Meg and Jo

by Virginia Kantra

Chefs at the holidays. It would make a great blog post.

  Not that I could ever ask him.

  Maybe you should put it on the menu, I typed.

  Nothing.

  I swallowed. Right. What was I doing, feeling sorry for Chef? Imagining we’d forged an intimate connection over green bean casserole. I was an idiot. The man was God. I flopped back on my pillow. Turned out the light.

  My phone screen glowed softly, like a message from heaven. We could have used you tonight, March. I hope your mother is well. Happy Thanksgiving.

  Simple words. They filled me, satisfied me like bread. I had purpose. I was appreciated. Valued.

  Smiling, I typed, Happy Thanksgiving, Chef. I fell asleep holding the phone like a talisman that would take me back to my real life.

  The next day, I had to put my phone on airplane mode for the flight to New York. So I missed the call from Meg.

  It wasn’t until I was on the ground in LaGuardia that I saw her text: Mom back in hospital. Call me.

  CHAPTER 6

  Meg

  Icould take care of this. I took a deep breath of cold air and knocked on Hannah Mullett’s door.

  I was good at taking care of things. Helping people with their problems. That used to be my job, helping people who needed money, making the numbers work so they could get a loan, buy a car, start a business, everything in black and white. Now . . . Well. I didn’t see the solutions so clearly now. I shivered in the yellow porch light.

  The moon shone over the skeletons of trees. Through the bare branches, against the twilight sky, I could see the pitched shadow of the old mule barn—our barn. The Mulletts’ trailer sat on Laurence land, near the edge of our property. Our mother did most of the farmwork herself. But even before Miss Hannah’s retirement—she had been the science teacher at Caswell Middle School—she crossed the fields to help our mother make and pack the cheese. After all, you couldn’t raise a family on a teacher’s pay, John always said. Not in North Carolina.

  The door cracked and then swung wide.

  “Meg.” Miss Hannah smiled in welcome. Beneath her cap of charcoal hair, her face was smooth and ageless. “It’s good to see you, honey. How’s your momma?”

  I opened my mouth. My throat closed. To my horror, I couldn’t speak.

  “Come in out of the cold.” She took my arm, drawing me across the threshold. “I’ll get us some coffee.”

  I smelled like the barn. There was goat slobber on my jeans and the Lord only knew what on my sneakers. “I’m all dirty,” I said. “I can’t . . . I’m fine. I don’t need anything. Thanks.”

  She gave me a look, like I was still in her seventh-grade science class. “You just set,” she said, and sat me down at her scrubbed wooden table while she bustled around the narrow galley kitchen.

  And, oh, it felt so very good to be mothered. To sit as she laid out mugs and spoons, sugar and cream. Real cream, in a ceramic pitcher shaped like a cow. A hand-pieced quilt hung on one wall along with pictures of her kids: James, all serious in his naval uniform, and Daphne in her cap and gown, beaming at her Howard graduation. I remembered when they used to play in the barn with Amy.

  Miss Hannah set a plate of cookies—homemade, chocolate chip—on the table. I eyed the plate. I’d always done my best to follow my mother’s rule, No snacks before mealtime. But some days required chocolate. Or vodka, my sister Jo’s voice said in my head.

  I got up to wash my hands. Took a cookie. “Thank you.”

  “So what did the doctors say today?” Miss Hannah asked.

  The crumbs caught in my throat. “Mom’s biopsy results are back. She has a bone infection.” “Osteomyelitis,” the orthopedist said. I’d made him spell the word twice so I could look it up later. For the first few minutes all I’d really heard were the words he didn’t say, Not cancer, not cancer, not cancer, beating over and over in my brain.

  “An infection,” Miss Hannah repeated.

  I nodded. “From when she cut herself moving the paddock this summer? Apparently the bacteria traveled through her bloodstream and got into her spine.”

  “So what are they going to do?” Miss Hannah said.

  “Well.” I swallowed. “They put a port in her arm. For her antibiotics? But it takes, like, four hours for her to get all her medication through the IV, and she’s still in a lot of pain. The doctor says that at some point she might be able to get the drugs as an outpatient. But until she can manage basic daily activities on her own, they want her to go to rehab.” Four to six weeks, the orthopedist said. Through Christmas. The lump in my throat developed spikes like a seedpod from a sweet gum tree.

  “Well, that’s a blessing.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Abby needs somebody to take care of her. Lord knows your father can’t do it.” Miss Hannah stirred her coffee vigorously. “Bless his heart.”

  I blinked. To the patriotic folks of Bunyan, our father was a hero. A saint. All the church ladies had a crush on him, so handsome, tall, and lean, his thick chestnut hair going to gray, his high-bridged nose, his rather thin mouth. Jo looked like him, though nobody ever called her beautiful. I took after our mother.

  What would Momma say?

  “He’s never had to,” I said. Defending him, the way she would have.

  “Well, that’s the truth. That man can’t find the coffeepot without your mother.”

  A spurt of laughter escaped me. Granted, Hannah had never been a member of Daddy’s congregation. She taught Sunday school at Greater Zion Baptist Church on the other side of town.

  “He’s been eating at the hospital most nights,” I said.

  “Cafeteria food.” Hannah sniffed. “I’ll make him my Brunswick stew.”

  In birth, death, sickness, and natural disasters, any Southern woman worth her salt showed up at her neighbors’ with a sympathy dish. With Daddy being a former minister and all, the poultry offerings were piling up: chicken and rice, chicken chili, chicken breasts with broccoli and cream of celery soup.

  “I’m sure he’d love that,” I said.

  “Anything I can do, honey. You know that.”

  “Thanks.” I cleared my throat. “Actually, I came to ask your advice. I’ve been helping out at the farm since Momma’s in the hospital. But . . . Well. Daddy’s so busy now, and I’ve got the twins. I can’t do it all myself.”

  “You have enough shit in your life already,” Jo had said on the phone. “I mean, come on. Poopy diapers and dirty straw?” I had laughed, because she wanted me to. But it was true.

  I crumbled my cookie. “And now we know that Mom will be in rehab . . . Even after she gets out, she won’t be able to work like she used to. Maybe not for months. We really need to hire somebody to handle the farm chores.”

  Hannah’s eyes were dark and kind. Troubled. “Meg . . . Did you talk to your parents about this?”

  I shook my head. Between the pain—and the pain meds—my mother was in no condition to make decisions about the farm. My father had never really asked for my help, or volunteered any. He spent his days counseling veterans in a rented storefront in a run-down part of town, an old insurance office that held a desk, some chairs, a computer, and a coffeepot. At night, he ran a twelve-step program in the church basement, down the stairs from the twins’ classroom, or visited the hospital, sitting with Momma, dropping in on the wounded warriors in rehab.

  It was as if he expected life to simply go on revolving around him. Which, of course, it did.

  “Honey . . .” Hannah studied her mug, which was a cheerful yellow with Think like a proton . . . Stay positive! printed on one side. Science teacher humor, I guess. “Your folks are good people. Abby and I have been friends a long time. But you’re talking about, what, three months?” I nodded. “I can’t help you. I won’t be here. I’m visiting James over the holidays.” Her son in California.

  “I�
�m not asking you to do it,” I assured her. It was one thing to work in the cheese room, cutting curd and draining whey. But Hannah was past retirement age, too old to be hauling hay and mucking out stalls. “I figured you might know someone who could use the work, that’s all. It won’t pay a lot, but . . .”

  “Meg.” Hannah met my gaze, her eyes regretful. “Your mother doesn’t have the money to pay anybody right now.”

  My jaw unhinged. But . . . Okay. Granted, I hadn’t worked at the bank in a while. But I understood the problems farmers faced with cash flow. Market prices and milk production went up and down. Feed costs and vet bills were constant. Any large, unexpected expense could plunge you into the red.

  For some reason, my heart was racing. “Are you saying . . . Miss Hannah, does Momma owe you money?”

  “I told Abby not to worry about it. You’re getting into the lean season now. Pretty soon those goats dry up. So do customers. Abby always counted on her holiday sales at the farmers’ market to see her through till spring.”

  But my mother hadn’t been at the farmers’ market, I remembered. She’d been in the hospital.

  “But what about you?” I asked. “Are you all right? For money, I mean.”

  “Don’t you worry about me.” Hannah patted my arm. “I still have my retirement. And my quilt sales. Why, I got another commission last week.” She kept talking, snatches filtering through the noise in my head. Something about her trip at Christmastime. Another grandchild.

  She’d made us a wedding quilt. Me and John. A traditional double-ring design for the queen-size bed in our first apartment. I’d loved that quilt. But it didn’t match the style of our new house. Now we had everything matching, coordinated drapes and duvet cover and lots of fussy pillow shams that John threw on the floor.

  Not that it mattered. I guess my brain didn’t want to face up to what she was really saying: I couldn’t hire anybody to help on the farm. There wasn’t any money.

  Hannah paused, looking at me expectantly. The blood rushed in my ears. Had she asked me a question?

  “Excuse me?”

  “When are your sisters coming home?” she repeated.

  “Christmas.” Almost three weeks away. “Well, Jo is coming. Amy is in Paris.” She’d cried, leaving. “And Beth got a part in a show.”

  Our mother wouldn’t hear of them changing their plans simply because she needed, in her words, “a few medical tests.” That was her way. Keep going, keep moving, keep working, through deployments, disappointments, dry wells, and broken hearts.

  “I heard Beth auditioned for something,” Hannah was saying. “In Branson, right?”

  I nodded, pulling myself together. “She got the call last week.” Before we knew Momma would spend Christmas in rehab. “Colt Henderson wants to use one of her songs in his show, so they added Beth to the chorus. She’s playing an angel, I think. Oh, and an elf.”

  “That’s wonderful news. Good for her.”

  “It is wonderful. She’s so talented.”

  “Gonna be hard, though.”

  “Yes.” My sisters and I had never been apart for the holidays. Ever. “They’ll be all alone on Christmas.”

  “I meant for you. All that work.”

  “Oh. Yes.”

  “You want to lay off milking now anyway,” Hannah said. “Those goats will start having babies in a couple months. Give you all a little break before then.”

  I nodded. “Do you know . . . Is there enough inventory that I could sell at the farmers’ market on Saturday?”

  “Should be. The chèvre’s still good for a couple weeks. And that marinated feta, that keeps awhile. Check the walk-in.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  Miss Hannah watched me, a frown creasing her dark face. “You never did like working with a lab partner. It’s a big step for you, coming here to ask for help. I’m just sorry I—”

  “No, I’m sorry. It’s not your problem.” It was mine. “I’ll talk to Dad,” I said. I wondered what kind of salary he drew from his nonprofit. Enough to pay Hannah the money Momma owed her?

  “Honey, your daddy doesn’t do a damn lick around the farm. I’m talking about John. Your husband.”

  “John’s so busy,” I said. Making excuses for him. Although just this afternoon, he’d picked up the kids from preschool so I could be at the hospital. “I can’t ask him to do any more.”

  “Well, you know what’s best,” Hannah said, in that doubtful tone teachers sometimes used. Like I was twelve years old and about to set the lab on fire. (Which I never did, by the way. That was Jo.) “If there’s an emergency or you need a break, you call me. I’ll be in town for another two weeks.”

  A rush of guilt and gratitude choked me. “Thanks.” I hesitated. “I wonder . . . That is, Sallie Moffat is having a Christmas party on Saturday. I figured we’d stay home. I mean, I’ve never left the twins with anyone but Momma. But . . .”

  “You want me to watch them for you?”

  “Yes. Please. If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “No trouble at all.” Hannah smiled. “Kept an eye on you and your sisters often enough. And it will be good practice for when I visit James.”

  “Oh, thank you, Miss Hannah!” I hugged her awkwardly, leaving bits of hay on her purple fleece sweater. Flushing, I brushed at her shoulders. “Sorry.”

  “It’s all good, honey. Take some cookies with you.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t . . .”

  “For John and those babies.”

  So I left with cookies and Hannah’s promise to come over Saturday at seven.

  I checked my messages in the car. Nothing from my mother. There was a string of texts from John, starting with, Hey, hon. We’re home. and ending Where r u? I stopped at the Piggly Wiggly to pick up a rotisserie chicken, my mind already calculating ahead. I wondered how much Carl would pay me to do the books for his farm. Enough to hire a sitter? Enough to hire help with the farm?

  Maybe I should talk to John after the twins were in bed tonight.

  But when I pulled into our neat little subdivision, there was another car sitting in our driveway. A red new-model Ferrari with dealer’s plates. What was Trey doing here?

  “Hello?” Dropping the grocery bag on the island, I walked through the empty kitchen to the family room.

  Beer bottles and sippy cups covered the coffee table. Trey lay on the carpet, DJ bouncing on his chest. Daisy crawled on all fours, eating fish crackers out of a bowl on the floor. Without her hands.

  John looked up from his phone, relieved. “There you are.”

  “Mommy!” DJ tumbled off Trey and ran to me.

  “Hey. Hi, baby.” I hefted DJ, bent to smooch the top of Daisy’s head.

  “I a key cat, Mommy!”

  “Such a nice kitty cat.” I tugged on my shirt, embarrassed. I looked a mess. My house was a mess.

  Trey rolled gracefully to his feet and kissed my cheek. “John invited me for dinner. But if this is a bad time . . .”

  Tell him he should bring you home for dinner sometime, I’d said at Thanksgiving. “No, of course not.” I smiled. “This is great. It’s great to see you.”

  “I called you,” John said. “I left a message.”

  Not his fault. “This is great,” I repeated.

  “We can order a pizza or something,” John said.

  DJ removed his thumb from his mouth. “Pizza.”

  “Pizza, pizza, Mommy!” Daisy chanted.

  Trey held up his phone with a smile. “I’ve got Domino’s on my favorites list.”

  Maybe I wasn’t a chef like Jo. But if I’d learned anything from our mother, it was how to stretch a meal to feed an extra mouth. I could manage one home-cooked meal for Trey, the boy I’d known since high school. John’s boss.

  “Don’t be silly. By the time they deliver, I can have dinner
on the table,” I said.

  The answering machine in the kitchen was blinking. John, telling me Trey was coming to dinner.

  I poured canned stock and cream of chicken soup into a pot. Mixed together flour, salt, baking powder, butter, adding just enough milk to make a sticky dough. I rolled it out, cut it into strips, and dropped the dumplings into the broth to simmer while I attacked the chicken.

  “Something smells good,” John said while I set the table.

  “Chicken and dumplings.”

  Trey grinned. “You’re amazing.”

  I blushed with pleasure.

  “Can I help?” John asked.

  I smiled and shook my head. “All under control.” Well. Almost under control. DJ had stripped to his diaper and was squatting on his heels while Daisy fed him crackers one by one. “Come on, kitties,” I coaxed. “Time for dinner.”

  “DJ no key,” Daisy said. “He a puppy.”

  “Ruff, ruff,” DJ said.

  “Okay, big dog.” John lifted him by the waist, making him shriek with delight. “Let’s wash those paws.”

  “Careful,” I said automatically.

  “I a puppy!” Daisy said as John carried a kicking, giggling DJ off to the bathroom under one arm. “Daddy, I a puppy, too!”

  “Let me open some wine,” Trey said.

  It was a relief to sit down to supper. Of course, the twins had no appetite. All those crackers. But eventually they ate enough that I could wipe their hands and set them up with coloring books in the kitchen.

  “You should get those kids a dog,” Trey said when I returned.

  “We’ve talked about it,” John said.

  “We will. When they’re a little older,” I said.

  “Be good for teaching them responsibility,” Trey said.

  I smiled at him affectionately. “Which is why you never had one.”

  “I always wanted a dog,” John said.

  But who would end up feeding it? Walking it? Cleaning the yard? Me, that’s who. I swallowed some wine, searching for another subject. “I saw Miss Hannah today. She’s coming over to watch the twins on Saturday. So we can go to Sallie’s party.”