29 by Adena Halpern Page A

nothing, case closed, on to the next thing. She had enough to do that day, anyway. There was the business of the bruised peach she needed to return to the grocery store. Maybe afterward she’d stop at that coffee shop on Walnut Street. Frida never bought coffee from that place. Who in their right mind would spend three dollars for a cup of coffee that cost less than ten cents to make? The reason Frida went in the shop was the heaps of Sweet’N Low packets that were ripe for the taking. Frida was running low.
    Everyone, including her closest friend Ellie, assumed that Frida’s husband Sol had invested poorly before he died and left Frida practically penniless. This was not the case at all, however. In fact, it was Frida who handled the investments, even when Sol was alive. Frida had over two million dollars to her name. Being the worrier that she was, though, she saved for the rainy day that never came. Frida learned the Sweet’N Low trick from her older sister, Gert, God rest her soul, who was old enough to remember the Depression. Gert died with enough pilfered Sweet’N Low to satisfy the diabetic sweet tooth of a small town.
    Frida picked up her address book and looked up Barbara’s number as she took a seat on the sofa. Should the news be bad, it was best to be sitting.
    “Hellew?” The voice on the other end spoke in a high-pitched nasal-toned accent. Barbara’s voice. Barbara’s voice made everything she said sound like whining. Frida would never tell anyone this, though, especially Ellie. She didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.
    “Hello, Barbara, this is Frida, you know, your mom’s friend?”
    “Frida,” Barbara said, somewhat perturbed. “I’ve known you my entire life, of course it’s you, who else would it be?”
    “I’m sorry, dear,” Frida said, worrying she might have upset Barbara. Never upset Barbara. Don’t get on Barbara’s bad side. A flare-up from Barbara could make anyone back down. Her temper was like dropping the A-bomb on Hiroshima. “I just didn’t want you to think it was a different Frida,” Frida said, hoping to clear up the dreadful situation she’d gotten herself into.
    “All I’m saying is that I know it’s you, Frida. I saw you last night. How are you today?”
    “Oh, I’m all right.” She tried to segue into the real reason she was calling: “Actually, I was calling to thank you for last night. It was a lovely party.”
    “It was, wasn’t it?” Barbara said happily. Always compliment Barbara. It was always the way to curb Barbara’s irritation toward you. “Oh, yes, the flowers were just lovely.”
    “You didn’t think the arrangements were too ornate?” Barbara asked.
    “Oh, no, dear, they were exquisite,” Frida lied, but it was only a white lie.
    “And what about the food? Didn’t you think we waited a long time?”
    “Do I feel that I waited a long time?” Frida repeated. Frida had learned that when she didn’t have an answer to a question it was best to stall by repeating the question. Truth be told, it did take a while for the food to arrive—about five minutes. Frida thought she might have fainted from the hunger. “Everything came on time,” Frida lied again. Remember, don’t get Barbara started.
    “Didn’t you find the crab cake to be a bit stringy?”
    “The lumps of crab in it were very generous.” (What Frida really thought: the crab cake was like paste.)
    “Was the lettuce in your salad wilted?”
    “It was as crisp as a cracker.” (What Frida really thought: it was so wilted you could have slapped it on something like papier-mâché.)
    “Was your steak too rare?”
    “It was just the way I like it.” Frida ate the entire contents of the bread basket, insisted she was full, had her steak wrapped up and took it home and stuck it under the broiler for another fifteen minutes.
    “And my coffee wasn’t hot enough,” Barbara added.
    “I burned my tongue.” Frida got brain freeze.
    “What about the cake from the