“What’s the catch?” Mikki asks as she pulls back the peel.
“There is no catch,” she replies. “You deserve it.” And it’s true. Mikki and I have been through more than most kids our age. It’s time we got a break.
“Where’s the bedroom?” I ask and she corrects me.
“Bedrooms.” She emphasizes the “s.” “You each have your own.”
We go back down the hall and she points Mikki toward one door and me the other. I open it and the first thing I see is a large queen-sized bed. I can’t believe it. Up until now, I’ve only ever slept in a single bed. And most of the time I had to share a room too, often with kids half my age. That pretty much sucked, except for when I shared a room with Shawna at Miss Cooper’s. The second week Shawna was there, she got her period for the very first time. She had no idea what it was. I explained everything and made her tell Miss Cooper, who gave her a large packet of Always and told her she couldn’t use tampons until she was older. Crap, I told her, and demonstrated up close and personal just how to use them. She struggled a bit, but I showed her how to relax the same way one of mom’s many boyfriends showed me. After Shawna and I practiced putting tampons in a few times, we were best buds. So then I taught her how to shoplift candy from the Mexican grocery store on the corner. But the bitch told another of the kids in the home and I was out, moved back to Summerhill with all the new kids and losers till they got me a placement with Mrs. Anderson and her family. That’s a story for another time. Suffice it to say, I look around this apartment and think, my own room and my own bed? Priceless.
Apart from being just for one person, the bedroom is nothing like any of the foster homes I’ve been in, good or bad. No shiny Disney princess wallpaper or peeling paint on the walls, no new stuffed animals or ratty teddy bears on the pillow, no new toys on a shelf or broken dolls shoved in a corner, no comics or books, no desk for doing homework. The bed has a plush red satin quilt which matches the scarlet curtains with creamy valances hanging over the windows. There’s a dark wood vanity with a little cushioned stool facing a large framed mirror. I walk inside the room and see a little door leading off it and when I peek through I see a toilet, a sink—and there’s even a tub! My own bathroom? Are you kidding me? No more sharing with dirty little kids who leave the lid off the toothpaste so there’s white goop everywhere, and who leave dirt stains on the washbasin? No more waiting behind a locked door with my legs crossed while some kid says he’s taking a piss but is actually gorging himself on food he hid in there?
I go back to the hallway beside myself with glee.
“Welcome to your summer vacation,” she says to us both. She turns around and I see a man standing in the hallway who I swear wasn’t there before. “I want you to meet a friend of mine,” she says. He’s older than us, but not old. Small goatee, wire-rimmed glasses, tailored suit. He looks cool, like someone I wouldn’t mind hooking up with. Not that I’d ever get someone as distinguished looking as him. But I decide to be bold anyway, and stepping toward him, I hold out my hand.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m Kallie. What’s your name?”
He looks startled, then a lazy smile appears on his face.
“John,” he says. “I guess you can call me John.”
And then he smiles, like he’s making some kind of joke.
Chapter Seven
Wynn, April 2
I think I overextended myself today. I have to submit a curriculum for a jewelry-making class I’m teaching next month. I have a necklace I’m already overdue on that Evie commissioned as a surprise birthday gift for Dot. And in addition to that, I have to cook. I’d like to skip the cooking, but yesterday Barker came home and presented me with all the ingredients I need to make mole poblano, which we’ve talked about me trying ever since we visited Oaxaca.
“I had a home visit near that massive Mexican supermarket, so it was the perfect opportunity to get all those seeds and spices you need for it,” she said as she dumped well over a dozen little packages on the table. There were four different types of dried chillies, tomatillos, peppercorns, cloves, coriander, anise—I kept on opening the tiny packets which she’d carefully labeled, and couldn’t believe how many ingredients could go into one dish.
The secret to a great mole is using everything when it’s fresh, so that’s why I need to cook tonight, but I just wish she’d brought all this stuff a different day. I’d like to back out of doing it, but I know sometimes Barker feels a little resentful that I get to stay home all day while she’s flogging all over the county, dealing with difficult people who exhaust her. Also, I have no one to blame but myself that I didn’t prepare for the jewelry class weeks ago, and that I left it to the last minute to work on Evie’s necklace.
I read through the recipe so I can work out how long I need to get everything done. I try to figure out whether I need to do some of the prep work in advance, before starting my crafting, or whether I can do what I usually do: work in my studio, which is upstairs at the back of the house, for several hours, and then stop, come downstairs, and throw myself into the cooking. I decide to do the latter, because the recipe looks complicated and once I start with it, I won’t be able to stop in the middle.
Soon I’m immersed in hand-cutting silver that I’m forming into a monogrammed necklace. I want the D to swirl around the A of her last name. It’s painstaking work but I love doing it. One of these days, I’ll buy a laser cutter but for now, I enjoy using my simple tools. I complete the letters and am just melding them to the filigree chain, when Queen jumps up and pushes the tool in my hand so that it almost cuts right through the silver. I push her off and go back to my work. When I put the finishing touches to it, I can’t help admiring how beautifully it flows. Dot will love it.
I ought to take the dogs for a long walk but I know I still have to prepare my class, so I decide to wait and take them before I start on dinner. It’s the first time I’m teaching. I sell my jewelry every Tuesday at the street market, and a few months ago, I got talking to a young man who works at the community center in North County, who asked if I’d be willing to teach a class. I didn’t really want to do it, but I couldn’t think how to say no politely. I was hoping no one would sign up but a couple of weeks ago he let me know the class was on, though I don’t know how many people will attend, and I have no idea what level they’ll be at. That’s why I figured wire wrapping was a good idea; you don’t need many tools and it’s good for beginners as well as people who’ve created jewelry before. I finish up the syllabus, wrap Dot’s necklace in tissue paper and put it in a little white box, put my tools away, and close the door.
It’s a lot later than I thought it would be, but now I can turn my full attention to the recipe. I poach the chicken then shred it off the bones. I dry-roast the chiles, admiring the reds and oranges as they blister and change color. The recipe tells me to toast the peppercorns, cloves, cinnamon, coriander, and anise seeds until they’re fragrant which seems a bit disingenuous; with a mix like that, they’re fragrant the moment I take them out of their little packages. I fry up the raisins, almonds and pumpkin seeds and start humming, feeling heady with all the delicious aromas I’m creating. When everything is roasted and fried, I put it all in the food processor with a little water, until I have a smooth paste. I get out the Dutch oven and put it on the flame with some canola oil. Just then I hear Barker’s key in the lock.
“Hi honey,” I call out. “I’m in the kitchen!”
“Can you come help me out here?” she calls back, so I head to the front door, where I see she’s carrying a large bouquet of sunflowers, along with an oversized bottle of Chianti.
“You’re really making a date of it!” I smile and she looks puzzled.
“You do remember that Dot and Evie are coming for dinner, don’t you?”
Now it’s my turn to look puzzled. “I thought we were getting together with them tomorrow? Isn’t tonight our date night?”
“Well yes,” she answers and I can hear that she’s trying
not to get into a huff. “But they couldn’t make it tomorrow because Evie’s taking Dot to Orlando for a long weekend, so we agreed they’d come over tonight. Please tell me you finished her necklace?” I can hear her huff starting to build, but I nip it in the bud.
“Yup!” I say proudly. “And it looks spectacular.” Then I smell the oil burning in the kitchen. I grab the bottle from her and rush into the kitchen, averting disaster. I empty the pan and pour fresh oil in the Dutch oven.
Barker follows me into the kitchen and heads to the sink with the flowers.
“I guess that means the table isn’t set yet?” she sighs.
“No, but as soon as I finish with dinner, I’ll set it. You go sit down and catch up with Days of Our Lives.” It’s the one anomaly that I could never get over, a girl like Barker wanting to follow that soap opera. But it’s her way to unwind and it’s fine by me.
A moment later, she’s back in the kitchen, looking furious and grabbing paper towels.
“Didn’t you take the dogs out? One of them peed on the rug in the living room.”
Shit! I meant to take them before I started cooking.
“I’ll put their leashes on.” I try to soothe her.
“Don’t bother. I know you still need to finish up. Come on girls!” she calls to Queen and Latifah and they come running gratefully.
I finish making the sauce and then let it simmer, while I go set the table. I clean myself up, then add the final ingredient to the mole—the chocolate. I dip a teaspoon into the sauce and run my tongue over the rim. Though I say so myself, the dish is out of this world.
****
For once even Evie does more than just push her food around.
“This is fantastic, Wynn, thanks so much!” It’s a high compliment indeed.
“Mmm,” says Dot as she scrapes her plate clean, “one of the best things you’ve ever made.”
The evening has gone really well. We’ve almost finished the Chianti and everyone seems relaxed.
“Evie has something for you,” says Barker, and retrieves the little white box from the credenza. She hands it to Evie, who hands it to Dot, who unwraps it, looks delighted, then frowns, and holds it up for all to see. Barker and Evie have the same reaction Dot did. At first they gasp with pleasure but then Evie looks embarrassed and Barker looks annoyed.
“What’s the matter?” I venture, “You don’t like it?”
“I love it,” says Dot. “It’s beautiful.”
“Yes, but I can see there’s something wrong with it.” The three of them look at each other, then Barker speaks.
“Honey, don’t you remember that Dot changed her last name when they got married in New York last year?”
“I thought that was only for legal purposes.” Okay, I have to admit, I didn’t remember, but that was partly because they kept the whole wedding thing so low-key. They said when it’s legalized nationwide, then they’ll have a big party.
“It’s all right,” Dot says quickly. “It was the thought that counts.”
****
After they leave, I go into the kitchen and start on the dishes.
“Leave that, honey,” Barker comes up behind me and puts her arm around my waist. “Come sit with me. You can do that tomorrow morning.” I don’t usually like to leave dishes in the sink, but quite often Barker is so tired, it makes a nice change to be invited to sit with her in the late evening.
While I dry my hands, Barker puts a scoop of banana pecan ice cream into a bowl for each of us. We sit close together on our new leather sofa.
“I want to talk to you about something,” she says. My heart sinks. Having “a talk” never bodes well. But Barker pre-empts me. “It’s nothing bad,” she says, smiling. “I’m thinking about doing a spiritual retreat this summer.”
She’s taken me by surprise. Barker’s one of those people who think a yoga class is too woo-woo for her. She’s isn’t religious, and the most spiritual she ever gets is when she says, “If there is a God, she’s there, in that setting sun,” when we take a late evening stroll along the beach. She scoffs when I try to teach her about the importance of balancing her chakras and she thinks crystals are for hippies.
“Sam suggested it.” Ah, that explains it. Sam is her supervisor at work and she adores him. “He thinks I’m getting stressed out.”
“You’ve always told me that was the nature of your job.” I decide to play devil’s advocate.
“It is. And I don’t think I’m any more stressed out than usual, but…”
“Of course you have to go. Where and when?”
“It’s in June, and they hold it in some very beautiful, very remote place in the middle of the state. Apparently it’s quite luxurious, like a five-star hotel.”
“Will the county pay for it?”
Barker laughs. “Knowing the county and social work budgets, do you think that’s likely?”
It was a long shot, but after all, they’re suggesting she go. “Is it very expensive? Can we afford it?”
“It’s pricey, but I ran the numbers and I don’t think it would be a problem.”
Barker is in charge of our finances. We both know it’s her strong point and that I’m fairly clueless about money. I have a separate account for my business so that it’s easier when we file taxes, but even that is something she stays on top of. I just put the money in the ATM and let her do the rest.
“Well then, you must go. It’s only a few days and I can always call if I can’t remember where the extra dog food is.”
“Actually, you can’t. They make guests unplug entirely—no TV, no Internet, and no cell phones. I think that’s why people relax so much, though the gourmet food and meditation probably help.”
“No worries. I’m glad you’re going. You deserve it, and it’ll be good for you.”
She hugs me tight. “I love you so much Wynn,” she says, putting my ice cream bowl down and sliding her hand between my legs. She leans in and puts her lips on mine. They are cold from the ice cream and I open my mouth, welcoming her tongue.
A few days won’t be that long. Surely even I can go for four days without screwing anything up?
Chapter Eight
Barker, April 2
Of all the social work students I’ve supervised over the years, I like Parminder Chatterjee the least. I like my students to be confident, but she is brash and too full of herself. Whenever I try to explain something to her, she jumps in before I can finish my sentence, trying to preempt everything I say as if she already knows it. I’ve explained to her that it’s okay not to know, that she’s here to learn, but still she insists on showing me how knowledgeable she thinks she is. Which, of course, she isn’t. She’s a first-year student who knows next to nothing about how to practice social work. I also dislike the fact that she is never on time for our supervision, a fact that irks me because my time is so limited.
While I wait for Parminder to arrive for our weekly meeting, I scan my email on the desktop computer. Job fairs, community wellness programs, library events, all information I can tell my clients about. There’s a retirement party for one of the managers, a baby shower for our program assistant’s daughter, and a bake sale next week to raise funds for school supplies for our clients. That’s two evenings I’ll be home late, and one I’ll be busy baking. I’ve tried to explain to Parminder that social work is a way of life, not just a nine-to-five job, but she doesn’t yet get it.
“Why would I do something outside of work hours if I don’t have to? I like having my weekends to myself—I’m all about self-care.” That’s what she said last week, when I asked if she’d like to come to the Fun-Run to raise awareness about substance abuse that Sunday afternoon. She doesn’t seem to understand that we need to show our clients that we are not separate from them, and that supporting their goals doesn’t just happen during office hours. I don’t know if she’s going to cut it as a social worker.
The door opens and Parminder saunters in.
“Good afternoon Ms.
Barker,” she says, with no hint of apology for being fifteen minutes late.
“What’s on our agenda today?” I ask her. I make it a point for all my supervisees to come with a list of topics they want to discuss. I’ve heard too many stories of social work students whose supervision sessions turned into general chat sessions with no real teaching accomplished.
She pulls out her iPhone. I always used to encourage my students to bring a notebook with them because I expected them to have written down their questions there and to take notes of everything we discuss. But today’s students do everything on their phones, so I have to have long discussions with them about what they’re writing down, to make sure no confidentiality is breached. I still think taking notes would be easier, but it’s as if these folks never even picked up a pen before.
“I’d like to discuss the family I met with last week. I made a recording of our session—with their consent of course—and I’m hoping we can listen to that.”
“Good. But please don’t tell me you recorded it on that phone,” I say warily, since there’s no sign of a tape recorder.
She smiles smugly. “Of course not,” and pulls out a microscopically small device from her pocket. “Here it is.”
We sit together and I listen to her session. I had asked her to meet with a couple who had just lost their foster children after the maternal grandmother won a battle for guardianship. The four children were delightful and I knew it must be quite a loss for the foster parents.
Along Came the Rain Page 4