Pinch of Love (9781101558638)

by Bessette, Alicia

  Spike says nothing.

  She keeps talking: about hundreds of thousands of abandoned cars in New Orleans, and thousands of houses that need gutting, and overcrowded “femur” trailers and nonexistent libraries, all of which she knows because I’ve told her about Nick’s e-mails.

  “Ingrid.” I hold a finger to my lips. “Shh.”

  “But it’s important,” she says.

  I smile at Spike. He clears his throat and inspects papers on his clipboard.

  We exit the elevator, cross a hall, and step into another elevator. Ingrid chews her thumbnail the whole time.

  The second elevator ride ends. We follow Spike down more halls. These halls are somewhat dingy. Closed doors are labeled CONTROL ROOM, BOOTH, DO NOT ENTER, DO NOT ENTER—EVER, GREEN ROOM, MAKEUP, and WARDROBE.

  Finally we pass a short row of doors all labeled GUEST, and in one of these small rooms, Spike deposits us.

  “Sit.” He points to a threadbare upholstered couch against the wall. “Wait.”

  Ingrid and I exchange glances.

  “Mr. Spike?” Ingrid says. She plops onto the couch. “What’s happening?”

  “Makeup’s coming to you. So’s Wardrobe.” He’s in such a hurry, he slams the door.

  HALF AN HOUR LATER I wear knee-high leather boots, a pencil skirt, and a collared, sleeveless shirt. My lips are painted a deep brick red. Wet black outlines my eyes. Fake glasses rest on my nose, and my hair is shellacked into unmoving waves.

  Ingrid inspects me. She lifts my arms and circles under them. “You look—”

  “—like a freak?” I say.

  “No. Like a cool librarian.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  “How do I look?” Ingrid, in royal blue, does a little tap dance. She wears ballet flats, leggings, a tunic cinched low around her pre-hips with a thick plastic belt. Two basketball-size Afro-puffs dominate either side of the zigzag part in her scalp. Her lips and eyelids shimmer with sparkles.

  “You look like you could perform alongside Hannah Montana,” I say.

  “Oh my God. Are you even serious?”

  “No. Wait. You look like Hannah Montana would be your two-bit opening act.”

  “OMG.”

  Spike pokes his head in the door and claps crisply. “Ladies, Ms. Pinch regrets that she’s unable to introduce herself to you before the show, so she’s going to have to do it later.”

  I don’t have time to worry about what that exchange will be like, because Spike keeps talking. “Here’s what’ll happen. You’ll do everything I say. After that, if Ms. Pinch asks you a question, answer it, but don’t talk too much.” He looks directly at Ingrid. “Get that?”

  She nods.

  “When you’re seated onstage you’ll be fitted with a microphone,” Spike says. “Once that microphone’s on, don’t fidget, and don’t frown.

  “And remember,” he adds. “We’re live, so mind your language.” He turns on his heel and zips down the hall. “Follow me.”

  We speed walk to the set. “Stay,” he orders, seating us in metal folding chairs against a wall.

  Ingrid points at a white ON THE AIR sign. We squint at the stage until our eyes make sense of the bright, bright lights: We have a side view of Polly Pinch, who wears a frilly apron and addresses a huge camera labeled CAMERA 1. She appears to occupy an old boxcar diner. Stools ring a chrome counter lined with malted milkshakes; glass jars of gumdrops, striped straws, coconut shavings, and licorice laces; and the infamous LOVE canister. Beyond the boxcar a luminous kitchen awaits: black-and-white tile floor, chrome table, six-burner gas stove, bulbous-looking refrigerator.

  The audience watches, enraptured, from sleek seats that slope up thirty rows.

  Men in black shirts operate cameras that slide around like robotic limbs. Polly takes turns addressing each camera. She talks about the two prize-winning desserts and about the meal she’ll cook later: her own special twist on traditional chicken and waffles.

  Ingrid cups her hand around my ear and whispers, “Chicken and waffles?”

  “I think it’s a Southern thing,” I whisper, just as Polly says, “. . . and boy, is this dish scrrrrump! So don’t go away. We’ll be right back.”

  A green APPLAUSE! sign flashes. The audience claps.

  The white ON THE AIR sign fades.

  Three women surround Polly. One adjusts the frills of her apron. Another spritzes her hair. The third attacks her forehead with a makeup sponge.

  “What’s soul food?” Ingrid says. “Is Scrumpy Delight soul food?”

  “Hell yeah,” I say.

  “You said a bad word.”

  “I know. Sorry. I’m a little nervous.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Good. You shouldn’t be.”

  “I can’t find my dad.” She shades her eyes and searches the audience.

  “He’s there,” I say. “He’s somewhere. We just can’t see him because of the lights.”

  Spike reappears and crouches next to me. He wears a headset now. “Go time,” he says. “Ready?”

  Ingrid nods. Her Afro-puffs bounce all around.

  Onstage, Spike’s wordless minions swarm us. They position us on the diner stools. After they disband and disappear backstage, Ingrid and I have wires down our backs and pea-size microphones clipped to our collars.

  Spike taps my mic, then Ingrid’s. “Remember my four rules?” he says.

  Ingrid counts them on her fingers. “Don’t talk too much, don’t fidget, don’t frown, and mind your language.”

  “Good girl.” He darts away.

  “Remember the other rule?” I ask Ingrid. “Your dad’s rule?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna say anything.” She elbows me as Polly Pinch approaches the stools.

  “Play it cool,” I whisper.

  Ingrid makes a ring with her thumb and index finger. “Playin’ it cool,” she mouths.

  Polly stops at the stool next to Ingrid. On it slumps a scraggly, barrel-chested guy in a cowboy shirt—the other contest winner. A few inches of white hair ring his otherwise bald scalp. His spine straightens when Polly Pinch stands before him and offers her perfect hand.

  The lights are so bright that the tiny hairs on the back of my hands look as dark and defined as pencil marks. My underboobs are sweating. A lot. My knees feel drafty and too exposed.

  Nonbeats. Fierce beats. Balls.

  “Hi.” That familiar, inviting voice, warm and thick, like maple syrup. Before me, the famously sharp jaw accentuates famously sharp collarbones. Perfectly round boobs bust from the frilly apron. Green eyes electrify smooth tan skin. Freckles dot her nose, cheeks, and cleavage, like sprays of ground cinnamon.

  “Hi. Polly Pinch.” She pumps my hand. “Congratulations on your Hidden Cranberry Spice-eez.”

  “Oh, thanks,” I say. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m . . . uh . . . I’m Scrumpy Delight, though.”

  “Oh, right. Right. You’re Rose-Ellen. And who’s your little helper here?” Polly shines her gorgeous face at Ingrid.

  Ingrid’s jaw quivers. She mutters something, but it’s inaudible.

  I hold Ingrid’s hand in my lap and squeeze it. “This is Ingrid,” I say.

  Polly scrunches up her eyebrows.

  Ingrid lifts her head and stares at Polly. And then, on Polly, I see a face that television land never sees: one totally void of expression, like an open-eyed sleepwalker.

  Spike waves his clipboard. “People!” he yells. “We are live in five, four, three—” He mouths, “Two, one,” jabbing the air with his fingers. He sweeps his closed fist toward Polly and scoots offstage like a villain in a musical.

  A doo-wop theme song plays, and Polly pinches her cheeks and bustles to her diner booth. The green APPLAUSE! sign flashes. The audience erupts: clapping, whistling, woo-hooing.

  Polly smiles, showing her teeth. Her voice sounds shaky. “Welcome back to Pinch of Love Live. I’m your host, Polly Pinch.”

  EJ

  Much of Wippamunk wa
tches Pinch of Love Live in the town hall. Chief Kent won’t allow more than three hundred people inside—that’s the maximum number the fire code permits. So he sends the overflow to the Blue Plate Lounge, Orbit Pizza, and Murtonen’s Muffinry.

  People occupy every available space in the Muffinry. EJ’s modest little shop is standing room only, with many more patrons than chairs. It’s the best day of business he can remember.

  Travis brings a big television from his house and sets it up in the bay window. He sits next to EJ behind the cash register. They survey the crowd, and Travis blathers about how hot Polly Pinch is. Finally the credits roll and the theme song starts playing, and the Muffinry goes from loud chatter to total silence.

  On the screen, Polly moistens her lips. Her eyes follow the trolling camera. EJ thinks she looks rather like a deer in the headlights; maybe live television just isn’t her bag.

  “I have some guests here with me onstage,” TV-Polly says. “And one of them is the winner of twenty thousand dollars, and my first-ever international baking contest, Desserts That Warm the Soul.”

  The camera trains on a bouffanted woman dressed like a 1950s diner waitress. She displays an issue of Meals in a Cinch with Polly Pinch magazine and vogues it with her hands. The television audience claps.

  “Let’s taste one of our winners,” Polly says.

  Laughter murmurs through the television audience. In the Muffinry, an old guy shouts, “She can taste me if she wants.”

  “Oh, excuse me,” says Polly. She giggles and touches her fingertips to her lips. “I meant, of course, let’s taste one of our winning recipes. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Hamill Harding of San Diego, California, whose delectable cookies were deemed by the expert panel of judges as—and I quote—irresistible, and light as a cloud, yet boldly flavorful.”

  The camera shows Hamill Harding, an old cowboy-looking guy. He does a little seated bow and rolls an imaginary top hat down his arm and off his fingers. “Thanks, Polly,” he says.

  The bouffanted diner waitress now vogues Hamill’s cookies. They’re square and arranged on a silver tray.

  “Little Miss Ingrid? Honey?” Polly shoots a frozen glance at Ingrid, whom the camera shows for the first time. The Muffinry explodes in applause and whistles. Zell sits next to her. She looks good, EJ thinks. She looks good.

  “Would you do us the honor of having the first delectable bite of Hamill Harding’s Hidden Cranberry Spice-eez?” Polly’s gaze trains on the camera again. “Ingrid is . . . the . . . special helper of our other guest, whom I’ll introduce to the world in just a second.”

  Ingrid winks at Polly, then at the camera, as it zooms in on her face.

  “That little girl’s a natural!” says the old-timer in the Muffinry.

  Ingrid selects a thick cookie from the tray on Hamill’s knees. She lets her lips linger on the cookie, Polly Pinch style. She swallows and takes another bite. “Mmm,” she says. “Scrump.” She licks her lips and gazes at the camera.

  The television audience laughs, and the Muffinry erupts in whistles and laughter, too.

  Ingrid finishes the cookie. Polly addresses Hamill Harding with another frozen smile. “Now, Hamill. Before we move into the kitchen and get baking these bee’yoots, care to share your inspiration for your Hidden Cranberry Spice-eez?”

  Hamill rubs the knees of his khakis and clears his phlegmy throat. “Well, I was inspired by the cranberry bogs in New Jersey, where I spent my summers as a kid, visiting my second cousins. I love cranberries, and I always cook with them. Most people are used to dried and sugared cranberries, but I cook with fresh cranberries whenever possible.”

  “Mmm. Fresh cranberries,” says Polly. “They’re so crisp and tart, and their color is just bee’yootiful. What else do you want to tell us, Hamill?”

  “Well, in my Hidden Cranberry Spice-eez, the binding ingredient—and this might come as a surprise, because it doesn’t seem to quite go with cranberries, and plus, you can’t even really taste it—but the binding ingredient is actually peanut butter, Polly.”

  The camera shows Ingrid bite another cookie. She coughs midswallow and covers her mouth with her arm. She seems to blush.

  “Just a pinch, Polly.” Hamill grins and goes “heh-heh-heh” at his little joke. Polite laughter ripples through the television audience; one person claps four times. In the Muffinry, someone groans.

  The camera shows Ingrid again. Her eyes grow wide. And a little wider, until they’re bulging.

  “Something’s wrong here,” EJ says.

  “Yeah, hey,” says Travis.

  Raised welts form on Ingrid’s neck. She slides from her stool. She gasps and presses her head spastically against the counter.

  “What’s going on?” people in the Muffinry ask. “What’s wrong with the little girl?”

  The camera shows Zell, who slaps her forehead. “Balls!”

  “Dude,” Travis says in EJ’s ear. “I think your friend just said ‘balls’ on live television.”

  Zell’s microphone thumps as she rips it from her shirt. “Did you say there’s peanut butter in those cookies?”

  A little metropolitan-looking man with spiky hair—obviously someone who’s supposed to be backstage—runs onto the set. He makes an urgent throat-slicing signal at Polly.

  Polly turns to the camera. “We’ll be right back. Don’t go away.”

  Zell

  The white ON THE AIR sign fades.

  I kneel and fan Ingrid with my hands. “There’s a thing in my fairy bag,” I shout. “A pen.”

  “A pen?” Polly says, her face blanched.

  “An EpiPen! A friggin’ EpiPen! Where’s my fairy bag? Someone get my g.d. bag!”

  Two of Spike’s minions dash backstage.

  “Garrett?” I scream. I see him dart from the back row, down the steps. He trips up onto the stage and joins me at Ingrid’s side.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Hamill says.

  “She’s got a peanut allergy.” I tear off my fake glasses and fling them to the front row.

  Hamill’s and Polly’s mouths drop open.

  Ingrid appears to stop breathing.

  AT THE HOSPITAL EMERGENCY ROOM, they wheel Ingrid away on a gurney. She looks so small, swamped by the oxygen mask. I wonder what she hears of the commotion around her—nurses and doctors bustling and yelling.

  Now the backs of my knees stick to the waiting-room chair. Garrett’s next to me. His elbows rest on his knees, and his head hangs low.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s my—”

  “She left me.”

  “What?”

  “She left me,” Garrett says. “She left us.”

  “Who?”

  “Anita. Anita Pinchelman was her name. She changed her name to Polly Pinch.”

  A man in scrubs enters the waiting room. Garrett and I both stand, but the man approaches a young couple seated across from us. They listen solemnly as he explains something.

  Garrett and I sit back down.

  “We tried to make it work,” he says. “But Anita—Polly—decided she just didn’t want to be a mother. She didn’t want any of it. She really did leave me when Ingrid was a month old, for a traveling jewelry salesman. He took her down to Atlanta with him. I guess that’s where she learned something about cooking. Ever notice how much Polly relies on traditional Southern flavors in her recipes? All that ‘ratchet up the action’ nonsense? Polly’s taken all these soul-food classics and lightened them up a little. Made them healthier. You know, with spices instead of lard or whatever. That kind of thing.”

  Garrett rests his chin on his fists. “She didn’t cook jack-crap when we were together, Zell. Not even a tray of frickin’ brownies. She was as hopeless as I was in the kitchen.”

  The man in scrubs leaves the waiting area, and the couple across from us collapses in the chairs. I glance out the window, where a pair of sparrows flits to and from a nest under a nearby window ledge.

  Garrett stares at his shoes. “When t
hings in Atlanta didn’t work out, Anita moved back to Boston, but not with me. She moved in with friends and changed her name to what she thought would work well for an actress—something with alliteration, that sounded like she could go from angel to go-go dancer, depending on the circumstances. She went to every audition she heard of, trying to find acting work. Her roommate told me Anita was about to move to Los Angeles when she tried out for some cooking show. She didn’t even know what the audition was for. And just like that”—Garrett snaps his fingers—“she’s teaching all the English-speaking world how to cook. She’s got the most famous clavicles in North America. She’s on cracker boxes, billboards, Big Yum Donuts commercials.”

  “You mean, she doesn’t really know how to cook?”

  “She does now, apparently,” Garrett says. “But when I knew her? Like I said. Not even a tray of frickin’ brownies.”

  “Damn,” I say, a little too loudly.

  “I tried to get in touch with her when I found out she was back in town. Before she got famous. I missed her, sure. But I also wanted Ingrid to have a mother.”

  “What happened?”

  “Anita wouldn’t see me. She wouldn’t return my calls. Finally one day I got a letter saying that if I didn’t stop calling her, she’d take out a restraining order against me. Hardly a good thing if I wanted to be a lawyer someday. So I stopped calling her. I just stopped calling her. And that was that.

  “A good while later,” he says, “when I was moving to Worcester to save money on rent, I found a box of her old stuff in the attic. Old CDs she never listened to, a couple sweaters, photographs. I moved that box with me from Boston to Worcester to all the different apartments we had in Wippamunk before we moved in next door to you. I don’t know why I hung on to the box for so long. Maybe I was hoping she would come back to us. That we would work it out. Someday. Eventually. In that box of Anita’s old stuff? That’s where Ingrid found that old picture of us. And Anita’s old ski hat. Her old, ratty, ugly, red ski hat.”