by Niki Lenz
I blew a raspberry, flicking bits of pancake into my bangs. Not a date. A church fundraiser. Why was he acting so weird about it?
“…The First Baptist Bachelors and Baskets auction.”
The words hung in the air as I tried to swallow my bite of food. Bachelors and Baskets auction? It sounded slightly familiar. I was pretty sure I’d never gone before. Why would I? Because that was where you went to buy a date with a man.
“Are you volunteering at the auction? Collecting money or organizing the event or something?” Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes.
“Or something. Miss Donna, from the Building and Grounds Committee, suggested I participate. So I could meet a nice young lady.” Dad rolled his eyes and tried to win me over with a charming smile, but I knew what that “or something” would be. He’d be auctioned off to whoever would pay the most to share a picnic basket with Pastor Davy.
“Ew, Dad, no!” I threw my fork down in disgust, and Potus lifted his head from his paws, ears perked up at the possibility of falling food. “That auction will be gross! It will be old ladies waving their number cards in the air and whispering behind their hands about which man is the best catch!”
Dad lifted his chin, ever so slightly. “Well, I’m a good catch.”
I groaned. “Dad. Just because you’re all gung ho for meeting Miss Right doesn’t mean you have to sell yourself out like this.”
Dad picked at his pancakes. “Grace, I know you aren’t exactly excited about me going on dates.” His voice softened. “But you should know that I could never, ever in a million years replace your mom.”
I gulped. I wanted to tell him that it wasn’t Mom I was worried about him replacing. It was me. What if he found someone he wanted to spend time with more than his own daughter? I wanted to tell him he was threatening Team Gravy every time he went on another date. But the words stuck in my throat like they were covered in pancake syrup.
Dad patted my shoulder. “Hey, maybe someone awesome will bid on me. I could raise a bunch of money for the missions team and end up with a perfectly pleasant date for the evening.”
I exhaled sharply but tried to make my voice firm. “Or someone terrible could bid on you and you’ll eat your picnic basket staring at her chin hair while she talks about her teacup collection!”
Dad laughed. “It’s all for fun anyway. And it’s a good cause. I’ll look at it that way.”
All for fun. Good cause. I repeated the words in my brain on an endless loop.
I stood up so fast my chair nearly toppled over. “Can I borrow your phone? I need to text Bea.”
Dad nodded, digging his phone out of his pocket while watching my face a little too closely. I wasn’t gonna just sit back and let him be sold to the highest bidder, and then let that person wiggle her way into our family. I hoped Bea didn’t have any plans this weekend, ’cause I needed her to help me brainstorm. I had to blow up this whole basket date, and fast.
Each of the bachelors of the Bachelors and Baskets fundraiser had to provide a picnic to share with the winner of their date. Most of the men brought fried chicken or a cold pasta salad, but my dad was exceptionally ungifted at cooking. He happily packed two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, some chips, apples, and cookies as his offering. It looked like what a second grader would pack in a lunch box, and not at all romantic.
He had carefully wrapped the sandwiches in waxed paper and tucked everything inside the wicker basket. He hummed while he added two paper napkins and two cans of soda.
“Hey, Grace,” he said. “Why did the swimmers put peanut butter in the sea?”
I smirked. “I dunno, Dad. You tell me.”
“To go with the jellyfish.” He winked at me and smeared a blob of peanut butter on my nose.
“Hardee har har,” I said, aiming a spoonful of jelly at his face, but he ducked, just in the nick of time, and it plopped onto the floor instead. We giggled as we cleaned up the smears, and I couldn’t help but think that I had the most fun dad of all the dads. And what would happen if he fell for some uptight lady who didn’t allow peanut butter and jelly fights in the kitchen? Or what if they only wanted to throw peanut butter and jelly at each other and they told me to get lost? Who would I launch jelly at then? WHO?
And then he left the basket sitting all alone on the counter while he went to run errands before the fundraiser. Mistake. Big mistake.
I messaged Bea from my computer and paced the kitchen, casting furtive glances at the picnic basket and wringing my hands like a cartoon villain.
After what seemed like an eternity, Bea burst through the back door into the kitchen. “I’m here. Ready for action. What’s the plan?”
I pointed at the basket. “That.”
She looked at me with her head cocked to the side. “I’m going to need some more information.”
I sighed. “Dad is going to a fundraiser at church tonight, and he has to bring a picnic basket to share with some lady.”
“So?” Bea said, sitting down at the table and helping herself to an orange.
“So, it’s a date. I mean, it’s just a picnic at church, but still, I don’t want him to go falling in love over peanut butter and jelly.”
Bea wrinkled up her nose. “Is that what he packed?”
I nodded. “Yeah, but I think we can do better. Or worse. Depending on how you look at it.” I walked over to the basket sitting on the counter and dumped its contents theatrically in the trash. And then I reached in there and fished it all back out, ’cause I wasn’t going to waste perfectly good food. I opened one of the bags of chips and took a loud, crunchy bite.
But I left the basket empty and gestured to it dramatically. “In this basket, we are going to put all of the most disgusting date foods of all time. Foods that are messy. Foods that are stinky. Foods that make you fart. I will prepare the world’s most unromantic picnic, and you are going to help me.”
Potus wandered into the kitchen and lay at Bea’s feet while she reached down and scratched him behind the ears. “And your dad has no idea we’re doing this?” she asked, avoiding my eyes.
“Does my dad know we’re planning to sabotage yet another date? No. No, he doesn’t.”
Bea shifted on her seat. “But it’s not even really a date. Like, there’s a good chance he won’t even like whoever buys him.”
“That’s not the point, Bea. Love can blossom at any time. I saw that in a jewelry commercial one time.”
“I don’t like it. I honestly can’t believe you haven’t gotten caught yet. Maybe we should just leave your poor dad alone.”
“Did I ever tell you about the time my dad had a cavity but refused to go to the dentist?” I opened the refrigerator and started stacking ingredients in my arms. “He walked around the house moaning and putting ice packs on his cheek and only chewing on one side of his mouth for days. But he has this thing about the dentist, so he refused to make an appointment.”
“So what happened?” Bea asked, wrinkling her nose. She was probably very put out by someone not going to the dentist. She goes every six months and is still in the no-cavity club.
“I told him I needed him to drive me to the hair salon. The one that’s right next to the dentist’s office in the strip mall. He, of course, didn’t pay any attention to what door we walked into. And when I signed him in, he was right on time for his appointment. He was mad for like ten seconds, but since we were already there and he didn’t have a lot of time to get scared, he got his tooth fixed.”
I spread all the grossest contents of the refrigerator out on the counter and started taking inventory. “Just like the dentist, this is for his own good. We’re doing this so my dad doesn’t have to suffer through the pain of a terrible relationship, much like a rotting, disgusting cavity. We really have no choice but deception if we want to save Team Gravy.”
Bea sighe
d. “Fine. What do you need me to do?”
* * *
Bea rode with us to the auction because she couldn’t wait to watch Dad “strut his stuff” down the catwalk. Okay, there wasn’t really a catwalk. Only the red-carpeted stage in the sanctuary of the church, but it would still be pretty hilarious.
When we pulled into the church parking lot, Dad killed the engine and sat there, staring into space. “This is okay. I’m okay. Let’s do this,” he said.
Wait, he wasn’t nervous, was he? ’Cause this was all his terrible idea.
He marched into the church with his head held high—Bea and I trailing behind him—to be sold like a lumpy used mattress to the highest bidder.
The sanctuary pulsed with bodies, steamy hot compared to the crisp snowy outside temperature. Old-lady perfume wafted through the air and the sound of a gaggle of grandmas filled the large space.
It was a sea of white heads and cardigans.
Dad stood frozen in the doorway.
My heart leapt with joy because, let’s face it, the prospects here weren’t looking too good.
I grabbed his hand and dragged him up on the stage, where the rest of the bachelors were seated, waiting for the event to kick off. Miss Donna wore a pink pantsuit and carried a clipboard. She walked from bachelor to bachelor, checking facts on their bios and making sure they were in the right order. Her face lit up when she saw my dad trailing behind me.
“Pastor Davy! We’re so honored you’ve volunteered to help us raise some money tonight! And my, don’t you look wonderful!” she cooed, squeezing his bicep. My dad squirmed under her fingers. “Here’s your seat, right here. Just wait until I call your name; then walk to the taped X at the front of the stage and stand there until someone wins you.”
I elbowed Dad in the ribs. “If someone wins you.”
He scowled, and I felt a tiny flicker of guilt because he was sweaty nervous about the whole thing.
Miss Donna tapped her clipboard. “Did you bring your basket?”
I smiled and held the wicker picnic basket up to her.
“I almost forgot that on the counter,” he said, taking the handle from me. “Thanks for remembering.” He squeezed me into his armpit and kissed the top of my head. “Team Gravy for the win.”
A ten-pound bucket of guilt knocked me in the guts. “Don’t thank me yet,” I muttered as I hurried down the stairs and found my spot next to Bea.
The women got quiet as soon as Miss Donna walked up to the microphone. “Good evening, ladies of First Baptist! Thank you for braving the snow to come out tonight! We at the Missions Committee hold this event annually to raise money for our adopted missionaries in Africa and Europe.”
The ladies bobbed their heads and murmured approval.
Miss Donna went on. “Remember, if you’d like to share a picnic dinner with the eligible bachelor on the stage, simply wave your number sign. Flourishing said sign is an agreement to pay the stated amount. Let’s give it a try, shall we?”
The women obediently fluttered their little round number signs in the air and then giggled for some reason. It didn’t look all that fun to me.
Bea leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Your dad looks like he’s about to puke.”
If he felt like puking now, just wait until he saw what we’d packed in that basket.
“Excellent. Let’s kick off the auction with a wonderful bachelor. Not only is he the head of the Springdale Chess Club, but he works right here at the church as a custodial engineer. Do we have twenty-five dollars for Ed Smalley?”
One lady in the front tentatively raised her number.
Ed blushed all the way to the top of his bald head.
“Thirty-five?”
Another paddle.
Ed ended up being escorted off the stage by a fluffy-haired granny in a floral dress for the grand total of fifty dollars.
Dad looked a whole lot more cheerful.
I’m sure he thought if old Ed could sell for fifty bucks, the young and handsome pastor would sell for even more.
When Dad’s turn finally came, Bea and I snickered behind our hands as Miss Donna read his bio. “Ladies, we have an incredibly special bachelor up next. You know him as Pastor Davy, shepherd of this very flock. He enjoys reading, studying, and long walks…among the cow patties?” She looked at Dad quizzically. His eyes widened and his nostrils flared. I’d made a few minor changes to his write-up before we left the house.
“He’s looking for a woman who can bench-press more than him and disagrees with all his political views.”
He started shaking his head then, looking for an opportunity to interrupt, but Miss Donna plowed on.
“Let’s start the bidding at fifty. I see your fifty. How about seventy-five? I see seventy-five. One hundred? I see one hundred. One fifty? I see one fifty. Two fifty?”
Dad looked wide-eyed and pale as paddles flapped all over the sanctuary. A pause swelled after two fifty, but one lone paddle poked its way above the sea of heads. “Sold for two hundred and fifty dollars to Miss Regina Wrangler.”
Miss Regina. The name sent a chill down my spine. She’d finally won the pastor’s attention for a mere two hundred and fifty dollars. I watched the back of her poofy yellow hair as she marched up to the stage to claim her prize, and my hands curled into fists.
* * *
Three years earlier, eight-year-old me stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the mess.
Knock, knock.
If Mom were alive, she would’ve dropped dead all over again before answering the door with our kitchen in this state. There were takeout boxes, crumby casserole dishes, and brown banana peels covering every square inch of the blue Formica countertop. A rotten sweet smell drifted from the overpiled garbage, and my socked foot stuck to a brown puddle on my way to the back door.
I paused, my hand on the knob, and peered through the sheer curtains blurring the crisscrossed panes of the window. I sucked in a deep breath as I recognized the unexpected visitor. Miss Regina stood in the bright afternoon sunshine, her yellow hair pulled up into a bun on the top of her head. She carried a foil-covered glass dish.
Not again. No more. Why can’t everyone just leave us alone?
I thought about trying to make a run for it, to crawl across the sticky floor so the widow couldn’t see me, and hide under my bed until she went away.
But she wouldn’t.
She’d stand there, knocking and knocking, and I was the only person who’d bother to answer.
I puffed out a breath and tried to arrange my face so it looked blank, bored, and uninterested in Miss Regina and her stupid casserole.
“Grace! How nice to see you, dear! Might I come in?” She pushed her shoulder against the door, her hips squashing past me. Her high-heeled shoes stuck to the black-and-white-checked floor.
I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing as she tiptoed through the kitchen and swung open the refrigerator, trying to find a home for the dish. Her eyebrows pinched together at the stacks and stacks of unheated dinners that left no room for her offering. She finally turned on her heels and placed it on top of the stove.
“Looks like this will just have to be dinner for tonight! It’s my famous lasagna recipe. Lots of extra cheese.”
I choked on the words thank you. My mom had made the best lasagna anyone had ever tasted. I forced my mouth into a smile and silently vowed that the pasta would be added to the mountain of garbage as soon as she was gone.
Something in her face shifted. “How are you holding up?”
It was the question of the day. Of the week. Of the last three months. The question drifting through everyone’s mind in our small town. How were the young minister and his poor daughter holding up since the tragic death of their beautiful wife and mother?
“Fine,” I said, the lie aching in my b
elly like churning acid.
Pity touched the widow’s eyes as she crossed the kitchen to put her hand on my shoulder. I ducked out from under her touch.
“That the truth?” she asked, not unkindly.
The truth was we were bloated fish corpses in a moss-covered pond. We were crumpled-up plastic bags drifting across the Walmart parking lot. We were dirty, flea-ridden kittens dumped in a box on the side of the road.
“Course it’s the truth.”
“Where’s your daddy?” she asked, the lipsticked smile reappearing. “We’ve missed him at church of late.” She tried to look over my shoulder to the untidy living room, but I knew she wouldn’t spot him there. He hadn’t left his bedroom in a few days. He hadn’t left our house in weeks. He hadn’t said my bedtime prayers with me since it happened. There was no way he’d come out for a social call with some pushy single lady from church.
“He’s not feeling well. Might have a cold or something.” I opened the door so maybe she’d get the hint and take her backside out the way she came.
“Oh! Maybe I’ll stop by later with some chicken noodle soup. I remember well the tragedy of losing my own Harold. I’d like to be there for your family in this time of need.”
“We aren’t a family anymore.” The words trickled out of my mouth without my permission and slammed on the sticky floor, bouncing off the walls and ceiling.
“Like heck we aren’t.”
Only he didn’t say heck.
Dad appeared in the doorway to the living room, rumpled and pajamaed but awake. He looked angry. And he’d said a swear, which meant a dollar in the jar.
He marched over to the stove and gripped the edge of the casserole dish with white knuckles before thrusting it at Miss Regina.
“Grace and I will be just fine, Regina. Please spread the word that we’ll no longer be accepting casseroles, meatloaves, soups, or stews. My daughter and I have everything we need.”
The words bashed me in the rib cage. We’ll be fine. We have everything we need. How could that be true when Dad seemed out of his mind with grief and I felt hollow and empty? Could the two of us really be everything the other needed?