Mr. Stellman’s generosity fills the tables. I don’t know what to eat. I try a shrimp, because everyone tells me they’re good. I don’t take a second one.
Roast chicken and beef overflow platters. I search the salads and finally find the Cobb salad partially hidden behind a huge platter of oven-roasted potatoes.
We eat until everyone complains that they can’t eat any more. When the deserts come out, everyone forgets what they said and reaches for creampuffs, slices of pie, or slices of the three-layered cake.
The newlyweds dance the first dance. I lean in to Ma and whisper in her ear, “They only have eyes for one another.”
“That’s the way it should be. Today is their day. They’ll return to their responsibilities soon enough.”
When they leave for their honeymoon, the party continues. “Let’s dance,” Jake says as he grabs Granny’s hand. I see Ma standing alone until Frank lets go of Fran’s hand and asks her to dance.
The evening passes in a blur. “Glad you could make it,” Granny says to our last guest as she closes the door. Her eyes fight to stay open.
Ma and Granny head to the kitchen. Now that everyone is gone, my words are unfettered. “I don’t understand how can you hate someone one minute and marry them the next.”
Ma laughs. “Love is funny. It’s different for everyone, so you can’t really account for it or predict it.” She throws a pile of dirty napkins in the trash. “I think it’ll work out for them.”
“Why’s that?”
“You have to admit, Marnie, they managed to get the crap out of the way in the very beginning.”
After an hour, we decide to resume cleaning tomorrow morning. Everyone is tired. I hurry upstairs with something clutched in my hand. I change into my nightgown and place my secret beneath my pillow. It’s a piece of Edna and William’s wedding cake. Fran’s cake didn’t give me a vision of my true love, but perhaps this one will.
Chapter 51
Marriage transforms Aunt Edna and Aunt Fran. Their lives expand, and they seem happier. I’m pleased by the changes, but I never consider Ma a candidate for a second marriage. She lives with Granny and me. The house, although big, can’t hold anyone else.
As uncompromising as hardened concrete, her role as Daddy’s widow and my mother keeps her in her place for many years. Then, suddenly, cracks appear.
“Grab a bag, Marnie,” Ma asks as she teeters toward the kitchen counter.
“You bought enough meat to last us a month,” I groan as I set the bag down.
“A new butcher shop opened. There was a big sale, so I took advantage of it. Bring the chicken and beef to the freezer. We’ll have the pork chops tonight.”
I trot down the stairs. Only when I return do I realize that she looks different. “Ma, are you wearing lipstick?” The faint tinge of pink adorning her lips shocks me. I can’t remember the last time I saw makeup on her face. Why is she suddenly wearing it?
Her hand brushes across her lips. My question dangles in the air. She crosses the room and opens the fridge. “What would you like for lunch?” The door closes. “I know, let’s have chips.”
I adore Ma’s chips. She takes them off the heat the moment they turn golden. I smother them in ketchup until they nearly slide off the plate.
A few days later, I’m on the porch reading Duddy Kravitz. A woman who looks a bit like Ma sashays down the street in a stylish print dress. Her hair sits on top of her head, reminiscent of Brigitte Bardot.
The woman ambles up our walk. Her heels tap on our wooden steps, demanding attention. I examine the stranger, not knowing what to say. Giggles erupt from her. “What a beautiful day,” she gushes. The woman is Ma.
I could look past the modern clothes and styled hair. It’s the girlish giggle that drops the book from my hands.
“Why are you dressed like that?” I ask, suddenly annoyed.
Ma’s head cocks as if my words lack sense.
“The dress, the hair, the heels,” I say with a sweep of my hand.
“Oh, that. I’m going out tonight.”
Every square inch of me stiffens. “With who?”
“I have a date with Timothy Davis.” Ma grabs hold of the screen door. I’m right behind her.
“Timothy Davis, I’ve never heard of him.”
“He’s a widower. He moved into town a few months ago. He opened the butcher shop at the corner of Seventh and Main, right after I fought with Mr. O’Toole because he sold me an old chicken and refused to take it back.”
“And he asked you out?”
“Well, yes. He doesn’t know very many people. It’s just dinner and a movie, so don’t make too much of it.”
I walk away. Being new to town, Timothy Davis mustn’t have known that Ma is not the sort of woman you ask out.
He picks her up in a shiny black car and whisks her away before I can decide if I like him or not. I turn to my grandmother. “What do you think of him?”
Granny shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know him, but he seems nice. He sure is handsome.”
Thoughts transform into a sour dill pickle and wiggle to the middle of my mouth.
Granny laughs. “Come on, Marnie. Even you must admit his black curls are pretty, and his eyelashes frame periwinkle-blue eyes.”
“His hair has grey in it, and I never noticed the colour of his eyes.”
Granny has a busy evening planned. The more I talk, the less she listens. The annual bake-off is tomorrow, and she’s in the pantry gathering the ingredients she needs for her entry. She tunes me out effortlessly and completely, so I speak louder. “What time do you think he’ll bring her back?” I all but yell.
“They just left. Do you want him to circle the block and dump her on our porch as he drives past?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Don’t be jealous,” she mutters as she lines up the flour, frozen butter, sugar, and salt.
“Seriously, what time do you think he’ll bring her back?”
Granny dumps flour in the bowl. “Seriously, I don’t know. They just left, so not for a while.”
“Do you think he’s after her money?”
Her sigh blows flour into the air. “He owns his own business. He doesn’t need your mother’s money.”
“You never know. Maybe his business isn’t doing well. Ma owns a house. He probably thinks she has money.”
“Oh, of course he does,” Granny says mockingly. “Look at the three of us, living like queens. Pass me my tiara, will ya?”
Granny often reprimands me for having a smart mouth. I don’t have to look far to see where I got it from.
“Don’t look all mad. You deserve it. Your insinuations insult Ellie and Mr. Davis. Think about what you say for a change.” Her fingers crumble the mixture until the butter is pea sized.
I am thinking. It’s Ma who’s not. “Just because he owns a business doesn’t mean it’s doing well.”
“It always seems busy.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. Maybe his overhead is high. Maybe he gambles.”
“Stop with the nonsense.”
“How can you be so disinterested?”
“I’m interested, but I respect your mother’s ability to judge characters. If she likes him, I tend to think he’s a nice man, and honest, too,” she says emphatically. “Really, Marnie, you have to give your mother some credit. She’s not a fool.” She begins the task of mixing, which is important with pies, because if you don’t do it quickly, the dough will be tough.
My voice whines around the room. “But my mother doesn’t date.”
“She’s out on a date right now.”
“She should be with us, not him.”
“Should she, now?” A smooshing sound fills the air as her palm pounds the dough. She flips it in the flour and rolls it out. The undertaking appears to be an attack. When she shoves the little pie shell into the oven, it’s probably relieved to be away from her.
“She should be home with us,” I repeat.
&n
bsp; Granny’s tongue clicks against the roof of her mouth. “You’re being selfish.”
The fresh, biting smell of lemons fill the air as she squeezes and grates. She stomps to the stove and bangs the saucepan on the burner. I trail right behind her. “But she’s my mother. She shouldn’t be gallivanting around town with some stranger.”
“In a few years, you’ll probably be gallivanting around town yourself,” she remarks as she whisks the ingredients of the lemon filling.
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“I won’t have a kid sitting at home waiting for me to get back.”
Eggs crack and separate. She breaks the yolks and chucks them into the pot. “No, but if you have it your way, your mother will be sitting in the same chair you’re occupying right now.”
“She has you. She doesn’t need to date.”
“I can’t live forever, just as you can’t be expected never to date and fall in love. Ellie has been alone for too long. She deserves some happiness.”
“Being with us doesn’t make her happy?”
Bubbles break the surface of the pudding like abscesses draining. “It does, but it wouldn’t hurt if she broadens her horizons.”
My lip juts out. I pull it back in. “I don’t see what’s wrong with her life as it is.”
Granny beats the meringue with such force, I fear the bowl will end up in the middle of the kitchen. She retrieves the shell from the oven, plops the lemon filling into it, and tops it with meringue. Her knife twirls it into sharp peaks. She then clomps out of the kitchen before I can say any more. She’s never walked away from me in the middle of a discussion. I don’t know whether to be hurt, embarrassed, or angry. After a few minutes, I experience all three.
She returns to check on the pie. The meringue puffs in golden mountains. She yanks it out of the oven and plunks it on the counter to cool. Her bedroom door slams a minute later.
“All in the Family is on!” I shout a little while later, hoping to lure her back. Just when it seems she’s going to stay upstairs, she comes down and throws herself in the swivel chair. Archie’s voice fills the living room. When he and Edith kiss and make up, I have learnt a basic truth of life.
If you live with someone four times your age and half your size, you can’t fight with them. It’s impossible. Throw the goblet down and accept that they’re right and you’re wrong. Besides, I do have a reputation for being difficult. Furthermore, even if Granny is wrong, she’s older and will die before me. It’s better just to give in.
“I’m sorry. You’re right, and I’m wrong.” I blurt the apology, hoping our tussle cooled with the pie.
“I’m glad you rethought your position.” Granny throws away her indifference and appears even tempered once again. It isn’t until the next day that her annoyance visits once again.
Chapter 52
Granny is entitled to use the old line, “If you lived as long as I did…” A versatile route, it enables you to escape a tight spot, detour around an argument, or travel down a one-way road your way.
She never plucks the adage out of her pocket. I respect that. I also understand why it stays in her pocket. Blessed with a good mind, she doesn’t have to resort to the age-old defence.
Smarter than most, she’s a tad cocky, with the exception of her baking. In that area, she exhibits incredible arrogance. She sees herself as the best baker in town, if not the world. On certain days, she may concede that others are capable of competing with some of her culinary skills, the exception being pies. She considers herself untouchable when it comes to pie crusts..
On the day of the annual bake-off, she expects to take first place. She always does, so why would this day be any different? The sun wakes up blazing. We have to walk to the fairgrounds, so we leave early.
“I hope my pie doesn’t sweat,” Granny frets as she bundles it in plastic wrap.
“We’ll be the ones walking for forty-five minutes,” I remind her as I tie my shoelaces.
Our steps become short and choppy amid the onslaught of the thick, wet heat. “Are you sure you don’t want me to carry the pie?” I ask when we hit the halfway mark.
She quickens her step. “No, I can carry it. It’s not heavy. It’s delicate, so don’t worry about it.” Implication—I’m clumsy, so don’t touch it. Hands lie flat to the plate to protect the fluting of leaves circling the pie. Only when we reach the wicket does her hold release. She sets down the pie and digs in her purse for two dollars. Banners hang limp and motionless as we enter the fairgrounds and head to the bake-off tent.
It’s still early morning, but heat collects high in the tent, waiting to drop. Granny takes no notice. Coolly and efficiently, she removes the wrap from her entry, smiles smugly, and hands it to a judge.
The leaf garland survived the journey. Meringue peaks promise a spectacular outcome.
The tent buzzes with women. Envious glances soon circle the little pie.
“I can only hope for second place,” Mrs. Teske says when she sees Granny.
Libby gives the judges a lemon meringue pie. “Good luck,” Granny says as she touches her arm. As soon as Libby is out of earshot, she whispers, “She’s only embarrassing herself. Lemon meringue is my specialty. If she was smart, she would try something else.”
Doris Blake saunters in. Her blather acts as a repellant, and people scurry from the tent. Granny dismisses her with a roll of her eyes. Doris baked a coconut cream pie, and although she’s flaky, her pie could be stiff competition.
The contest takes place at eleven. Granny looks at her watch. “It’s only nine thirty. Let’s tour the fairgrounds.”
We don’t get very far before she moans, “I have to sit down.” Oddly enough, fatigue seizes her when we reach the bingo tables.
“Might as well play a few games of bingo while I rest. It’ll be a help to the church,” she remarks piously.
Granny admits to being tired once a year. Weakness always strikes as we pass the bingo tables. We drop onto the red wooden bench and grab a handful of hard corn in anticipation of the new game. White-haired women fill the tables. I mumble to Gram, “Why do you always do this to me? I’d like to go on a few rides and eat some cotton candy.”
Granny gives me a knowing look. “Sure you would,” she smirks. She knows I only have to watch the rides spin around for my stomach to churn. I’m one of the lucky ones who don’t have to pay to barf. Bingo is my style, but I’ll never admit to it. She gives the man two quarters, and the game begins. Under the “I”…
Granny is lucky, but I’m luckier. In forty-five minutes, I win twice. Both times, I’m alone, so I get full coupons. On our last game, Granny shouts, “Bingo!” but her face falls when another voice hollers along with her.
“It’s almost time for the bake-off, so we’ll collect our prizes later,” she says when the man hands her a half coupon. As she walks away, she touches a telephone table. “Nice wood,” she remarks. It’s a full coupon, so she’ll have to choose something else. My eyes settle on a fun pink fur telephone and the matching radio. I already see them sitting on my dresser.
Chapter 53
We arrive five minutes before the bake-off begins. The tent bursts with people. Granny pushes her way to the front, and I meekly follow.
Libby sees Granny and quips, “I didn’t think you’d make it.”
“She wouldn’t miss it,” Doris says. “How many years have you won, Melina?”
“I don’t really remember,” Granny says sweetly. It’s a lie. She has won for the last nineteen years, and she keeps all of the blue ribbons to prove it. Just this morning, she turned to me and said, “I plan on winning for at least twenty-five consecutive years. That will make me the grand winner.”
There are three judges. Granny’s friend Jake is one of them. He’ll recognize her stunning crust and automatically pick her as the winner. Granny knows the other two judges—a banker and the owner of the local bakery—but they won’t play favourites.
Twelve pies
battle against one another—three lemon meringues, one coconut cream, two banana cream, four apple, and two blueberry.
The twelve competitors shove their way to the front to study each reaction that skirts across the judges’ faces. The first taste eliminates three of the four apple pies. Three women move to the back. To lose in the first round is embarrassing. They have to distance themselves from their failed attempt.
The next round bumps off two banana creams, one lemon meringue, the remaining apple, and one of the blueberry pies. Forks click as the judges wrestle for another mouthful of Doris’s pie. Granny whispers, “I guess she’s getting second prize.” Each judge takes only one taste of Granny’s pie and never returns to it. I see their behaviour as worrisome. Granny’s ego is so vast, she deems that one bite is all they need to declare her the winner.
Murmurs cram a corner as the judges confer. They remove eight pies from the table. Mrs. Hume moans and hurries from the tent. Four pies remain. Each baker will receive a ribbon—first, second, third, and honourable mention. Sweat drips, and three sets of eyes dart as they weigh the competition. Granny looks straight ahead. A smile plays on her lips. I don’t like how Jake looks over the heads of the competitors.
Honourable mention starts the ribbons. Mr. Rourke holds up the green ribbon. “Honourable mention goes to entry number two, Olivia Johnson,” he announces in a booming voice. Libby cringes. Her smile hangs lopsided and anemic. “Thank you,” she mumbles as she takes her prize.
Honourable mention is not that honourable, and Libby always manages to secure it. She always flings the ribbon in the garbage the moment she leaves the tent.
“And the third prize goes to Melina Stevens!” Mr. Rourke shouts. Granny stands still. Her face doesn’t change expression. It appears that she hasn’t heard her name being called. I touch her shoulder, and she cringes. Wooden legs carry her to the stage. She accepts the yellow ribbon and mutters a hasty thank you. It’s the first time her lemon meringue pie did not capture first prize. Muriel Brooks’s voice rings out. “Congratulations, Melina!”
Chickens & Hens Page 20