The Pursuit of Alice Thrift by Elinor Lipman Page A

you at least as well as that lame minister did. Boy, was that annoying. And I think you and I would’ve been great pals if we’d crossed paths earlier.” He looked to my mother, who nodded her permission to continue. “I should be an old hand at this, but I didn’t have the composure to say anything at my wife’s grave. She passed away around this time last year. So maybe this is God’s way of giving me another shot at it. Which reminds me—if you run across Mary up there, maybe you can buy her lunch and tell her it’s from Ray.” He raised an imaginary glass. “So here’s to you, Betty: Ninety-four rocks. You had, what? Like, twenty presidents? Four or five wars? I hope you kept a journal or you talked into a tape, ’cause I’d love to hear the high points.”
    â€œShe did,” said my mother.
    â€œWhich?” asked Ray.
    â€œVideotaped. On her ninetieth birthday.”
    â€œGod bless her,” said Ray.
    â€œAmen,” said the funeral director.
    â€œAmen,” we echoed.
    â€œNow what?” asked my mother.
    EACH LUNCHEON ATTENDEE was called upon to share her indignation: What an insult. What a besmirching of Betty’s memory.
Imagine
living for ninety-four years and getting eulogized under another name. And who the hell was
Barbara
?
    When the crowd thinned and the cousins drove away, Ray and my mother moved on from ministerial misdeeds to fiber art. I had to remind him that we had a long drive ahead, and that I had to be back at work at six A.M.
    â€œYou’re not staying over?” my mother cried.
    â€œWe’ve discussed this,” I said.
    â€œOne day off for the death of a grandparent?” my father said. “What kind of hospital is that?”
    â€œA five-hundred-bed teaching hospital,” I said.
    â€œThe show must go on,” said Ray.
    â€œCall her department. Let them page the goddamn head of surgery,” my mother said. “Tell him it’s an outrage. I need my daughter here.”
    I darted between my father and the kitchen door. “Dad,” I said. “Please don’t. It’s not like a regular job. We don’t take sick days. No one asks for a day off unless it’s life or death.”
    â€œWhich this is,” my mother said.
    Ray took her hand. “Mrs. Thrift? What if we stayed for another coupla hours?”
    â€œAlice makes up her own mind,” she said.
    Ray guided her to a dining room wall where they stood in front of
Flotsam and Jet Set
. “Of the ones on the first floor, this is my favorite,” said Ray.
    In docent fashion, my mother asked if he could explain why.
    â€œThe seaweed. The lobster claw. It reminds me of home.”
    â€œCan you tell that the wood is charred? I think it must have been kindling for a clambake.” She pointed to a crumpled piece of paper. “This was a contrivance on my part, but I’m not apologizing for it.”
    Ray moved closer, cocked his head, and read, “Nokia Issues a Profit Warning.”
    â€œFrom
The Wall Street Journal,
obviously. Which I found in the trash and not, strictly speaking, on the beach.”
    â€œDo all your canvases tell a story?” he asked.
    My mother said they did, but not
her
story. The beholder’s. Each composition was a Rorschach test. If someone saw, for example, capitalism or disorder or impotence—whatever one would call it—that justified her flexing her artistic muscles to add, for example, a piece of newsprint that wasn’t necessarily organic to the site.
    â€œI’m all for flexing artistic muscles,” said Ray.
    â€œThe majority of my pieces are pure fiber. This one’s atypical, and for some reason I felt it belonged here, around food.”
    Ray said he’d entered this room solely for the artwork, but as long as he was here, he’d have a few shrimps for the road. What a spread. What generosity. What a wonderful family we