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ELEVEN

“Lions don’t hunt,” Lizzie said to me one afternoon about three weeks after the funeral.

It was the lull between lunch and happy hour, and we were sitting in a booth at the rear of the restaurant, giving in to our midday sugar cravings—Lizzie with a slice of pecan pie, me with a dish of rice pudding.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was debating whether or not I should go back to the kitchen and add some whipped cream to my sins. What did you say about lying?”

“Not lying. Lions. The kings of the jungle. The male of the species. I said they don’t hunt.”

“How do they eat?”

“Mama brings home the bacon,” Lizzie said. “The females do 90 percent of the hunting. Usually, they go after gazelles or antelope or zebra—something they can take down on their own. The only time the males help out is if the prey is too big for the lioness to handle on her own, like a giraffe or an elephant. The rest of the time, old Leo just sits around on his fat ass waiting for the little woman to bring home dinner.”

Like a lot of teenage girls in the nineties, I was tuned into the feminist movement—especially the part about equal pay for equal work. But at sixteen Lizzie was obsessed with girl power, and more than a little angry at men for, as she put it, keeping women down since the beginning of time .

“I love you, Elizabeth,” I said, “but can we go through one afternoon without getting into gender politics.”

“I’m not talking politics. I’m talking about lions. I saw it on one of those Animal Kingdom shows last night, and I couldn’t fall asleep. I kept thinking about Dad.”

“And you think Dad is a fat-ass lazy lion?”

“No, Maggie.” She popped a forkful of pie into her mouth and made me wait for the kicker. “Dad is a gazelle.”

I inhaled sharply and forgot to let it out. My mind raced, and I knew where she was going. Worse yet, I knew she was right.

“Breathe,” Lizzie said, quoting one of our mother’s favorite mantras. “Repeat if necessary.”

I breathed.

“You’re back there in the kitchen,” she said. “I’m up front day after day watching the lionesses stalk him. And they’re not bringing casseroles. They’re wearing push-up bras, painting their nails, and dabbing their pulse points with Eau d’ Gold Digger.”

“Mom warned us this would happen,” I said, scraping the last of the rice pudding from the sides of the bowl. “But she didn’t exactly tell us what to do when it did. I don’t know how we’re supposed to keep every single woman in Heartstone from?—”

“They’re not even all single ,” Lizzie said. “A couple of them are married but looking for an upgrade. And then there’s Mrs. Umansky.”

“Oh my God. She’s like seventy years old.”

“Right. But she’s sure her daughter Velma can bring Dad the same happiness he had with Mom. And I’m not making that up. She said it to my face.”

“How is Dad handling all this?”

“Watch one of those nature films, Maggie. The gazelle doesn’t figure it out until the lioness has pounced and is ripping his throat out. Dad is basically clueless. He just keeps thanking them for their concern, and when they leave, he tells me how kind and caring everybody has been. It’s getting harder to watch. I’m thinking about asking him if I can work in the kitchen and wash dishes.”

“Pardon me, ladies, but what are a couple of nice young girls like you doing in a dump like this?”

I looked up. It was Dad, a meat loaf sandwich in one hand, a bottle of Bud in the other. I slid over, and he sat down.

“You look intense,” he said. “What are you two talking about?”

“Lizzie was telling me about a documentary she saw last night.”

“Bullshit. You’re talking about me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, old man,” Lizzie said.

“Hey, I’m not a total idiot. I’m sorry. I haven’t meant to ignore you, but I’m...”

“Dad, you haven’t been ignoring us,” I said.

“Of course I have. I promised your mother I’d be there for you, and I’ve been living in my own world.”

“It’s called grieving,” I said. “You’re entitled.”

“I know, but I haven’t paid much attention to the two of you.”

“News flash,” Lizzie said. “Teenage girls don’t thrive on parental attention. Keep up the good work.”

He chomped down on the meat loaf sandwich and took a swig of his beer. Lizzie finished the last of her pie. I decided to go for broke.

“You know they’re hitting on you, don’t you?” I said.

“What?”

“All these women who are cooking for you, stopping by to check on you, calling to see if you need anything—some of them have an ulterior motive.”

“ All of them have an ulterior motive,” Lizzie said, jumping on the runaway train.

“Like what?” He didn’t need us to answer. He was right. He wasn’t a total idiot. “Oh, Jesus, I don’t know what you girls are reading in those women’s magazines, but you’re way off base. First of all, I’m not looking for a girlfriend. Second of all, these women are your mother’s friends. They’re not trying to poach her husband. And third of all?—”

“Finn.” It was Grandpa Mike at the bar. “Telephone.”

“Tell them I’m busy.”

“I tried that, but it’s Alice Bodine, and she says she just has one teensy-weensy little question . Something about the corn pudding soufflé she’s baking for you.”

“Baking,” Lizzie said. “That’s completely different from poaching.”

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” he said, standing up. “And even if it was, I’m not remotely interested.”

Lizzie waited for him to walk over to the bar, pick up the phone, and deal with Alice’s teensy-weensy little question.

“ I’m not remotely interested ,” she repeated. “Isn’t that what the gazelle said when the lioness said, ‘I’d love to bring you back to my place for dinner’?”