One Year in Coal Harbor

by Polly Horvath

  “His ceiling doesn’t want to stay up,” I said casually, pulling over a stool and chewing on a piece of celery.

  “Ha!” said Miss Bowzer.

  Apparently this was going to be a day of one-syllable responses.

  “He was saying that he’d probably hire a gourmet chef to run his restaurant. Someone who could cook the kind of things you can’t. You know, really hard recipes. Like boeuf bourguignon.”

  Miss Bowzer stopped chopping. She whirled around.

  “He told you I couldn’t make boeuf bourguignon?”

  She was spluttering. This was excellent.

  “Well, he implied it. Or I inferred it. I can never remember the difference,” I said, looking out the window as if the whole thing didn’t concern me in the least. In fact, I do know the difference between inferred and implied because one of the wonderful things about Miss Connon is that she demands people be precise with their language.

  “Oh, really? Well, where does he think I went to cooking school?”

  “I don’t think he thinks you did. I think he thinks you just, you know, picked it up.”

  “PICKED IT UP?” Miss Bowzer’s eyes were afire and her neck was getting blotches of red. Maybe I’d gone too far.

  “You know, like, on the street.”

  “ON THE STREET? I’ll have him know I went to the Cordon Bleu in Paris for an entire semester!”

  “You did?” I said. I hadn’t known this. I was impressed.

  “Boeuf bourguignon! He probably doesn’t even know how to spell it.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’re right. He’s probably never even tasted it. He probably wouldn’t know a boeuf bourguignon if he fell into a pot of it.”

  “Feh! Hand me that Dutch oven on the shelf behind you.”

  I handed it to her. “Are you making one now?” I asked.

  “Boeuf bourguignon. I’ll show him!”

  “Should I invite him here for dinner?” I asked.

  “Feh,” she spluttered.

  “I mean as a paying customer.”

  “Huh!”

  We were back to one syllable.

  “Well, I guess I’ll head over there.”

  “Don’t bother!” she said, going to the freezer and getting out some beef. “I’ll bring it over for him to taste when it’s done. The nerve!”

  “Well, do you want some help?” I asked.

  “No,” said Miss Bowzer. “Some things I have to do myself, Primrose. Now skedaddle.”

  I wondered if I should have mentioned that he’s really shy and out of practice when it comes to women. Or would that have been too obvious?

  Later, after my own supper, I went over to Uncle Jack’s to see what the upshot of the boeuf bourguignon episode had been. I was hoping that Miss Bowzer had brought it over and they’d ended up having a romantic candlelit dinner for two. But then who would have minded The Girl on the Red Swing? No, no! That would have been even better, if she’d forgotten her restaurant in the passion of the moment. Even Uncle Jack would have seen that was a sign!

  Uncle Jack had papers spread over his kitchen table and there were empty TV dinner trays on the counter. He either hadn’t had the boeuf bourguignon or she’d only given him a taste. I’m sure if he’d had a whole dinner of it, it would have been filling enough without hauling out the rat chicken.

  “Primrose!” he said. “Two visits in one day.”

  “Oh, here.” I handed him some of my mom’s cookies. They were the excuse I had come up with for popping in.

  “Thanks, I was just wishing I had some dessert. Put them on the counter. I’m sorry but I’m kind of busy.”

  “I just thought since you probably were eating TV dinners, nothing special, like nothing gourmet, you’d like some homemade dessert. The TV dinners were your first dinner tonight, right?”

  “First dinner? What are you talking about?” He looked up from his papers. He was sharp, which was a major stumbling block to my plans, and his eyes scanned my face, but I was getting wise in the ways of the matchmaker and I just stared back at him innocently. I can make my pupils dilate. I used to do this in school when I got bored. You just blur your vision. You can actually feel them dilating. It makes you look innocent and doe-eyed.

  Uncle Jack’s eyes remained suspiciously on me for a bit and then he said, “Right. Well, I’ve got to work.”

  “Okay. For some reason you just smelled kind of like beef when I came in,” I said.

  He dropped his pen. “You don’t say. I don’t smell it myself but to assuage your curiosity, I will confess I did have a taste of boeuf bourguignon. I’m afraid Miss Bowzer is losing her mind. She came charging over as I was about to leave my restaurant, holding a big casserole dish, piping hot, and yelled at me. ‘Just taste this! Taste this, you fool!’ ”

  “What did you do?” I asked breathlessly.

  “I tasted it. It was good but I see no reason to get hysterical because you have a pot of it.”

  “Did you tell her it was good?”

  “I didn’t get a chance. I said, ‘Is this beef stew?’ and she yelled, ‘STEW? It’s boeuf bourguignon, what do you think of that!’ like that was supposed to have some kind of significance for me.”

  “So what did you say then?” I asked, gripping the chair in the excitement of the moment.

  “I said, ‘Ah.’ ”

  “Ah? Jeez, you could have done better than that, couldn’t you? And what did she say?”

  “She said, ‘HA!’ ”

  “Jeez!” I groaned again before I could stop myself.

  “What should I make of such a thing?”

  “Never mind. After the ha and ah, THEN did you tell her it was good?”

  “No, because she said, ‘Well then! Well then! We’ll hear no more about THAT!’ and went charging back to her restaurant. I’m telling you, I think she’s cracking up. Running a whole restaurant by yourself must be quite a strain. We must get her some help.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You could have told her it was good! Did you ever think of that? If it was. Was it good?”

  Uncle Jack stopped as if to consider. Then he said, “You know, it was good. Very tasty, in fact. But I don’t know why she had to come charging over with some. She’s gotten very defensive since I said that thing about her restaurant.”

  “Really?” I said coldly. “How odd.”

  “Odd is the word for it. What do you make of the whole business? The strange affair of the boeuf bourguignon, as it shall be hereafter known,” he said, and his eyes twinkled for a second and he looked like his old self and not so fraught with worry and paperwork.

  “I don’t know,” I said slowly, my gaze dropping to the floor as if I had to think hard about this. “I know she really values your opinion … maybe she needed to make sure the boeuf was seasoned right. Or maybe she was hoping you’d taste it and come have dinner at her restaurant with her. It sounds, you know, like she cooked it just for you.” I thought I might have pushed it too far but Uncle Jack picked up his pen and went back to his papers with a distracted air.

  “Yeah, I doubt it,” he said. “Now I really have to settle these plans. I don’t want to be rude but …”

  “Okay, I’m going. But not all bourguignons are about the boeuf!” And with that one little clue, I swept out.

  None of my adult friends seemed available at the moment, being in mourning or consumed with business ventures and a stalled affaire de coeur that manifested itself in fine French cuisine, so I was left with Eleanor Milkmouse, whom I hung out with when there was absolutely nothing else to do. Eleanor was kind of lumpy and shapeless, with black straight hair that partially obscured her face. You wanted to reach up and brush it out of the way for her, especially since some of it always seemed to be stuck to her chapped lips or damp forehead or something indeterminate that had dried on her cheek and was best not pondered. She had a nasal condition, which I know wasn’t her fault, but somehow I couldn’t help feeling she could dry up her nose occasionally if she really tried. I once spen
t ten minutes entertaining the idea of sticking a hair dryer up it. But of course it wouldn’t fit. And she didn’t seem that keen when I mentioned it. There were always partially used Kleenexes hanging from all her pockets. I don’t think she liked me any more than I liked her but she sometimes asked me over for sleepovers and I could never think of an excuse to say no. One day she confessed listlessly that I was her best friend. At first this filled me with horror, that I actually meant something to her; then I realized being appointed her best friend didn’t bespeak affection but lack of any other option and I relaxed.

  There were only a dozen twelve-year-old girls in Coal Harbor and everyone had paired up in kindergarten except for us. We were left with each other or nobody. Out of pride we put on a show of being friends by choice, and when people had to pick a partner in class at least we had one. The teacher never had to lead us by the wrist to each other and join our sweaty palms together. It was really the most dignified option. Eleanor told me once she thought I was strange because I “thought about things.” And she kept away from me that whole year my parents had gone missing, as if the condition were contagious. Now that I was hanging out with Eleanor again, I kept thinking maybe we’d find some new common ground. That she couldn’t be as boring as she appeared, she must have unplumbed depths. And she probably did, but it didn’t make me compatible with what was down there. A lot of what was down there was her undying and undeclared love for Spinky Caldwater. She could rattle on endlessly about him and I found it embarrassing but of course I had to be polite. I wouldn’t have minded if I had something similarly boring to rattle on about on a daily basis; then I could have just sat there patiently waiting for my turn. I wanted to think I would find something to make me really like Eleanor but maybe it’s better to admit that some people you’ll never like and that’s that. I couldn’t decide whether being with her was worse than being alone. Although, being with her was in many ways just like being alone. I ached for a best friend whom I actually liked and respected. For one thing, it was difficult to find stuff both Eleanor and I liked to do. She wanted to play paper dolls and I tried to teach her to cook but she was afraid of making mistakes and her mother wouldn’t let her use knives.

  “You’re twelve!” I said when she confessed to this. “How do you cut your meat?”

  “I can use steak knives at the table,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I can’t just, like, you know, chop.”

  “Well, why don’t you tell your mother you think you are ready to chop? Maybe she’s waiting for you to make the first move.”

  As usual Eleanor had no answer. She never argued. She just got quiet. Complete silence was always her last word on everything.

  One day after school we were hanging out at her house. I was trying to think of as many positive things as I could about Eleanor. This was slow going but I had finally come up with the fact that she had hardly snorted at all that afternoon when we started making cootie catchers and couldn’t find scissors except for kitchen shears and she said she wasn’t allowed to use those either because the tips weren’t rounded.

  “I have to go,” I said, and walked right out the door.

  I need someone I can talk to, I thought, my feet beating desperately down the pavement toward town. I need someone who can use sharp scissors. I was racing past The Girl on the Red Swing and on impulse burst through the kitchen door.

  Miss Bowzer was chopping potatoes with a sharp knife and looking the embodiment of a sane universe.

  “I’m never going to have a good friend,” I said, telling her the knife and shears story.

  “Sure you are, kid,” she said, not looking at me. We were both still a little embarrassed about the dinner party and I was embarrassed at the failure of my boeuf bourguignon plans. “Next time just pick someone who doesn’t blow her nose on my napkins.”

  “Or doesn’t pronounce the t in often,” I added.

  “Oh yeah, that makes me crazy too,” said Miss Bowzer, lighting a cigarette and puffing the smoke at the ceiling.

  I felt better already.

  “Anyhow, I get it,” said Miss Bowzer contemplatively. “When I was a teenager I thought I was never going to have a boyfriend. All my friends had boyfriends but me. I thought it meant I was ugly or had a rotten personality or something. Or there was something wrong with my femaleness. Like maybe the other girls had natural female wiles I lacked and everyone knew it. Then I ended up with the most sought-after guy in town.”

  “Is it anyone I know?” I couldn’t imagine Miss Bowzer with anyone but Uncle Jack.

  “Oh, he’s long gone now. I don’t know what he’s doing. His family moved down to Duncan when he turned seventeen. So he didn’t even graduate with us. His name was Dan Sneild.”

  “That sounds like a made-up villain’s name.”

  “Yes,” she said, stopping her chopping, stubbing out her cigarette and pondering it. “He looked like a villain too. That was probably a lot of his appeal. He drove around town on a motorcycle, revving the engine. It was like a mating call. It brought girls out to the street. But he wasn’t looking for them, he was looking for me.”

  She gazed back through time with a satisfied glow.

  “You’re so beautiful! You must have been really beautiful back then,” I exclaimed without thinking and then realized how it sounded and my face got warm. But Miss Bowzer didn’t mind. She looked at my pink cheeks and laughed and suddenly it was all right between us again.

  “Anyhow, he made an excellent first boyfriend. He was romantic in the way girls are romantic, which back then I figured was what romance was supposed to be. He used to buy me used books of poetry and any flowers he could get at the general store. He had a job weekends at the cannery, where his dad was a supervisor. But he never smelled like fish. And he was the only boy in town who didn’t smell like Hai Karate. He smelled like the sea.” She smiled again. “Not fish. The sea, you know?”

  I nodded. My dad comes home at night smelling like salt and the wind. “What was Hai Karate?”

  “Oh, a kind of aftershave favored by sixteen-year-old boys when I was growing up. School dances were nearly unbearable because of it. We’d ride all over the back roads in springtime on that motorcycle. We used to go into the B and B your mom works at. It was empty and abandoned then. Just a big old abandoned wilderness farm and we’d sit on the front porch and pretend all we surveyed was ours: the B and B, all the surrounding hills and mountains, all the quiet. I thought, Wouldn’t it be something to be part of that great stillness? Like no matter how busy I got, I would be surrounded by and protected by and inside of it and it would be in me too then so I would always have it. Dan didn’t get that part when I rattled on about it but he said it would be cool to own some cows. He used to say he was going to make a lot of money and come back and buy it for us someday and we’d talk about the rooms and what would be where and I used to decorate it in my head. I didn’t see how we’d have space to run a B and B, what with all the children we’d be having. I planned on twelve. Ha!” she barked, and for a moment looked sad. “My mother had decorating magazines and I’d pore over them. I loved the idea of it so much, I really thought it would happen. I had every room decorated in my mind. I could tell you in detail how they looked. Sometimes at night when I can’t sleep I lie in bed and go over them, detail by detail. But anyhow, now Miss Clarice owns it and that’s that,” she finished abruptly, and wiped her hands on her apron briskly as if wiping off such nonsense and went back to cutting up potatoes.

  We chopped companionably for a bit and then she said, “Anyhow, that’s water under the bridge. The point I was trying to make was that everyone makes a friend eventually, Primrose.”

  But like most good conversations we had strayed so far from the original point that trying to return to it was superfluous.

  “Maybe,” I said noncommittally.

  “Just wait, friends come from unlikely places. Just when you think you’re alone, one shows up.”

  I nodded. “Oh, by the way, Uncle Jack s
aid the boeuf bourguignon was tasty but probably a one-dish wonder. That the real test would be how you did a croque monsieur.” This was the only other French recipe I could think of off the top of my head.

  Miss Bowzer dropped her dreamy look and slammed her knife down sideways on the cutting board. “CROQUE MONSIEUR? He doesn’t think I can handle a croque monsieur? Doesn’t he know that’s a grilled cheese sandwich? No, of course he doesn’t know. And he thinks he can open a high-end restaurant to rival me?”

  “I don’t think he wants to be your rival—” I began.

  “Where is he? Where is he right now?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, sliding off my stool and making for the door. “Probably across the street working on his restaurant.”

  “You go over there right now and tell him supper is on the way.”

  I ran happily across the street. Inside his new place, Uncle Jack was covered in plaster dust as usual.

  “Miss Bowzer is making you a croque monsieur for dinner and bringing it over,” I said.

  “What? I just had lunch two hours ago. Why is she making me a, what did you call it?”

  “Croque monsieur. It’s a grilled cheese sandwich. I think it’s awfully nice of her, busy as she is.”

  “Well, of course it’s nice,” said Uncle Jack. “I just don’t understand why she’s suddenly …”

  But I was out the door before he could finish that thought. Let him ask her himself.

  I went home and was lying on my bed, listening to the ticking of the clock in the empty house, staring at the ceiling and wishing one of my parents would come back, when the phone rang. It was Evie.

  “Primrose, I have the best surprise for you. Remember we said we had a surprise but it kind of got forgotten what with …”

  “Yes,” I said. I was happy to hear some life in Evie again.

  “Well, the surprise comes tomorrow. At least it’s supposed to. Can you come over after school and then go to dinner at The Girl on the Red Swing with us?”

  “That would be GREAT,” I said. I was going to tell her about how I could no longer take another afternoon of Eleanor or the echoing emptiness of our house after school. But she rattled on excitedly and I could tell she wasn’t paying attention to my end of the conversation.