The Chicken Sisters

by Kj Dell'Antonia

  “Sure,” said Amanda. And there were. If she could have a piece of her mother’s apple pie right now, she’d take it; she was starving. But other than that, she didn’t see what Mae was talking about. “But I don’t see how it helps.”

  “You will,” said Mae, and she let go of Amanda’s arms and marched into Mimi’s, reaching back to pull Amanda after her, grinning. They both knew what it meant for Amanda to just walk through Mimi’s like it was nothing, but they had said enough.

  “First, we show everybody that recipe,” Mae said. “Then, we figure it out. We’re going to make this work, you know?”

  Amanda put an arm around her sister too, so that they wouldn’t fit into the pass-through door until Mae let her go and Amanda wriggled her way into going first, which would apparently never stop mattering. To either of them. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” she said over her shoulder. “But, yeah. I know we will.”

  She led Mae out the back door of Mimi’s and through the patio, and as Barbara’s house came into view, Mae held back and gestured toward it.

  “Do you do that?” she asked, looking at Amanda.

  “Do what?”

  “Keep everything,” Mae said. “I mean, you were right. Earlier. Mean, but right. Most of what I do is running from this—but really I’m just like her, underneath. It just comes out differently. And I wondered what it is for you.”

  “It’s not this bad,” Amanda said grudgingly. “Messy, but nothing like this. I just don’t care about cleaning, and I guess I don’t really know how.”

  Mae looked at her with interest. “Oh no,” Amanda said. “That was not an invitation. Or a cry for help. It’s not that bad. And Frankie”—she smiled—“she doesn’t just look like you; she’s like you. She cleaned out my closet last week and threw everything away. We’re good.”

  “I knew I liked Frankie,” Mae said, squinting her eyes into the sunlight and crinkling up exactly the same light sprinkling of freckles that Frankie had.

  “I don’t think it was the mess that got to me so much as just never knowing anything,” Amanda said. “Like, if there would be dinner, or, if there was dinner, if it would kill me. Or even, like, if Mom would just do normal things, like go to parent-teacher night. She sent you once, remember? When you were starting junior high and I was still in fifth grade?”

  “I was probably more useful,” Mae pointed out. “I wrote everything down. I even signed up to bring cups or something to your holiday party. I remembered, too.”

  “It wasn’t the same.”

  “I know,” Mae said. “I tried. We tried. And I guess”—she gestured to the house again—“we’re still trying.”

  “Yeah,” said Amanda as they started to walk across the parking lot. “I guess.” With Mimi’s recipe in her hand, their whole history looked different. Even Food Wars looked different. If she had really been trying—if Barbara was trying, if Mae was trying—maybe they could have lived up to the real Mimi’s and Frannie’s legacy, instead of waiting until it got shoved in their faces. And until they had to do their real trying with cameras rolling.

  She glanced at Mae, walking next to her on the familiar route between Mimi’s and Barbara’s house. “You sure you couldn’t just show everyone this?”

  “No, you should do it,” Mae said. Then, with an understanding look: “Just pretend this morning didn’t happen. We never fought, nothing ever went wrong. You don’t even know what kind of story Food Wars is going to make of this, and so what? This is what matters now.” She pointed to the recipe. “And you were right. It makes everything different, and at the perfect time, because believe me, nobody wants to be in the middle of this anymore.” Mae gave her a little hip bump. “And you’re holding our way out.” She grinned, and Amanda stopped in her tracks. What was Mae up to?

  “You have to tell me,” she said. She couldn’t do this without knowing what Mae was thinking. Mae smiled triumphantly, but before she could answer, Sabrina came around from the back of the house.

  “There you two are,” she said, and she didn’t look pleased. “Nancy keeps telling me you’re going to clear this whole recipe question up, Amanda, and if that’s the case, let’s get it rolling.”

  Amanda took a deep breath. Pretend it never happened. Pretend the cameras aren’t there, maybe, forget about everything else. Just focus on the really big piece of this: Mimi never hated Frannie. Frannie never feuded with Mimi. Even with Sabrina standing there impatiently, Amanda took a minute to look from the small shadow of Mimi’s up at the house, thinking about the woman who had built this, who had somehow pulled together what must have been a huge sum to help her sister, who had wanted, above everything else, to make sure that her little sister, too, could take care of herself.

  Impulsively, she turned and hugged Mae, hard, and then, ignoring Sabrina and her trailing cameras, walked briskly toward the patio where Nancy had gathered Barbara, Andy, Gus, and Frankie and where Jay sat, too, looking amused by Aida, who had pulled up a chair close to his. Barbara looked tired and a little more blank than usual, and Amanda saw the changes in her that her accustomed eyes had been missing, but there was no time to think about that now. Frankie and Gus each had a can of Coke in their hand and streaks of dirt and dust across their faces.

  Amanda held up the letter in one hand, carefully, and waved her other arm, gathering them in.

  “Okay, everybody. I have something—an announcement, I guess—just something you have to see. So, you know Andy realized the Mimi’s and Frannie’s chicken was the same when he tasted it at the chef competition. And he and Mae thought I stole the recipe.” She saw Mae lean over and whisper something in her mother’s ear and remembered—Mae hadn’t told Barbara about the recipe, or any of the rest of it. Well, she had started, and the cameras were very much rolling. She would just have to go on, and they’d clear it all up later. “But they were wrong, and it turns out we were all wrong. The chicken is the same because the recipes are the same, and they’ve always been the same, because Mimi gave her recipe to Frannie when Frannie started her own business.”

  Barbara stood up abruptly, and Aida moved too, with surprising speed, to her niece’s side. Amanda walked over to her mother, holding the letter so that she could see it too, but there was something she had to say first.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly. Her mother might not know that she had told Food Wars about the house yet, but there was still plenty to apologize for. “I didn’t mean it, Mom. Mae— I was mad at Mae. I’m sorry. And now—” She glanced up at her mother’s face and thought she saw an opening there. “Just listen.” Carefully, she showed them all the recipe on the front of the paper and described the way Gus had finally shown Nancy where it was hidden. Then she read from the back, leaving nothing out.

  Frannie, I wish you much luck with Frannie’s. I do not think your man will be up to the job but I wish you much luck with him as well. Do not worry about the loan yet and do not tell him. This money and Frannie’s are yours. Like all men he will want to run things but he is easily fooled. I think that it is best I leave you to it for a while, as he and I will not agree.

  —Mimi

  And then the final line, in that different hand:

  Owe Mimi $1,400, October 29, 1889

  Barbara reached for the paper, and after a glance at Nancy, Amanda gave it to her. Barbara turned it gently in her hands. “You’re right,” she said simply. “That’s Mimi’s writing. That’s our recipe. Your recipe.”

  She looked up at Amanda, then at Nancy, and gave her head a little shake before she went on. “And, I guess, an IOU.”

  “Which we’re going to make good,” said Nancy, and Amanda rushed in.

  “We have to figure out how, Mom, but we know she died before she could pay it back. Or we think she did. And we know—” Amanda stopped. She didn’t want to say it in front of the cameras, or really at all, but they knew at
least some of the Pogociellos would have known, or could have guessed. There was good reason to be angry, but no one left to be angry with, or at least that was what Amanda hoped. She watched as her mother read the note again, and then held it, staring down as though if she looked for long enough, the scrap of paper would offer even more answers. But this one, her mother had to decide for herself. After a long, tense silence, Barbara spoke.

  “It wasn’t Frannie,” she pronounced. “That’s what matters. It wasn’t Frannie, and it wasn’t you, either.” She handed the paper to Mae, walked over to Nancy, and stuck out her hand. When Nancy took it, Barbara pulled the other woman into an embrace. Amanda’s eyes met Barbara’s over Nancy’s shoulder, and although no words were exchanged, Amanda felt a lightening of a load she had been carrying for so long that she was barely aware of it anymore.

  When her mother and mother-in-law broke apart, they were both laughing, and Amanda nearly clapped. Nancy might not have told them about the loan right away, but Amanda knew she would have, even if Nancy had doubted herself. It was time for her mother to see who Nancy really was and why Amanda loved her—and maybe why there was room for both Barbara and Nancy in Amanda’s life.

  “I still don’t understand,” said Andy. “Why did the chicken change? Because when I first tasted it, it wasn’t the same as Mimi’s. Not at all.”

  “I didn’t know we had the recipe,” Nancy said. “When Frank died, I didn’t even know a recipe existed. Frank Junior probably knew, but we never expected—” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Obviously no one thought they’d both die at the same time. But it turned out my Frank showed Gus, and Gus didn’t know I didn’t have it.” Noticing the camera on her, she turned away and wiped the tears off her face before she went on.

  “After I ran out of the mixture Frank had made, I started winging it. I knew it was never right, but what else could I do? When Gus realized I wasn’t using the recipe just this week—it’s a long story—he showed me, and we made it on Saturday morning, and I was so happy it was the right chicken again, and that’s what we brought to Food Wars. I never dreamed it would cause such a commotion.”

  Sabrina stepped in front of the camera. “Well, it certainly did,” she declared. “The mystery of the recipe may be solved, but the Food War still remains.” She smiled and subtly pulled at Amanda’s hand so that she had Amanda on one side and Mae on the other. “Our chefs report that there’s much more to great fried chicken than just what spices go in the coating, and they’re eager to tell you what they think, and who will ultimately win one hundred thousand dollars and the right to declare themselves the Fried Chicken Food War Champion. Will it be Frannie’s, where the drinks are flowing and the regulars are happily biting into the old familiar chicken”—she gestured to Amanda—“or will it be Mimi’s, where the spokespuppies have a new home and all’s right in the world?” She stood, smiling, then dropped her shoulders and her smile.

  “Cut. Okay, people, I’m glad you’ve got a happy ending to the Amanda story, but we’ve still got filming to do. We’ve decided to go back to neutral ground for the final scenes, so tomorrow morning, eight A.M., at the 1908 Standard for the big reveal.” She patted Mae and Amanda on their shoulders, then called to her crew. “Pack it up, guys.”

  Mae looked at Sabrina in horror, then pointed to the mess around them on the lawn. “You’re not going to help get all the rest of this out of here? Or film Mom in her new space?”

  “Nope,” said Sabrina over her shoulder as she walked toward the parking lot. “Changed my mind. We’ve got everything we need.”

  Her cameraman, moving between Jay and Gus to take down a light he’d set up there, shrugged. “We’ve left worse messes,” he said. Then he looked around. “Well, maybe not, actually. Good luck.”

  Barbara disregarded the crew rolling up cords under her feet and spoke to Mae. “What’s this about Amanda stealing a recipe?” She sank into a dining room chair, one of six that were strewn across the grass, and Amanda saw Nancy watching her thoughtfully.

  Mae was watching Barbara, too. She flushed. “I saw Amanda in Mimi’s one night. I didn’t tell you. And then, when Andy tasted the chicken and it was the same, he thought—well, I thought—she took it. And I said so. To Sabrina, with the cameras . . . I’m sorry. I should have given you a chance, Amanda. I should have known you wouldn’t lie.”

  Barbara looked up, energized for a moment. “You know your sister doesn’t tell lies, Mae.” She glanced at Amanda, and their eyes met. “She does a lot of things, apparently, but not that.” Her voice slowed, and she paused, as if looking for words.

  Amanda could see that Nancy, and probably every adult on the patio other than the self-centered Sabrina, now disappearing in the distance, had begun to realize that Barbara had more problems than just a messy house. She put a hand on Nancy’s shoulder and nodded toward her mother, speaking softly so her mother wouldn’t notice the exchange. “I’ll tell you later,” she whispered, and caught Aida’s eyes on them, and Andy’s. He, too, would have to know.

  After much too long, Barbara went on. “I’m glad about Mimi and Frannie,” she said, “but there was more to all this. Your man,” she said, now looking at Nancy. “He and his father put me through a rough time. Wanted to buy the place out from under me, and they were willing to do just about anything to make it happen.” She spoke very slowly, as though choosing every word. “We’re a ruthless lot on all sides, I guess. Maybe it’s time we stop working against each other.”

  “Past time,” said Nancy. “And I want to say it too, Mae. I’m sorry. When Gus showed me the recipe, I was worried about the chicken, and then when I read the back—I should have come over right then, and I didn’t. Maybe I could have prevented all this.”

  “Maybe,” said Mae, sounding more cheerful now and watching Sabrina and her crew pack into their cars. Amanda looked at her. Are you going to tell us now? Mae shook her head, glancing at their mother.

  “And maybe it’s all for the best.” She clapped her hands together briskly. “Either way, we have some figuring out to do,” she said, then, looking around: “And some cleaning up.” She visibly assessed her troops, and her gaze landed on Gus. “You,” she said. “Mom, how about launching our détente by having Gus help you prep for Mimi’s tonight? That frees up Muscles here”—she gestured to Andy—“to give us a hand for another hour or so.”

  Barbara hesitated, and Amanda watched Mae play her trump card. She knew what her sister was trying to do—get Barbara out of the house before she had a chance to start putting things that “we might need” or “I could sell” back inside. “Of course,” Mae said thoughtfully, “if you need Andy . . .”

  Barbara got up instantly. “I’m fine, Mae,” she said, and looked at Gus. “I know you’re good on the baseball field,” she said. “You any good in the kitchen?”

  Gus nodded, with a glance at Amanda. She smiled encouragingly. “I am,” he said. Barbara took his hand, and together they marched off for the restaurant.

  “Nice one,” said Amanda softly to her sister, and Mae laughed.

  “Andy,” she said, “Mom’s kitchen? It’s a nightmare. But the more we get out while we’ve got that giant dumpster thing they brought, the better.”

  Andy nodded. “I’ll help,” said Jay, and Amanda watched doubt temper Mae’s resolve. Jay smiled reassuringly, and as he did, Kenneth walked up, followed by Patrick, each carrying a container of iced coffees.

  “We,” Kenneth said, “are in, too. Patrick will check the basement for the valuable antiques I am dead sure aren’t in there, and I will provide Andy and Jay with additional hard labor in return for the promise of what I understand is the Mimi’s-and-Frannie’s famous fried chicken dinner.”

  Mae and Amanda both looked at him, surprised.

  “Ran into Sabrina on the way out, arguing with someone about how to set this up for tomorrow morning’s big winner announcement,” he said. “Ne
ws travels fast.”

  Patrick passed out the coffees, and, for Frankie, with a flourish, “your favorite lemonade.” A pump of lavender syrup, and a pump of pomegranate, Amanda knew.

  “Okay,” Mae said. “Jay, Andy, and Kenneth in the kitchen. Frankie and Patrick in the basement. Frankie, make sure he throws nearly everything away, okay? I don’t trust him. He looks like a saver. You, on the other hand—your mom told me about you.”

  Frankie grabbed her lemonade and hurried off. Amanda could tell she was pleased, but still a little wary of her aunt; Amanda had a feeling Mae would win her over soon. The patio began to empty, and Mae turned to Amanda and Nancy. After a moment, she stuck out her hand at Nancy.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Mae. Let’s start over.”

  Nancy laughed a little. It was hard to resist Mae when she wanted to be charming.

  Mae pulled a chair up close to Nancy as the basement crew headed for the house, and took a sip of her coffee. “I think the three of us need a sit-down,” she said, glancing at Amanda. Was Mae actually asking for her help here? She waited, unsure, and Mae kept talking, a little nervously. “Amanda and I—we’re just trying to figure out what to do. About Mimi’s, and Frannie’s, and this whole—” She gestured around her.

  “War,” said Nancy, and she leaned back in her chair and looked at them both.

  Mae looked as though she didn’t know how to take that, but Amanda knew Nancy was just waiting. Nancy knew the value of listening to other people talk, even if they didn’t want to. Nancy and Mae had never had a chance to get along, but maybe they could. If Mae could back off a little and let Nancy step up to be part of whatever she had in mind. Amanda jumped in, hoping to help. “Mae and I kind of figured out that we’re in this together. We have a lot we can work together on, at least. No more pushing each other under the Food Wars bus.”