“That’s not a stiff peak. When it’s really stiff, it can’t fall over.” Sure enough, my peaks are melting. “Stiff means stiff.” Señora Vasquez gestures at me. “Keep going.”
I guess when I made the other cake, they weren’t as stiff as they should have been. It still tasted pretty good, though.
My favorite part is combining everything. How it mixes and becomes something new. I add the milk mixture and the flour to the egg whites a little bit at a time, stirring each time with an old-looking wooden spoon.
In the kitchen, I stop thinking about anything else. There’s just me and the cake batter, the hiss of the gas as Señora Vasquez heats her teapot, the TV softly chattering in the background. Señora Vasquez is more relaxed, too. She seems to enjoy directing me as she watches and dunks her teabag up and down in the hot water. “Do you want some tea?” She pushes the box toward me. Chamomile. I sniff. It smells like grass and flowers and a little bit of lemon.
“Yes, please.” I haven’t had tea before. She pours hot water into another mug and puts the teabag in it.
I carefully tip the bowl over the pan, scraping the batter out, then set it in the oven. Señora Vasquez hands me a plastic bear filled with honey. “You don’t have to have your tea sweet, but I do.”
“No harm in trying it.” I give the bear a good squeeze into my tea, watching the golden liquid settle into the bottom, then stirring it up with a spoon. Finally I blow and take a sip. It tastes like it smells, kind of a soothing thing. I add more honey. I guess I like it sweet, too.
As we sip our tea, Señora Vasquez tells me about the time her late husband crashed their car into a tree. “He was messing with the radio.” She shakes her head at the memory. “I was so angry at him. Do you know how hard it was to save up money for a car?” She glances sidelong at me. “And yes, he should have been paying better attention. But blame and anger don’t get you very far.”
“Everybody makes mistakes,” I say almost automatically. That’s what every teacher has been telling me since the beginning of time.
“Hmmm,” Señora Vasquez says. “Once I could get past that, we could move on.”
The refrigerator rattles and whirs like an old lawn mower. Señora Vasquez ambles over and hits its side. “The ice maker keeps trying to make ice, but it’s disconnected.”
Then we hear the sound of a car driving up to the house and both of us glance out the window. The Jeep turns around in the dirt driveway, sending up a cloud of dust and hiding the driver. “Who could that be? I don’t trust Jeep drivers—no doors. They can hop out, rob someone, and drive away.” Señora Vasquez wipes her hands on her apron. “If he wants to rob us, I hope he takes that full trash bag, too.” She picks up a cast-iron frying pan and holds it as if she’s going to hit someone on the head, bracing herself on the kitchen counter.
Someone climbs slowly out of the car. A white-haired man. “That’s Mr. Miniver! Mr. Miniver!” I almost collapse with relief. It’s like we expected a robber and got Santa Claus instead.
“That old fool got a Jeep?” Señora Vasquez puts the pan down with a clatter. “Driving around like some young caballero up to no good. What could he possibly be thinking?”
Mr. Miniver hobbles up the steps, clutching the handrailing. He’s bearing a white plastic grocery bag. “Dolores?” he calls. “Cady?”
I run to the door and hold it open. “What are you doing here?”
“I knew you were babysitting and thought you could use some lunch.” He holds up the bag. “Hello, Dolores.”
“Stanley. Do you think I’m too old to watch Cady and cook at the same time?” Señora Vasquez glares at him.
“I thought she was babysitting you,” Mr. Miniver says with a grin.
“Hmph,” Señora Vasquez grunts. I giggle.
Mr. Miniver glances around. “Well, it’s almost lunchtime and all I see is a tres leches cake being made. While I’m a fan, that’s definitely not a meal.”
Señora Vasquez relents. “Oh, fine. Sit down.”
“That’s as close to a thank-you as I’ll get,” he remarks to me.
“Thank you!” I open the bag. He’s brought us fried chicken and potato salad from a restaurant in town. I eat four pieces, and then Mr. Miniver says I can have his wing and Señora Vasquez gives me an extra drumstick.
I eat, half listening as the two gossip about everyone in the village. “So the Smith girl is marrying that marine after all?” Señora Vasquez shakes her head. “I always tell Claudia not to get married until she’s thirty. I doubt she’ll listen.”
“She’s not going to get married. Claudia says that she and Gable are artists and artists belong to no one,” I chime in.
Mr. Miniver and Señora Vasquez look at each other, trying to keep straight faces. Then they burst into laughter.
“What?” Claudia was super serious when she said that.
“I got married when I was eighteen and it was a good job I did. My wife straightened me out.” Mr. Miniver scoops more potato salad onto his plate. It’s really good, with sour cream and bacon in it.
“Who wants to straighten someone out?” Señora Vasquez scoffs. “We want someone pre–straightened out. A real man.”
“A man won’t be straightened out unless he wants to be.” Mr. Miniver isn’t insulted. In fact, he looks amused.
I wonder if my dad had his act together when my parents got married or if my mom thought she could “straighten him out” too. And if he was willing. Because my mom was the strong, healthy one in that relationship.
I decide I’ll never get married. That way I don’t have to worry about anyone but me.
“Did you guys know my mom very well?” I ask, interrupting their conversation.
Señora Vasquez wipes her fingers on a napkin. “Not too well, but I remember once, before you were born, there was a potluck at Shell’s and she made Korean tacos. Your father loved Korean barbecue. She would take Korean barbecued meat and make tacos out of it.” She smiles. “It was very unusual at the time. My daughter was horrified. ‘Mama! Did you see what she did to tacos? They’re not authentic anymore.’ But I didn’t care because they were delicious.”
“I knew her when she was a little thing. She and Shell played with my daughters.” Mr. Miniver smiles at me. “She loved riding her bike. She was daring, your mother. She even got my girls into it. I set up a ramp for them in the backyard. My wife was not too pleased about that. Especially not when my Stacy broke her arm.” He chuckles. “If there was any thrill to be found, your mother was the one to find it.”
“A bike, huh?” I can’t imagine riding a bike, much less doing stunts. My mother grew up here. Mr. Miniver knew her. A bolt of excitement pulls me ruler straight. Suddenly Mom seems more real and alive than she ever was before, when she only existed in the memories of me and my father. Instead of only two people knowing her, now there are many. And they seem to love her almost as much as I did.
I lean forward. “Tell me everything you remember about her.”
After the tres leches cake comes out of the oven, we have to let it cool for a while. Then we poke holes in it with a skewer and pour the mixed sweetened condensed milk and regular milk over the bare cake. “It soaks it up like a sponge,” Señora says.
Mr. Miniver rubs his hands together. “My favorite.”
I take a bite. It’s creamy and sweet, the wetness and the dry crumb all combining perfectly. But it’s so rich I can only have a little piece. Mr. Miniver doesn’t seem to have this problem, because he eats a giant slice. We eat quietly, concentrating on the cake.
Señora Vasquez looks pleased. “It’s always good when people shut up while they eat. That means they love the food!”
I lift my fork. “To Señora Vasquez!”
“Three cheers!” Mr. Miniver lifts his fork, too.
The refrigerator rattles again, and Mr. Miniver cocks his head. “Whatever that is sounds like it’s about to break.” He gets up.
“It’s fine,” Señora Vasquez says. “It�
��s been like that for years.”
“It’s the ice maker. I can disconnect it completely.” Mr. Miniver opens the freezer door. “Cady, go out to my truck and open the glove box. Inside there’s a leather case, with my Leatherman multi-tool.” Mr. Miniver winks. “Do you know what my job used to be? Professional problem solver, aka engineer.”
When I get back, Mr. Miniver has the refrigerator pulled away from the wall and Señora Vasquez is saying, “But the store right next door is empty. Shell could expand and then start selling to retail stores, too. There’s not enough business here.”
Mr. Miniver flips open a little screwdriver thing from the tool. “Now, that is an investment I’d be willing to make.” His head disappears behind the appliance. “You have to spend money to make money.”
My stomach somersaults. “Does she know you’d do it?” She must not. Otherwise she’d let him help, wouldn’t she?
Mr. Miniver gestures at Señora Vasquez. “No, but I bet she will in about two minutes with this one on the case.”
“Oh, you.” Señora Vasquez rolls her eyes. “I’ll tell her, but she’ll resist. She’s too stubborn.”
“Like someone else I know.” Mr. Miniver laughs.
She snorts. “Besides, the landlord’s asking too much. She needs to negotiate.”
They continue their discussion. I lean back in my chair, enjoying how they talk back and forth. How the kitchen smells so good with the chicken and the cake. How much they care about my aunt, and about me.
I’ve never known any grandparents, but Señora Vasquez and Mr. Miniver seem like they’re a pretty close substitute. Señora Vasquez puts our cake dishes in the sink and turns on the water.
I get up. “Sit down. I’ve got this.” I take over. For the first time since I overheard María and Shell, I’m hopeful. Maybe there’s still a chance for the shop, if Shell will let us all help her.
Chapter 28
Later, when I get home, both Suzanne and Shell are waiting for me. “You got a postcard from Jenna.” Shell hands it to me.
Yes! I run upstairs to read it.
“Come right back down,” Suzanne calls. “I got us Chinese food.”
“Okay,” I shout back. I examine the postcard. It takes me a minute to figure it out. Jenna’s still not that great at spelling. I wasn’t either in second grade.
Hope your having an awsome summer. I accidentlly had somethng bad at the fair. I’m in the hospitl. There’s nothng to do hear & the food is bad. I miss you.
Poor Jenna. I hope she’s all right by now. If only there was something I could do to cheer her up. I can’t afford flowers and I don’t want to ask Shell for help with that, knowing how tight we are on money, so instead, I write her a letter.
Dear Jenna,
I bet by the time you get this, you’ll be at home. Feel better. Jacques, Julia, and Tom say hi.
Love,
Cady
I draw her a picture of us reading a book, with Tom on her lap, rubbing his face on the pages, and Jacques and Julia on their stomachs, listening.
It will have to do for now.
I take the letter downstairs. Shell and Suzanne are on the couch, watching The Bake Off with the sound off. “Haven’t you already seen all the episodes?” I plop into the chair and put the letter into the little basket on the coffee table for mail. Suzanne’s got the boxes of food arranged on the coffee table.
She spoons white rice into a bowl, then puts orange chicken on top of it and hands it to me. “Chopsticks or fork?”
“Chopsticks.” I’m not great at them, but if I never use them, how will I ever learn? I rip open the package and imitate Suzanne as she scrapes them against each other, removing the splinters.
“When I rewatch the show, I always see something I missed the first time,” Shell says.
Suzanne takes off her long hoop earrings. “Ah. These are too heavy.”
That reminds me. “I wrote to my dad and told him I was getting my ears pierced. So can one of you take me to Gable’s dad?” Jacques’s nose sticks up over the coffee table, the nostrils sniffing. I pick up my food quickly. He’s kind of a thief.
Shell frowns. “Shoot. I forgot about that. We should wait for your dad to say it’s okay.”
“No. I told him I was doing it.” I lift my chin, watching a baker cry over his bread. “I don’t care what he thinks. Every time I talk to him, he only talks about himself.” I let out all the thoughts I’ve been keeping inside me. I eat a piece of orange chicken but don’t taste it. “And it’s his fault we’re homeless. Only my mother was a real parent. Why should I have to get his permission to do anything?”
They exchange a look, communicating something—I’m not sure what.
A list of all the ways Dad let me down scrolls through my head like one of those super-long register receipts. All these years wasted. I could have known Shell and Suzanne for my entire life, but I didn’t. “The worst thing is this.” I wave my hand around. “He kept me from you. My mom would have wanted me to know you. To live here.” My voice gets louder and I pound my fists into my knees.
Shell angles toward me. “There’s something else you need to know.”
Uh-oh. From their expressions, this can’t be good. My body goes on high alert, like it’s ready to run. I cross my arms tight across my chest. “Okay.”
“Are you sure, Shell?” Suzanne says.
“Cady’s mature and intelligent. She needs to have all the facts.” Shell nods toward me, and I nod back, a fleecy sensation enveloping my body, blanket-like. Shell thinks I’m intelligent.
“Yes. I want to know.” Whatever it is, I can handle it. My life story’s like a book with random scenes and plot pieces cut out of it. How can I make sense of it without filling those holes?
“You remember how I told you I didn’t know why your dad said you were going to Oregon?” Shell’s voice quavers. Suzanne rubs her knee, and Shell regains control. “Here’s how it was.”
Suzanne scoots over. “Cady, why don’t you come sit with us?”
I mechanically stand and squeeze in next to Suzanne. Her spot is like a burner set on low. I settle in. “Go on,” I say to Shell. “I want to hear it.” I give them my best brave smile. “Remember, I’m tough. I’m a Sanchez.”
“Yes,” Shell says softly. She clears her throat. “Cady, I know you think your mom was perfect and it’s your dad who had all the problems.”
I nod. “Pretty much. We would have been fine if it wasn’t for him.” That last part makes me feel guilty, but it’s true. I look at my lap.
Shell shakes her head. “But your mom had her own issues. Way before you came along.”
My body goes ice-cold. “What kind of issues?” I feel like I’m standing outside this scene, watching it happen. Like I’m not really here.
“Drugs.” Shell takes in a breath. “We tried helping her.”
“But you can’t make an adult do anything,” Suzanne adds, rubbing my shoulder. Her touch reminds me that I’m still in the room. That my aunts are here.
“Anyway, she did come home for a while when she was pregnant. She cleaned up for you. But she went back to your dad before you were born. She said they were both clean.” Shell’s lips quiver. “After a while, she stopped communicating. She’d answer the phone maybe on holidays or her birthday, but that was it.”
“We tried to see you as much as we could when you were a baby,” Suzanne adds. “They seemed functional enough. You seemed healthy. But she and your dad were unfriendly. Sometimes they’d pretend not to be home.” Suzanne squashes me against her like she can crush the pain out of me.
Shell’s mouth twists. “Then, when you were about three, she told us to leave her alone for good. She didn’t want her baby to have two aunts. We thought that was the only reason she didn’t want us around. Now I think it was an excuse.” She shakes her head. “We didn’t even know your mom was sick until—it was too late.”
I stare hard at the coffee table, willing my heart to explode, because that�
��s how bad it hurts right now. “I thought . . .” I can barely speak.
“After your mother died, we spoke to your dad every once in a while. We wanted to know you were okay. I tried to visit, but the address he gave was no good.” Shell rubs her eyes. “I guess he told us you were moving to Oregon so we’d stop bothering him.”
I move away from Suzanne. My side is coated with sweat and every muscle I have tenses. “No. That’s not right. My dad was okay until she died. He loved her so much he couldn’t help going downhill.” I try to stop my lips from trembling. “She was the glue!”
Shell stares at the floor. Suzanne tries to put her arm around me, but I don’t want any touching right now. I’m shaking, my fury smoldering. “But really, it was because both of them were bad.”
My father had lied. Right to my face, over and over, for years. He only cares about himself and making him and my mother look good, like they had no part in anything. Like everything was someone else’s fault, when they had been the ones pushing everyone away. “Did they ever love me?” My voice cracks. I kick the basket of letters, sending them flying. Julia runs over and sniffs them. Jacques retreats to hide by Shell.
“I’m not mad at you, Jacques,” I tell him, but he looks away. That makes me feel worse.
“Of course they loved you. Remember your mother got better for you!” Suzanne says. “They loved you, but they—”
“No, Suzanne,” Shell interrupts. “Cady is allowed to feel how she feels.” She stretches out her arms and grabs my hands, which I let her do because my emotions are about to blow me off the couch. “You had a rougher life than any kid deserved. There were lots of things your parents could have done differently to put you first. But their judgment wasn’t exactly high functioning.” She rubs my hands with her thumbs, the pressure calming me. “And maybe we should’ve done more. Gotten custody somehow. I don’t know.”
“She should’ve gotten help,” I blurt out. “That’s what a normal person would do. Right?”
Suzanne’s eyes well. “Cady, we don’t know what was going on in her head. But I know your parents didn’t intend to become addicts. Who would? But once they started, it was hard to stop. And when your mom died, your father got worse, too.”
Summer of a Thousand Pies Page 17