“Link, if you please.”
She smiles. “Oh, yeah. Right.”
“I’ll talk to him about it on the way home.”
“Okay. You want to bring him back in now so I can say goodbye?”
“Sure.” He stands, gives her a kind of appraising look, then says, gently, “Sweetheart? Do you want to…Should I put a little lipstick on you?”
She puts her hand to her mouth. “Oh! Oh, yes, that would be good, I forgot. I know, I’m awfully pale, aren’t I? There’s pink lip gloss in the top drawer there. Can you give it to me?”
He digs around and holds up a tube. “This one?”
“Yeah.” She uncaps the lipstick and puts it to her mouth. Her hand is shaking.
“Want me to do it?” Jason asks.
“I can.” She forgot to ask for a mirror, but never mind.
Jason leaves the room to go and get Lincoln. Thinking of her son, Abby can feel her heart seem to stretch. It hurts. When he walks in, she rouses every bit of energy she has in order to hold out her arms and look glad. Lincoln walks slowly to her, she who is no longer she, but whom he loves, and she folds him into her.
“Bye, Mom,” he says, his voice a bit muffled.
“You go to the shelter and get a kitty, okay?” she says. “That will be your birthday present from me.”
“Okay.”
“Great!” she says, but after he goes out the door, she screws up her face and silently weeps.
Cookies and Kittens
THREE DAYS BEFORE THANKSGIVING, LUCILLE and Iris are frosting the wattles on the turkey cookies they have made as a demo for the baking class tomorrow. “A Turkey of a Hostess Gift,” Lucille had decided to call this class. “Um,” Iris said. “Are you sure you want to call it that? A turkey of a gift would mean—”
“It’s a joke!” Lucille said, and so Iris simply wrote a description online that suggested you’d likely be canonized if you brought these cookies to whomever was having you for the holiday. Lucille got quite a response. Tomorrow, fifteen women will be there to make cookies, box them up in cute little corrugated boxes, and tie on brown-and-orange-plaid ribbon. Iris found the boxes at a dollar store, and Lucille told her, “I’m thrilled that everything was so cheap. You have a real gift.” She hasn’t praised Iris’s baking skills that highly. Yet.
While the cookies baked, they set up the kitchen for the class. They put extra leaves in the kitchen table and arranged chairs as best they could. “It looks like the White House briefing room in here,” Lucille grumbled.
But Iris thought she was pleased. Last week, Iris had to buy six more folding chairs, and Lucille said they might need to get a few more yet.
“I think I might get business cards that say LUCILLE HOWARD, BAKER TO THE STARS,” Lucille says now.
“What stars?” Iris asks.
“You know, movie stars.”
“You bake for movie stars?”
“Well, not yet, but it’s not impossible.”
“Maybe not, but you should probably have had some dealings with movie stars before you put that on your card.”
Lucille sighs. “Stop being so technical. Tell me this: If movie stars ate my baking, wouldn’t they like it?”
“No doubt. Those who eat sweets, anyway.”
Lucille waves her hand. “They all eat sweets. Whether they admit it or not.”
“Some people don’t even like sweets.”
“Who?”
“My ex-husband, for one.” She attempted to write to him again just last night. Here’s how far she got: Dear Ed, I suppose it might be too late to say this. Then yet another card ripped up, this one with a beautiful waterfall on it.
“Your ex is a bit of an anomaly, I think you would agree. And anyway, what’s to stop me from sending some things to movie stars through their agents? I might send some blondies to Nicole Kidman, I think she’s exactly the type for blondies.”
“Well, but…I think they’d get thrown out,” Iris ventures.
“What’s that?”
“I said I think they’d get thrown out.”
Lucille pulls her chin in and blinks once, twice.
“Why in the world would they throw them out?”
“For safety reasons,” Iris says. “Famous people can’t eat what just anyone sends them.”
Lucille shakes her head. “It’s a sad world, I’ll tell you. But there’s nothing saying I couldn’t send to a few, anyway. And then say I am baker to the stars. They might not eat it, but I can bake for them.”
Iris leans forward. “Lucille? You don’t need to do that. You’re the star, at least in this town. Everyone knows about your baking.”
“I suppose it’s true.”
Lucille leans back and squints at the cookie she holds up before her. “Not red enough.”
“Let’s see,” Iris says, and then, “Yeah, you’re right. Want me to mix up some buttercream and we can add more food coloring this time?”
Lucille looks up at her cuckoo clock: just after eight. “I don’t think so. Maybe I’ll quick make it tomorrow before they come.”
“I can do it at home,” Iris says. “I’ll bring it over tomorrow when I come. And I’ll get some more food coloring, you’re running low.”
“Only organic!” Lucille says, and Iris says, “I know.”
“Do not deviate one bit from my recipe, either.”
“Would I do that?”
Lucille pushes herself up from the table and Iris has to keep herself from helping. Lucille does not like you to help her. But Iris can see she is tired.
“Anything else I can do for you?” she asks.
Lucille puts her hands on her hips and narrows her eyes as she surveys the kitchen. “No, if we get that color right, we’re all set. I’ll see you in the morning. I’d better use the thirty-six-cup coffeemaker for this crowd!”
“I’ll come early and get the coffee started. That big one takes a good forty-five minutes to brew.”
Lucille hesitates, and then says thank you, and suddenly Iris is worried. Lucille gave in too easily. She usually puts up more of a fight, saying things like “Do I look helpless?” or “Here comes your ageism, creeping in again.”
In addition to running her classes and making caramel cakes for the Henhouse, Iris knows Lucille has been taking care of the boy next door quite a bit. She says he’s a sweet kid and not really any trouble. He comes after school and stays until his dad gets home at dinnertime, having spent most of the day with his wife. She’s at the regional hospital in Columbia undergoing some experimental treatment, Lucille said, and apparently is not doing well. Link has a snack, does his homework, and then helps Lucille prepare demos. He likes cooking, apparently; Lucille said he wields a rubber spatula with some flair. She said sometimes he goes to a friend’s house instead of coming to Lucille’s, but lately he’s there every day. Lucille says she thinks he’s scared.
Yesterday, Lucille asked Iris to take Link to the animal shelter. His parents agreed to let him have a kitten, and so he and Iris went to see what was available.
A lot was available, as it happened. Three new litters had just been brought in, and Iris had to bite her tongue in order not to make any recommendations. There were orange ones, tabbies, and ones that looked a little Siamese. Link sat with one kitten in his lap, then another, and more after that, but couldn’t make up his mind. Finally, Iris said, “How about if I bring you back tomorrow?”
“I can’t tomorrow. There’s teachers’ conferences at school, and my dad is bringing me to visit my mom.”
“Oh, good,” Iris said, and then wondered if it was crass to say that it was good when you had to visit your mother in the hospital. She quickly added, “Why don’t you take some pictures of the ones you like best, and you can show her. Okay?”
He smiled, nodded, and then pic
ked out his three favorites and photographed them. “This one here is Slinky,” he said of a gray tabby, the only one he named, and Iris thought, There’s your kitten. But Link had to be the one to say it. And he didn’t.
Iris had found her own kitten, though, and she brought him home. He’s orange, with blue eyes and a patch on his chest like a heart. She named him Homer. For home. Which is what she believes she has found here. The regret she anguishes over has not left her. But more things are accumulating between her and it.
When she pulls into the parking lot of her apartment building, she sees Tiny climbing out of his truck. She calls his name, then starts over to him. “What are you up to?”
“Just going for my walk by the river. Want to come?”
“Sure!”
They walk quietly for a while, Tiny going at a much faster pace than he used to.
“You’re looking good, Tiny,” she tells him. “You’ve lost a lot of weight.”
“Thanks. But I sure miss my pigs in a blanket.”
“You’ll have them again.”
“Probably not the double order, though.”
“You might not want the double order anymore.”
Tiny stops in his tracks and turns to face her. “Iris, I will want a double order of pigs in a blanket every day probably for the rest of my life. Some men want a big bank account so they feel rich. Me, if I look down at a platter and see it covered with cakes and sausage and maple syrup, I’m good. You know? I’m great.”
They start walking again. It’s a bit cold, but energizing.
She hears Tiny sigh, and when she looks over, his face is drooping, sad.
“Tiny? Are you…is something wrong?”
“Nah. Nothing I want to talk about. Best get back, huh?”
When they reach their building, Iris says, “Listen, I’m going to make some things for Lucille’s class tomorrow and then I’m going to find a funny movie on demand. Want to come over and watch with me?”
“That sounds nice, but I have to do a real early morning pickup tomorrow to take a guy to the airport. Four-thirty A.M.”
“Ouch!”
“Yeah, but you know. Buys the Lean Cuisines.”
“Okay, another time.”
They stand quietly at the elevator door and then Iris says, “You know, Tiny, I have a Weight Watchers cookbook, and there’s a recipe in there that is so low-calorie. You know what it’s for?”
“What?”
“Chicken and dumplings.”
“Can’t be.”
“It is! It’s six points.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means it’s low-cal, low-fat,” Iris says. I’ll make it for you tomorrow.”
“That’s okay. But thanks.”
The elevator comes, and they step in. “You sure you’re okay?” Iris asks.
He stares at the floor. “Well, I finally asked Monica Mayhew out today.” He looks over at Iris. “You know what she said? She said no.”
Iris is speechless. Finally, she says, “Why?”
Tiny shrugs. “Don’t know, really. She said thanks, but she’s moved on. I hate that, ‘moved on,’ when it means you’re being left behind. It’s the loneliest, most awful feeling. I been sitting in my truck trying to think what happened. I guess she’s probably found someone else. Seems like I’ve lost her and Dan, too. I found out today that he moved. He moved and he didn’t even tell me. After Monica said no, I went over to see him. I thought maybe if I just surprised him, we could talk. But he’s gone. His neighbor said he moved to Chicago. He didn’t say a word to me. I thought I was his best friend. I’d come to think maybe Monica cared for me. I don’t know. I guess I just don’t know. I got to think about all this, you know?” When the doors open, he says, “I’ll see you later,” and moves slowly down the hall to his apartment.
Iris lets herself in and is met at the door by Homer, mewing. “I know,” she says. “I know.”
Off the Wagon
TINY UNLOADS ONTO THE DINING room table what he’s brought home for dinner: a Double Whopper, heavy everything. Large fries, large onion rings. After he eats this, he’ll go over to Willigan’s and get the turtle sundae.
He sits down and takes a huge bite of the Whopper. “That’s what I’m talking about,” he says to no one. To no one.
He stops chewing. Lifts his eyes to look out the window. There’s the great outdoors. Out there are people he’s never met. There are things going on that might be interesting to see.
A one-woman man. Stupid! He’s stupid to feel that way.
Dan was right; women do like him. Unaccountably, perhaps, but they like him. He can go out there and find another one. Monica doesn’t have such a hold on him that he can’t go out looking. He’ll head over to the Alarm Bell and see what’s up. See if that redhead is there.
He looks down at the Whopper in his hand, which he is barely keeping together. He looks at the rest of the food he’s brought home and suddenly leaps up, gathers all the food together, and throws it out. A sin, at least a venial sin, but there it is, he’s done it. Losing weight is something that he was doing for himself, too, not just for Monica.
He puts on his jacket, checks to see that he has his phone. Opens the door, then closes it without going out.
He hangs up his coat and goes back into the kitchen. On top of the trash are the onion rings, still wrapped up. He takes one out and eats it, and then he goes to bed. Seven o’clock.
A Good Talking-to
AFTER THE THANKSGIVING COOKIE CLASS—A resounding success—Lucille asks Iris if she would mind taking a caramel cake over to the Henhouse. It’s only one cake this time—Lucille couldn’t quite manage to make more—but they’ll be thrilled to have it, she says. Most popular thing on the menu, she says.
“I’ll be glad to,” Iris says. She welcomes the opportunity to have a word with Monica.
There are only a few cars in the parking lot when she gets to the Henhouse. It’s the dead hour, between lunch and dinner. She sits at the table Tiny usually sits at, so that Monica will wait on her. But Monica and another waitress are sitting together at a corner table, and it’s not Monica who comes over, it’s the other one, the one with the beehive and puffy bangs.
“Hey there,” the waitress—Iris sees her name is Janelle—says. “What can I do you for?”
“Just the grilled cheese,” Iris says. “And an iced tea. And I have a caramel cake here for you, too, from Lucille.”
“Oh, good. We can’t get enough of it, it’s the most popular thing on the menu.”
“So she said.”
“Lucille usually brings it in herself.”
“I know, but she asked me to bring it today.” She slides over the pink bakery box, LUCILLE HOWARD in embossed gold across the top. It was Iris’s idea to create these boxes, and she talked Lucille into spending the money on them because she said it would be excellent advertising. After lengthy consultation with Iris, who showed Lucille page after page of fonts on the computer, Lucille chose a flowing, flowery script that Iris thinks is really quite pretty. She wanted to put floating cookies and cakes on the box, too, but when Iris told her how much more it would be, she said imagination was better anyway.
“We usually get two cakes,” Janelle says suspiciously, and Iris begins to think Janelle doesn’t like her any more than Monica does.
“Lucille’s awfully busy, so it’s only one today,” Iris says. “I’m Iris Winters, by the way, I’m Lucille’s assistant.”
“I know your name. Your first one, anyway.”
“Oh! Well, it’s nice to meet you.”
“I’ll get your sandwich right out.” Janelle snatches up the cake and makes her way to the kitchen.
Monica is reading the paper and eating from a platter of French fries that the women are evidently sharing. The c
afé is empty enough that when Iris says, “Monica?” she’s sure she can hear her. But maybe not, because she doesn’t look up.
“Monica!” a man at a table close by her says.
She looks up.
The man, an older gent in bib jeans, a T-shirt, a jean jacket, and a feed-store cap, gestures over to Iris. “Lady over there’s calling you.”
Monica looks at Iris, sighs, and comes over.
“Could I talk to you?” Iris says.
“I’m right here.”
“I’d like to talk to you about Tiny.”
Monica sits down, her arms crossed. “What.”
“As I think you know, Tiny and I are friends.”
“Yeah, pretty good friends, it seems to me.”
“Oh, we’re not…Did you think…? We’re just friends!”
Monica shrugs. “So what about him?”
“I hope it’s not wrong for me to do this, but I wanted to let you know that he really cares for you.”
Now Monica’s face changes, it softens, and she looks down at the table to say, “Well, he sure has a funny way of showing it.”
“He’s awfully shy. How about we have dinner one night and talk?”
The door opens and a man walks in. Both of the women turn to look at him. Wow, look at those eyes, Iris thinks.
“Ready?” he asks Monica, and she leaps to her feet.
“I gotta go,” she tells Iris. And to the man, “Hey, Phil. Just getting my purse. Be right there, hon.”
Damn it, Iris thinks.
She watches as Monica gets into the man’s truck—a tractor trailer cab, and the man has to really boost Monica up to get her into the seat. Then he climbs into his side and reaches over to kiss Monica. And Iris thinks, Nope. Monica doesn’t lean in. She doesn’t smile afterward. Instead, as they pull out of the parking lot, she looks back at Iris like Iris is the last puppy in the window. And Iris nods, in a kind of urgent way. Whatever that means. But she has to do something.
Janelle slaps her grilled cheese in front of her. “She’s engaged, you know. He ain’t got her the ring yet, but she’s engaged.”
Night of Miracles Page 12