Chapter Text
OBITUARY
Maxwell Sheffield, former Broadway and Hollywood producer, aged 65, of La Jolla, California, passed away Monday, March 25th, 2019, from a short battle with a tooth infection.
Maxwell is survived by loving wife Fran Fine Sheffield, 55, daughter Maggie Sheffield-Levitas, 41, granddaughter Olivia Sheffield-Levitas, 11, son Brighton Sheffield, 38, granddaughter Riley Sheffield, 2, daughter Grace Sheffield, 35, and twins Jonah Samuel and Eve Catherine, 20.
OBITUARY
Niles Babcock, former butler, homemaker, and community theater actor, aged 76, of La Jolla, California, passed away Wednesday, January 27th, 2021, after suffering a fatal heart attack.
Niles is survived by loving wife C.C. Babcock, 65, daughter Z.Z. Babcock, 21, and pet Pomeranian Chester Babcock II, 8.
Friday, January 29th, 2021
Fran made her way down the stairs, mouth dry and head aching, when she felt a breeze make its way to her from the open patio doors. She wrapped her robe tightly around her and walked through the living room, glancing at the clock above the television: 3:48 AM. Headache and thirst forgotten, she blew out a hard breath as another breeze chilled her and she continued walking toward the figure sitting outside. The bright blue light from the moon acted as a spotlight on C.C. It was as if she were the star of a show and their patio her stage. A leading lady. A grieving widow. Fran’s vision became blurry, and tears filled her eyes as she remembered their first vacation at the beach house twelve years prior.
Niles and C.C. were bickering in the kitchen over how to properly arrange the charcuterie board. C.C. kept using the French pronunciation, putting a pointed emphasis on the last syllable, Niles telling her how unattractive it was, all the while giving her looks with thoughts behind his eyes that were sure to come to fruition later in the night.
“No, darling, put the Brie over here,” she picked up the wedge, moving it to the opposite side of the board, “the olives here, and—oh just move over, let me do it.”
Niles picked up the board and twisted to keep it away from her. “Who butled for a living for 30 years, hm?”
“Oh, please, Mr. Sweeps-Everything-Under-the-Rug.”
Niles narrowed his eyes and tilted his head with pursed lips, a smile playing at the corners. “A compromise, then.” He set the board back down. “You do this side, and I’ll do this one.”
C.C. mirrored his narrowed stare before uttering a, “Hm,” of acquiescence and giving him a quick peck on the cheek.
Once they finished the arrangement to their mutual satisfaction, Niles took the board over into the living room and set it down on the coffee table.
“A blast from the past,” Fran said brightly, coming from the stairs and greeting C.C. with a, “Hi, doll,” and a kiss in the air. C.C. looped her arm into Fran’s as they made their way to Niles and Maxwell, both now sitting in the chairs they would claim as theirs for the next decade.
Their kid-free vacation was filled with drinking, reminiscing, belted show tunes, and an especially competitive game of charades (in which Fran and C.C. won, not without protests from Max and Niles, claiming they somehow cheated). Their last night of vacation, once she calmed down and caught her breath after a particularly stitch-inducing story where C.C. exposed Niles’ solo performance of “Old Time Rock & Roll,” Fran sighed, wiped the tears from her eyes, and said dreamily, “I wish we could just…do this forever.”
All it took was an, “I suppose we could,” from Maxwell and an agreement from C.C. and Niles (once the appropriate boundaries were established, of course), and the Sheffield-Babcock family was under one roof.
The lights turning on from inside the house reflected off the dark wood of the patio. C.C. slowly lifted a half-empty fifth of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Honey to her lips and took a drink, staring out at the ocean. It was high tide, and she was reminded that the sandcastle Niles and Z.Z. had built and molded together last week was gone. That Niles was gone. C.C. barely registered the soft, hesitant footsteps approaching from behind. Fran placed her hand on C.C.’s shoulder as she walked by to kneel in front of her, one hand on C.C.’s knee as the other reached over and grabbed the bottle. With a gentle tug, C.C. relinquished her grip, and as bloodshot, blank blue eyes met the soft, empathetic brown of her friend’s, C.C. began to sob. Fran held her.
Tuesday, March 2nd, 2021
It promptly became evident how much work Niles did around the house and how much C.C. did not. Dirty dishes would sit in the last spot in which they were used, remnants of their contents caked on that were difficult to scrape off, even with a good soak. C.C. had also begun to use any clean glass she could find for whatever her alcohol of the day was—when she opted not to drink straight from the bottle, of course. Fran discovered this while stuffing into the washing machine the enormous four-week-old pile of dirty clothes she had requested C.C. leave for her in the hallway. She was holding her breath to save her nostrils from the stench when a rogue pant leg knocked a wine glass from the shelf above, causing it to shatter on the dryer and the shards to barely miss her face. Realizing there was likely more of Gretel’s trail across the house, Fran went through all the rooms and gathered up the neglected glasses, along with whatever else had been left behind—chewing gum wrappers, used tissues, Advil that had likely fallen out of C.C.’s hand or pocket. She didn’t dare step foot into C.C.’s bedroom for fear it had been transformed into a biohazard zone.
Part of it—most of it, Fran was sure—was the grief. Who wanted to wash the dishes when their husband just died? Who had the energy to do laundry when their dead husband’s dirty clothes sat in the hamper, waiting to be acknowledged? Who noticed insignificant bits of trash when something so significant had turned their life upside down? Fran couldn’t. She had Niles to help her, and now C.C. had Fran. Which would be fine—wonderful, even—if C.C. would acknowledge Fran’s existence outside of expressions of contempt and jabs that echoed the sentiments of a 30-something-year-old C.C. who felt threated by the new nanny. It was baffling. It was hurtful. Every morning, Fran woke up, hoping things would be different. Hoping she and C.C. would go back to being the friends they were. God knows it was hard enough to get there the first time. This morning was no different. After catching a glimpse of bottles, dishes, and bags through the sliver of C.C.’s cracked bedroom door, Fran sighed, slapped on a smile and a positive attitude, and floated down the steps, the bottom of her bathrobe gliding behind her.
“Gooood morning!” she exclaimed to C.C., who was sitting at the island, drinking a cup of coffee and talking into her phone. Fran saw Z.Z.’s name on the screen. “Morning, Z.Z., honey!”
Z.Z.’s tired voice came from the phone, “Morning, Auntie Fran.”
Pressing her fingers into her temples, C.C. glared at Fran and responded in a low, bitter voice, “Must you be so fucking chipper in the morning?”
Fran left it alone and fixed her cup in silence while C.C. continued her conversation with Z.Z. about preparing for Maymester. “Are you logged into your student account?”
“I am, but I don’t understand where all these charges are coming from. I thought we put enough money in there. Dad did all this, I don’t know what to do.” She sounded on the verge of tears.
The creamer sat on the counter, a small spill next to it and droplets on the bottle making it sticky. Fran sighed and opened the utensil drawer.
“Click on your statement and tell me what you see.”
All the spoons were dirty. Fran slammed the drawer shut.
“There’s a new charge that says something about tuition.”
The sink was full of a pile of dirty, unrinsed dishes that hadn’t been there the night before. There were bowls, pots, a skillet, casserole dish, muffin pan, cookie sheet, and various utensils. Fran whispered loudly to C.C., “What the hell happened in here?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” C.C. said quietly before returning to her phone call. “Did you sign up for another class since the last time you looked at your account?”
Z.Z. sounded calmer. “Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I did. Okay, maybe that’s it. So, what should I—” C.C. couldn’t hear the rest over Fran’s poor attempt at whispering.
“So, what, you held your own episode of Chopped at home?” She started to organize the dishes to get ready to clean. “You ever hear of clean as you go? No wonder you’re acting like someone gave you a dirty mug, you’re probably drinking out of one,” she snapped.
After a moment of silence and realizing what she had said, Fran turned around, her eyes meeting C.C.’s, so devoid of warmth and with such animosity that Fran felt as though she would turn to stone on the spot.
“Mom? You still there?”
“C.C., honey, I am so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean—”
“I knew all that Aqua Net would seep through your skull eventually,” she hissed. “I’ll call you back, Zee.” She slammed her phone on the counter and stood.
Fran tried to sound empathetic, but notes of pent-up resentment still lingered, “I’ve tried, C.C. I have tried to be nice and understanding. God knows I know what this feels like—”
“No you don’t,” C.C. spat.
“No I don—what do you mean no I don’t?”
“You still have people. You have friends. You lost Maxwell, but you don’t know what it’s like to lose the one person who loved you, who was there for you.”
“Well, if you didn’t push people away so much—”
“Oh, please. What, are you hurt? Poor Franny not getting the attention she always gets?”
In one of those rare moments, Fran was at a loss for words. Believing the confrontation was over, C.C. started to leave again. Fran walked over to her and grabbed her arm, a little too tightly, and spun her around. “Listen here, C.C. Babcock, you don’t have to like me anymore. You don’t have to talk to me. You can continue to pretend I don’t even exist if that’s really how you feel, but you at least have to do something. This place is a disaster, and I can’t keep up. You’re not the only one who lives here, y’know!”
“I didn’t ask for this!” C.C. screamed, pulling her arm from Fran’s grip.
C.C. was thrown into the memory of being stuck in the elevator with Fran. “Miss Babcock, why do you always think with your head? What does your heart say?”
“I didn’t ask for you to be in my life!”
“And why don’t you want to marry Niles? Do you have any idea how wonderful he is?”
“I didn’t ask to be pushed into marrying a man I could have been perfectly content continuing to hate!”
“You know what your problem is, Miss Babcock? You’re just afraid, and I don’t know why.”
“Only for him to be the one person who actually loved me. The one person I truly cared about. If you wouldn’t have gotten involved, I never would have married him. I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be so completely, utterly alone.”
Silence.
Three low beeps sounded from C.C.’s phone as Z.Z. hung up. C.C. watched as the screen went black.
Fran stuck the key in the door, taking a deep breath to prepare herself for the disaster that had been their home for the past month before turning the key and walking in. She was met with a surprise. All the dishes had been washed and put away, the counters had been wiped down and reorganized, the previous night’s trash littering the living room had disappeared, and…did she smell Glade? C.C. was sitting on the couch. She had pulled the bar cart over next to her, and a diamond shaped bottle of Precious Vodka sat on the coffee table. Fran hung up her coat and purse then walked over to sit by C.C. “Thank you,” she said softly, guilt about their earlier argument still lingering.
C.C. started pouring more vodka into her glass. “It wasn’t for you.”
Fran reached for the large diamond, and C.C. jerked it away, with dark eyes that dared Fran to cut her off. “Relax, Gollum, I just want a drink.” C.C. lowered her shoulders and handed the bottle over. Fran took a glass from the cart and poured a small drink. As she took a sip, she grimaced and hacked. “How—eugh—how do you do that? Don’t we have anything softer?”
“I’ve called her twenty times, and she won’t answer me.”
“Well, you know,” Fran was still shaking off the disgust before responding, “maybe she’s at one of her poetry readings or something.”
“It’s Thursday.”
“Wasn’t there a gender-inclusive Vagina Monologues happening somewhere?”
“Last week.”
“Well—”
“She hates me.” C.C. takes a drink.
Fran scrunched her face and gently set her glass down on a coaster on the coffee table. “She does not.”
“She does. And I don’t blame her. What I said must have hurt. Fran.” C.C. paused. Her face twisted into discomfort as she took a gulp from her glass. This wasn’t going to be easy. “If it wasn’t for you…” She looked at Fran, who was reciprocating with an annoyingly empathetic expression. “Oh God.” Drink. “If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have her.” She stared at the glass in her hands and twisted it around, running her thumb along the ridges on the bottom. “I can’t thank you enough for that.”
“Tell her that. Not the part about me, of course. She knows how much you love her, C.C., but kids need to hear it, y’know?”
C.C. nodded as she studied the way the light created countless triangles in the cut glass. “How do I get through this, Fran?”
Fran placed her hand on C.C.’s back. “I got you, Babs.” After a moment, she took another sip from her glass and quickly set it back down with a dramatic shudder. “Oh God, no. Nope.
It took a few days, but Z.Z. eventually agreed to go over to the house, mostly because she had been craving chicken piccata, which was not only her favorite dish but coincidentally the only thing C.C. could cook, and well at that. No matter how many times he tried, Niles was never able to make it like C.C., despite being the one who taught her. Whenever they had it for dinner, Niles would spout something about how she would burn the house down making Hamburger Helper or Rice-A-Roni, but the woman could bread and brown a chicken like nobody’s business, pairing it with a buttery sauce—complemented with just the right amount of lemon—that was out of this world. Niles’ contempt was always met with a laugh, a kiss, and a full glass of the remaining sauvignon blanc. Remembering this as she reached for the doorknob, Z.Z. took in a shaky breath and blinked away the tears, reminding herself she was still angry. Her mother was lucky she just so happened to be hungry, too.
When she walked in, she was hit with the scent of lemon and recently pan-fried chicken. C.C. was standing at the island, plating the food while shaking strands of long, white hair out of her face. Seeing Z.Z. walk in, she stood up straight, grinned, and wiped her hands on her apron, which was actually Niles’, that read: “Hot & Spicy…And the food is pretty good too!” A trail of flour was left on the cartoonish red chili peppers. “Z.Z., darling!” She walked over to Z.Z., taking her by her shoulders, and giving her air kisses on either side of her face.
Z.Z. pulled away and walked toward the island. “Is dinner ready?”
C.C. bit the inside of her cheeks to distract herself from the sting in her eyes before responding. “Yes, pick whichever plate you’d like.”
Grabbing a plate and walking to the dining room table, Z.Z. made more noise with the chair than was necessary as she pulled it back to sit down. C.C. gave Z.Z. some time to eat before speaking up. “I know you’re mad at me.” Silence. “I am so sorry, Zee. Listen.” Z.Z. didn’t look up. C.C. reached over and took Z.Z.’s hand. “Hey.” After a moment, Z.Z. returned her gaze, brow furrowed and a pout on her lips. C.C. continued, “I have zero regrets. Your father meant the world to me. You mean the world to me, and I wouldn’t trade you for anything. You hear me?”
Pulling her hand away, Z.Z. didn’t respond and kept eating. C.C. could see tears beginning to make their way down her cheeks.
“I shouldn’t have said what I said. It wasn’t fair to Fran, and it wasn’t fair to you. I can’t take it back, but I can make damn sure that I stay present for you. I know I haven’t been the past month, but I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”
Z.Z. managed to slowly finish the bite she had just taken before her lip started trembling and she started to sob. “It’s just so hard. It’s not fair. I miss him so much, Mom.”
“I know, honey, I know.” C.C. dropped her fork onto her plate and walked around the table to wrap her arms around her daughter. Z.Z. stood and pulled C.C. into a tight hug. “It’s okay. It’s okay, I’m here.” She rested her head on top of Z.Z.’s and held her close.
“C.C.!” Fran’s voice traveled through the house—and likely all the way to downtown San Diego—as she rushed down the stairs, resolutely searching for her housemate. Instead, she found Z.Z. sprawled on the couch, watching television. “Z.Z., honey, where is your mother?”
“Dunno. Why?”
“Look at this.” Fran stepped in between Z.Z. and whatever show she was watching, where a brunette and blonde woman were having a frantic discussion about a body in a freezer. Geez, the things on TV these days. What happened to a nice, wholesome, light-hearted sitcom? Fran held up a white button-up and ran her hand along a stiff crease in the front, Vanna White displaying today’s domestic upset. Z.Z. tore her eyes from the screen, sat up, and paused the show.
“You let her operate a hot iron?”
“You didn’t see the house after the funeral! I swear, Zee, one of these days, we’ll teach your mother how to do simple household chores.” She wrapped the shirt around her arm. She would have to iron it herself anyway, along with the rest of the pile of C.C.’s victims.
“Auntie Fran, don’t you think it’s kinda backwards you’re forcing Mom to conform to stereotypical housewife duties?”
Fran raised an eyebrow. “You wanna do ‘em?” A loud buzz emitted from the laundry room.
“Mooooom!” Z.Z. called out, pressing play. “Dryer’s done!”
C.C. took a drag from her cigarette as she continued to watch the sun go down, the horizon lit up, a giant fire on the other side of the world that they could see all the way from their little patio. After admonishing her for her shoddy ironing, Fran had made them dinner and cleaned the kitchen as a truce. She knew C.C. was learning…and grieving. As much as C.C. hated to feel patronized and pitied, it was nice to have someone keeping her accountable. Fran continued to prattle on about some relative of hers whose wife did everything for him, he couldn’t even use the remote control for himself, and at least C.C. wasn’t that helpless. She was a smart woman. A capable woman. She’d get there. C.C. extended a cigarette to Fran, wishing desperately for her to just shut up.
“No, no. Last time I smoked, I came this close to becoming Roger Clinton, Jr.’s roommate,” she said, squinting through her pinched fingers.
C.C. rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. Your husband’s dead. You’re 57. You start now, you’ll probably be dead from something else before this kills you.”
She should have kept her mouth shut. After over ten years of living with her, C.C. could always sense when Fran was about to go into one of her stories. With a raised hand and pointing finger, Fran began, “I’ll have you know, we Fine women are notorious for sticking around and causing trouble. Ma is seventy-seven,” she gave an exaggerated wink, mouth stretched open, as she elbowed C.C. across the foot-long space between them, “and Yetta is still sharp enough to maintain her title of resident centenarian and card shark at the home. You know, she won eight hundred bucks last week from the new guy. Poor thing never saw it comin’.”
As Fran took a breath, C.C. jumped on the opportunity to distract her by holding the cigarette back out. Fran hesitated before shrugging and taking it. One wouldn’t hurt. As her finger brushed C.C.’s, she noticed a bright red mark on her hand. “What happened there?” She took the cigarette with her left hand as she held C.C.’s hand in her right, rubbing her thumb lightly around the fresh blister.
C.C. jerked her hand away. Thinking nothing of it, Fran took the lighter from C.C.’s arm rest and began lighting her cigarette. “Burned myself on that god damn iron trying to iron those stupid shirts.”
Fran could have sworn she saw C.C. pout. She laughed as she took in a drag, playing it off as a cough when she felt the daggers piercing her from C.C.’s eyes. They sat silently for a while. Puffs of smoke rose into the sky that was starting to turn into a deep blue, peppered with stars. A few times, Fran heard C.C. take in a breath, as if she were about to say something, but it was only followed by her taking another drag or lighting another cigarette. Fran would have to talk to her about the habits she was falling back into. Eventually.
Finally, C.C. spoke. “That first night,” she paused, so long that Fran began to wonder if she imagined it. Then she continued, “I was trying to remember the last time I had slept without him.” Fran shifted in her seat to look at C.C., but all she could see in the growing darkness was her silhouette and the faint glow of the cigarette as she lifted it to her lips. “I’ve done it, of course,” C.C. said with a held in breath before releasing it, blowing out the smoke. “But I couldn’t remember.” She paused again. Thinking she was done and feeling the remnants of her own grief, Fran sat back in her chair. “Does that feeling ever go away?”
Without looking at her, Fran reached out her hand and took C.C.’s, mindfully steering clear of her blister. “If I find out, you’ll be the first to know.”