The Last Cadillac by Nancy Nau Sullivan Read Free Book Online

from Butterfingers, our favorite bakery. I could smell its sweet goodness through the cardboard, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday.
    I found an uncluttered area at the dining room table for us to sit, and I brought coffee and the cups. I opened the box and took out the crescents, putting them on a plate, and offering her the first. My mouth watered for something flaky, delicious, pleasing, satisfying—anything but arguing, yelling, correcting, coaxing, whining, and mewing.
    â€œI know this is none of my business, and I probably shouldn’t be saying this,” she said.
    The crescent halted above my plate midway to my mouth. My bullshit-o-meter started to go off.
    â€œYou know how I love you and your family,” she said.
    I studied the flakiness of the crescent and took a big bite.Margie Everett was a very nice person, but I didn’t love her, and I wasn’t going to say I did.
    â€œAnd I know how difficult it is for you and the family,” she said, “but do you really think it’s such a good idea to take your father away from his family and friends? Just now? So quickly, you know, with Patsy’s passing.” Margie dabbed a corner of one eye, delicately.
    The mouthful of crescent began to taste like paper, and I put my coffee cup down carefully. “Margie, I am not taking my father away. This is not my idea. It’s his. He is taking himself away, and I happen to agree with him.”
    There, I said it, and I didn’t care what she thought of it.
    â€œBut he’s so vulnerable now.”
    â€œWe all are, Margie.”
    â€œWell, yes, I suppose so. I can see how you’d say that.”
    She tilted her head, and her eyebrows wiggled up and down. I tried to keep a straight face with all that wiggling going on.
    â€œI know you’re the apple of his eye. I know you’ll take good care of him,” she said. Then her tone changed slightly, and in a blink, she was on to topic number two. “And what about this lovely condominium?”
    She looked around the dining room full of moving boxes, papers, and clutter and into the adjoining sunroom that overlooked the golf course. It was a rainy day, and no sun entered the floor-to-ceiling windows to light up the oriental carpet and floral chintz loveseats, the brass and china, and Dad’s leather chair and ottoman. It really was beautiful and comfy, and I felt a slight tug of regret, but not much. This was where my mother spent her last days, on the loveseat with a mohair blanket over her knees and a small satin pillow at the crook of her neck. I could still hear the depressing, soft
clap-clap
ofthe oxygen machine that gave her some relief from the cancer that was eating away in her middle.
    I had to get out of there. We all did.
    I looked back at Margie, who tilted her head at me for an answer. “The condo, yes. What about it?” I said.
    â€œI hear it’s on the market, after all your mother did to make it so special, so uniquely her own style. I just love the built-in bookcases, and what she did with the guest room! Who would have thought to use so many shades of blue! But it really works, don’t you think?”
    Margie would leave me that morning, and go directly to the country club for lunch and tell every person she knew, and she knew a considerable number, about her conversation with me. It was sure to be a frightening version of the facts. It would do no good to antagonize her. I needed to win her over. I stood, tucked my robe around me, and straightened up, hoping posture would make up for looking like a slob.
    â€œThis packing and cleaning,” I said, mindful of an even tone. “It’s so tedious, such a never-ending job of sorting and wrapping, and then all this scrubbing.” I hoped she didn’t look too closely at the kitchen floor, which had several layers of pizza sauce, Sprite, and one melted banana popsicle in the corner.
    â€œDear, I