe you and Steve can load them in your car and bring them over? My grandmother is inside, and she can show you what needs to come.”

“Got it.” Dora salutes me semiseriously and disappears inside. I gesture to Wyatt, and we head back over to the tasting room.

“Things under control here?” he asks, looking closely at me in concern. “You doing okay?”

“Oh, you know,” I breathe shakily. “I’ll be fine. Nervous that Zelda is going to pop up at some point.” Wyatt says nothing. “Or that someone will show up to arrest me.” This possibility has had me more than a little concerned.

Wyatt grunts. “Any more notes?” he asks gruffly.

“Not yet. That has me on edge too,” I add. “Oh, by the way: I got U wrong. The letter, I mean,” I correct myself swiftly. “It wasn’t unlocked. It was underneath. The deck.”

“Carefully constructed,” Wyatt says. I nod and recount how I found V and X, Vicodin and Xanax. I don’t tell him what Zelda wants me to do with them, what I’ve been mulling over.

“What do you think W is?” he asks.

“Maybe it’s for Wyatt,” I answer, stopping at the entrance to the tasting room and draping my arms around his neck to give him a kiss. I don’t want to talk about Zelda’s game anymore; I suspect that if I allow myself to feel anything at all, I will collapse into a weepy hot mess.

“I don’t know how you can live with all this, Ava,” Wyatt says. He strokes my hair. “You’re incredible.”

“I’ve had a lifetime of practice.” I untangle myself from him and open the door to the tasting room cellar with my key, inhaling the pleasant scent of our cave: grapy and woody and musty all at once. I point out the wine that Marlon wants to use, and Wyatt dutifully lifts two cases of the Chardonnay while I struggle with one box of the red blend. I have no idea how many people we’re expecting, but three cases seems bountiful, at least for now.

By the time we make it up the stairs into the tasting room, I’m panting, and a vein in my head is throbbing. My sweat has an unhealthy smell, and I wonder if I should change my dress. Wyatt and I unpack the bottles of white and plunge them into an ice bath. My mouth waters as I handle the cool glass, and I’m extremely tempted to open a bottle right now.

“Is it too early for a glass?” Wyatt asks, half-kidding, and I chuckle.

“Was just thinking exactly that. I still have to set up and herd people over here, so I suppose it’s too early for me. But help yourself.”

“I’ll wait for a civilized moment,” Wyatt says. I hear footsteps on the deck; Dora and Steve bustle in with armfuls of fabric spilling out of boxes.

“God, it’s been so long since we were here!” Dora exclaims. “It’s so effing pretty.”

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