The Pursuit of Alice Thrift by Elinor Lipman Page B

were.
    I FOUND FREDERICK and my father at the stove, drinking scotch and eating Frederick’s signature spiced nuts directly from the sauté pan.
    â€œWay too much food,” said my father in greeting.
    â€œI
told
Joyce that people don’t eat after a funeral, but she’s always afraid of running short,” said Frederick.
    â€œHow’s this: Next time you’ll pretend to follow her orders, but you’ll only make what you think is the right amount,” said my father.
    â€œJust what Frederick needs,” I said.
    â€œWhat’s that?” asked my father.
    â€œMore authority.”
    â€œYour daughter’s employing irony,” said Frederick. “She thinks I wasn’t as obsequious as I should have been with her boyfriend.”
    â€œRay is not my boyfriend,” I said.
    â€œI just can’t see it,” he explained. “Someone as serious as Alice—not just academically but also in the
joie de vivre
sense—who takes up with a traveling salesman. Your parents didn’t send you to MIT and Harvard so you could practice medicine from a trailer,” said Frederick.
    I told my father I had to speak to him in private. He led the way to the pantry and I followed. “You know what he’s basing all of these insults on? Fudge! Isn’t that ironic? Someone makes a living cooking little pastry triangles and decorating platters with dots of liquefied fruit pulp, and that makes him a judge and jury.”
    â€œCan someone earn a living in fudge?” asked my father.
    I said I had no idea. None. In fact, we had never discussed the fudge business before this trip.
    â€œI’m not siding with Frederick,” my father said. “What if people judged me on my wife’s product?”
    â€œDon’t be rude, you two,” called my mother from the doorway. “People are leaving. They want to say good-bye.” And to Frederick, “Alice and her father always had this bond . . .”
    â€œI think we both know she’s the son he never had,” said Frederick.
    How could he say that? He must have known that my younger sister, Julie, was too short-haired and pierced for my mother’s taste, and that I was, by default, increasingly her hope for a wedding and grandchildren.
    My father and I ventured back.
    â€œI’m coming up to visit you soon,” my mother said.
    â€œMe?”
    â€œIn Boston. Do you realize I haven’t taken one day off since Nana went into the hospital? It took me this long to realize that with a mother’s death, the umbilical cord is finally cut. Not that I resented it. I loved that umbilical cord. I used to brag about it: that ours—mine and Nana’s—was made of some space-age material. Indestructible and indomitable. Now I have to form new alliances and visit some museums.”
    I said, “You have Julie, too. She’s a good candidate for a new alliance. I think she’s got an easier schedule than I, so it might be more satisfying for you.”
    â€œJulie,” said my mother, “thinks that I don’t like her friends.”
    â€œYou don’t,” said my father.
    â€œAll I know,” said my mother, “is that Julie had boyfriends all through high school, that she was even a little boy crazy, and now I’m supposed to forget that and embrace her . . . so-called lovers.”
    â€œIt could be a phase,” said my father.
    â€œIt’s biochemical,” said Frederick. “It’s not a choice.”
    â€œPlease,” said my mother. “It’s all about sisterhood and politics.”
    The kitchen door swung open to reveal the politely inquisitive face of Ray. “Someone must have taken the wrong coat,” he said. “There’s one left on the coatrack and it doesn’t belong to . . .” He looked toward the foyer, then pronounced, “Mrs. Gordon.”
    â€œGorman. I’ll handle this,” said