by Nan Rossiter
Isak bit her lip stoically, trying to fight back her tears, and Rumer put her arm around her. “I don’t know how Mum did it,” Isak murmured, her voice barely audible. “It must’ve been so hard.” She wiped her eyes and stood up. “I’m sorry, I think I’ve had enough for one night.”
Micah looked at his watch and nodded. “I should go anyway.” He stood and stretched. “Thank you for dinner.”
“You’re welcome,” Rumer said with a smile.
Beryl got up to walk him to his car. “We didn’t even get to where you are in the story.”
“That’s all right,” Micah said. “I like listening to you read—you sound just like your mom and it makes it seem like she’s reading it.”
Beryl laughed. “That’s funny, Rumer and Isak said the same thing. Every night I ask them if they want to read and they say no—they like listening to me.”
Micah folded down the handle of the mower, lifted it into the back of his Honda, and braced it with the gas can.
“Thanks again for mowing. I hope you didn’t hit any of Flannery’s land mines.”
Micah laughed. “Nope, I scouted those out with a shovel first.”
“I didn’t even think of that. I’m sorry, I should’ve come out and taken care of it.”
“Not a problem,” he said, shutting the trunk and leaning against the car.
“I know you probably have better things to do tomorrow—but is there any chance we’ll see you?”
“Actually, I’m starting a new job.”
“You are? I thought you worked for a publisher.”
“I do—in a warehouse—but it’s only part-time. I’m also going to be tutoring some high-school kids in English. My dad used to do it, but he’s retired now, so they were looking for someone to take his place.”
“That’s great, Micah—so many people today can’t find any work these days.”
“Well, it’s only temporary. They’re looking for an English teacher, too, so I have to get my act together and get in my ré-sumé. Right now, I can only be a full-time sub because I don’t have an education degree—but I have plenty of credits and a degree in English, so I’m going to take some courses over the summer and hope they don’t have too many other applicants. My dad always told me to get a degree in education, but at the time, I wasn’t interested in teaching.”
“It’s hard to know, when you’re eighteen or nineteen, what you want to do for the rest of your life.”
He nodded. “Or predict what the job market will be like.”
“True!” Beryl said. “Speaking of jobs—when this week is over, I’m going to start looking for someone to help out in the shop—so, maybe when you’re tutoring you could keep an eye out for a student who seems hardworking.”
“I will,” he said with a smile. “By the way, tutoring is only in the morning, so I could still come by for story hour.”
Beryl laughed. “How about dinner too?”
He shook his head. “I wish I could, but I think I better have dinner with my family once in a while. Besides, I don’t want to wear out my welcome.”
“You could never wear out your welcome.”
“Really?” he teased.
“Really,” she said with a grin.
He stepped toward her but hesitated, shaking his head and smiling. “I should go.”
She nodded. “Okay, well—don’t be a stranger.”
He laughed. “Don’t worry, I won’t be.”
21
“Have you guys seen Thoreau?” Beryl asked as she filled the teakettle with fresh water. “He’s been curled up on my bed the last couple of mornings, but today he was a no-show.”
Rumer looked out the kitchen window. “I think he’s found the old Nepeta cataria patch.”
Beryl frowned and followed her gaze. The proud, old cat—usually poised and well-mannered—was rolling deliriously around in a bed of green leaves. “Oh, my goodness—the catnip! I forgot that was out there!”
Isak poured a cup of coffee and looked out too. “Do you remember Emily—the orange tiger we had when we were little? She used to fall asleep in it!” She sighed. “Too bad they don’t make catnip for people. I could use a little euphoria now and then.”
Rumer slid her mug in front of Isak to be filled too. “So, what’s for breakfast?”
“Micah’s dad gave us a dozen fresh eggs yesterday,” Beryl offered.
“Scrambled or fried?” Isak asked, filling Rumer’s mug and pulling out the oven drawer with a loud clank.
“Fried,” Beryl said. “We had scrambled yesterday.”
“Sunday,” Rumer corrected, opening the fridge.
“Was it Sunday?! This week is a blur. What’d we have yesterday, then?”
“Apple crisp,” Isak said matter-of-factly, dropping butter into the pan.
“Oh, yeah,” Beryl said as she filled Flan’s bowl with kibble.
Rumer pulled three slices of bread out of the bread bag, and Beryl found an unopened jar of their mom’s raspberry jam in the pantry. “Does jam go bad?” she asked, popping open the lid and peering inside.
Isak eyed it skeptically and handed her a spoon. “Here, try it, and we’ll see.”
“Thanks,” Beryl said, making a face. She dipped the spoon in and licked it. “Mmmm-mmmm good!” She smacked her lips with an approving nod. “There are also three jars of Mum’s bread-and-butter pickles in there.”
“Nothing tastes like summer more than Mum’s pickles,” Rumer said with a grin. “I wonder if I can get one through airport security.”
“Just wrap it in a towel and put it in your checked bag,” Isak said. “It’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure about that?” Beryl asked skeptically. “I’m pretty sure they scan luggage, too … Otherwise, anyone can wrap a bomb in a towel.”
Isak shrugged, and Beryl said, “I’ll just mail one to each of you.”
As they sat around the kitchen table, planning the day, Isak said, “First thing we need to do is get more boxes. Then we need to start on Mum’s room. By the way, I’m having second thoughts about the church taking care of the reception. It’s nice of them to offer, but we really don’t have any idea what they’re going to make, and I don’t want to have just cheese and crackers and store-bought cookies. I think it might be better to have it catered.”
Beryl shook her head. “They’ll do a good job—they always do. Besides, everyone at church loved Mum.”
“How do they know how many people to plan for?”
Beryl shrugged. “I don’t know, Mum lived here all her life—she knew everyone. I’m sure they’re expecting a good turnout.”
Isak shook her head, still unconvinced. “Maybe we could subsidize what they make with a caterer; then we could have some waitresses passing trays too.”
Rumer groaned. “I think that’s overkill. I can’t imagine Mum would have wanted all the fuss.”
Isak nodded. “I know, I never take anything from those trays either—especially when they keep passing the same thing—but lots of people like having food brought to them.”
Rumer raised her eyebrows in surprise. “That’s not what I meant …” She paused. “Isak, please tell me you aren’t one of those people who ignore the waitresses when they come around with trays of hors d’oeuvres.”
But Isak missed her sister’s warning look and unwittingly kept talking. “Honestly, Ru, between hospital events and all the parties we go to, I get tired of being interrupted all the time—so, on second thought, maybe it is a bad idea.”
“You are one of those people!” Rumer exclaimed.
Isak looked puzzled. “What people?”
“A snob!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Do you have any idea what I’ve been doing for the last two years to help make ends meet?”
Isak hesitated, trying to remember. “I’m sorry, I don’t think you told me—”
“I did tell you,” Rumer interrupted. “You weren’t listening! Isak, I work for a cater
er—I’m the waitress you ignore because you’re tired of being interrupted. I’m the one who carries around the trays of appetizers that don’t have very much variety because that’s what the hostess paid for, and I serve snooty people who treat me like I’m second class—or worse—ignore me!” Her voice grew angrier as she spoke. “That’s when I want to accidently spill a whole tray of shrimp cocktail all over their Anne Klein white linen sundresses or Armani sports coats. Believe me, Isak, I’d be much happier not interrupting lame conversations with the same old sesame chicken and mango sauce—but if I don’t do what I’m told, I won’t be working.” She paused. “I hope you, at least, know not to plop your shrimp tail back on the tray!”
Isak swallowed uncomfortably. She did know that much—but she didn’t know what to say.
“I definitely didn’t go to school for this,” Rumer went on. “And it’s definitely not how I want to spend my life—but we need the money! Some of the people we serve are so incredibly clueless, they don’t even consider that waiters and waitresses have greater aspirations than serving them stupid stuffed mushroom caps!”
“I’m sorry, Ru, I guess I never thought about it that way. I promise, I will never turn down another pig in a blanket again.”
“You joke, Isak, but you’re not funny. It just proves you don’t get it.”
“I’m sorry, Ru—I do get it. I was just teasing.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
They were both quiet, each lost in thought. Finally, Beryl broke the silence. “Good eggs,” she said, dipping her toast into a pool of egg yolk.
“Thanks,” Isak replied, standing up to clear. Beryl looked up and realized her sister still had a big puddle of yolk in the middle of her plate, but before she could say anything, Isak had dropped it in the sink and turned on the water.
Beryl looked dismayed. “What’d you do that for—the yolk is the best part!”
Isak shrugged indifferently. “I didn’t have any toast left.” “You have to plan ahead and save some toast.”
“It’s no big deal, not everyone loves egg yolk like you do.”
“You could’ve given it to Flan—she loves egg yolk.”
“Sorry, Ber, get over it,” she said dismissively.
Her words stung and Beryl pushed back her chair, dropped her dish in the sink, and said, “You know what? Rumer’s right—the way you treat people does reflect the kind of person you are.” Then she grabbed her keys and her purse and walked out, letting the screen door slam behind her, hoping it would punctuate how she felt: She was sick of Isak’s moods—and her indifference. Maybe if she wasn’t so self-centered, she’d realize that other people were hurting too.
“Guess I’m just pissin’ everyone off today,” Isak said as she rinsed soap off the plates and stood them up in the dish drain.
“I guess so,” Rumer replied as she reached for a dish towel.
Two hours later, Beryl pulled into the driveway with a sack of chocolate croissants on her front seat and a stack of flattened egg boxes in her trunk. She got out, wearily pushed her hand through her hair, and walked around to open her trunk. As she did, she heard a voice call, “I hope you left Ms. Cranky Crankenheimer back in town!” She looked up at her mom’s bedroom window, saw Isak smiling and, in spite of herself, burst out laughing. She hadn’t heard that name in years.
Ms. Cranky Crankenheimer was a fictitious character Mia had created when they were little, and when one of them was getting ready to dissolve into a fit, she’d say, “Oh, dear, is Ms. Cranky Crankenheimer here again?” Then whoever was about to have the meltdown would stomp her foot and shout, “I’m not cranky!” and Mia would make a funny face, and the frustrated child—try as she might—would burst out laughing. Sometimes the unfortunate child’s siblings would sense a pending storm and in a singsong voice warn: “Mum, you-know-who is here.” And Mia would reply, “Oh, no—not again!” And this alone could diffuse a meltdown before it had even begun.
Now, Beryl dropped the boxes on the kitchen table and turned to see Isak standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking sheepish. “I’m sorry, Ber. I didn’t mean to be so … insensitive. You know how redheads can be.”
“I know …” Beryl said with a forgiving smile. “I’m sorry I got mad over a dumb egg yolk.”
“It’s okay; everyone has their shortcomings,” Isak teased. “I’m insensitive—you’re overly protective of egg yolks—there are worse things.” She gave her little sister a long hug. “Oh, Ber, I know you’re hurting, too—probably more than anyone—but we’ll get through this.”
“I know,” Beryl whispered, her eyes filling with tears.
Rumer appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “Are you two crying again?” she asked. “Every time I leave you alone, you turn into puddles.”
Beryl and Isak laughed and wiped their eyes.
“Sooo … I have good news …” Rumer said.
“What?!” they asked in unison.
“Will just called and said they’re flying in on Thursday!”
“Oh, Ru, that’s great,” Isak said. “Do you need money?”
“Nope, he said it’s all set, and our neighbor’s going to take care of Norman.”
“Too bad they couldn’t bring Norman,” Beryl said.
“I know, I wish they could. He’s been so good for Rand, especially after the move. But he’ll be fine. Norm’s in love with Pam’s yellow Lab, Rosie, so he probably won’t even notice we’re gone.”
“I love that name—Nahm,” Isak said, pronouncing it the same way Cliff Clavin did on Cheers. “It’s so perfect for a big, old Lab. How’d you ever come up with it?”
“Will named him. He thought we should keep the family tradition going, so he named him after Norman Maclean.”
Isak laughed. “Oh, my goodness, that’s even better!”
Beryl nodded. “Well, it’s great they’re coming; it’ll be so good to see them. I haven’t seen Rand since you moved.”
“It’s been longer for me,” Isak said. “He’s probably all grown up.”
Rumer smiled. “He is all grown up,” she said wistfully. “You won’t know him.”
“Are those chocolate croissants?” Isak interrupted, spotting the sack on the table.
“Yup,” Beryl answered.
She grinned. “Well, let’s pop ’em in the oven.”
“For lunch?”
“Why not? Chocolate is almost as good as catnip,” she said, “and I could use a fresh cup of coffee.”
“Sounds good to me,” Rumer agreed.
While the croissants heated and the coffee perked, the egg boxes were reassembled and brought upstairs. Beryl dropped two on the floor and, seeing the piles of clothes on her mom’s bed,groaned.
“I couldn’t agree more!” Isak said, coming in behind her with two more boxes. “You need to go through some of her clothes and see if there’s anything you want. It’s all too small for me.”
Beryl started to look through one of the piles. “I don’t know—I think I’d feel funny wearing Mum’s clothes now. It’s not the same as borrowing them.” She looked at Rumer. “Did you pick out anything?”
“I did,” she said, motioning to a small pile. “I can understand how you feel about wearing her clothes now, but I think she’d be happy if she knew we kept some of her things.”
Beryl nodded and started sifting through a pile of neatly folded Tshirts that seemed to be from every vacation they’d ever taken. The top one had a comical picture of a birdwatcher looking through a pair of binoculars; underneath the picture it said, The Birdwatcher’s General Store, Cape Cod; the next one was from Maine and it posed the question, “Got Lobstah?” Next was one from Pennsylvania that bore a rendering of Abraham Lincoln. Beryl held it up. “Remember when we drove all the way to Gettysburg with Gram and Poppy because Poppy said he’d always wanted to see the battlefields?”
Isak nodded. “I’ll always remember that—it was the only time I’d ever seen him cry.”
“I remember that too,
” Rumer added. “It was at Pickett’s Charge. And then we stopped at that restaurant where everyone sat at long tables with red and white tablecloths and they served the food family-style.”
“That was in Lancaster,” Isak said. “Remember that really cute Amish boy who was driving the buggy?”
“Yeah, Poppy was going to follow him for you, but Mum said no.”
“We went on some fun trips,” Rumer said wistfully. “I wish we could take Rand on trips like that.”
“You will,” Isak assured her.
“I don’t know how Mum did it,” Beryl said as she pulled three more shirts from the bottom of the pile and suddenly realized what they were. “I also don’t know how she sent us all to college without taking out any loans.” She tossed a maroon T-shirt to Rumer and a light blue one to Isak; then, grinning, slipped off her blouse and pulled on the royal blue T-shirt Mia had proudly worn for a week after her youngest daughter had been accepted to Wellesley.
“Yup, there’s that too,” Rumer agreed.
“I don’t know either,” Isak said, pulling a Barnard shirt over her head while Rumer pulled on her mom’s old RISD T-shirt.
Beryl picked a shirt up off the floor as Isak looked at it over her shoulder. “Bermuda? Where’d that come from?”
“From Bermuda, silly,” Beryl answered, and Isak rolled her eyes.
“Maybe she got it at the thrift store,” Rumer suggested.
This time, Beryl rolled her eyes. “Right, that’s something I’d buy at a thrift store—someone’s old vacation T-shirt.”
“Well, where’d Mum and Dad go on their honeymoon?” Rumer asked.
“They went to the Poconos,” Beryl reminded her, “like everyone else in their generation.”