by Nancy Moser
Duh. It was difficult maneuvering around the hot coils at the bottom of the oven, and her first inclination was to shut the oven door and pronounce, “We’ll have to get a new one.”
If only they could afford it.
She spotted Tomás in the doorway leading to the living room. “Hot!” he said, pointing to the oven.
“Yes, baby, it’s hot.” She looked at Nesto, moving a lock of hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand. “You two go outside. I don’t want either of you breathing these fumes.” She didn’t want the baby breathing them either, but at the moment that couldn’t be helped. Nesto herded Tomás into the front room. “Put on your jackets!” Talia called after them.
What would they do without her?
She didn’t want to know.
* * *
They went out to dinner—if McDonald’s could be called “out.” Talia didn’t feel much like eating, so she ordered herself a kid’s meal. Tomás was thrilled to get two toys.
In between bites of his chicken nuggets, Tomás climbed on the play equipment. If only Talia had so much energy.
“Take care, Tomás,” Nesto said.
Take care. It was the tagline of her life. Talia Soza: Take care or be square.
Nesto took a bite of his grilled-chicken sandwich, then glanced at his watch. “It’s time for my medicine. Is it in your purse?”
Why would it be in my—?
Then she remembered. One of her tasks today was to pick up Nesto’s medicine at Neighbor’s.
“You didn’t forget, did you?” he asked.
Talia pressed a hand against her forehead. “I did. And they’re closed.”
Nesto tapped the crystal of his watch. “I need it. You know that. I need—”
“I know; I know. Maybe if I call Gladys . . .” She reached for her purse, for her cell phone, which was still dead. She spotted a pay phone on the wall and dug out some change. “I’ll fix it, Nesto. Don’t worry. I’ll fix it.”
* * *
There was nothing Gladys liked better than homemade buttermilk biscuits slathered in butter and boysenberry preserves. The aroma emanating from her oven brought back memories of her mother’s kitchen. Her mom had not been a good cook, but she could make biscuits. They’d eaten them a dozen ways: alone, with eggs, with creamed chipped beef, creamed tuna, sausage gravy. They were definitely a multipurpose food. And more importantly, they were almost done.
Gladys checked the chicken breast in the George Foreman grill, and poured some lettuce from a bag into a bowl. Like her mother she chose her culinary adventures with a discerning eye. Cook and bake when you must, but otherwise . . . she saw no shame in taking advantage of shortcut cooking.
The timer on the oven buzzed and Gladys was there in seconds, hot pads ready. Out came the pan of biscuits, golden brown and inviting. With the flick of a finger, she flipped two onto her plate. Slicing them open was like opening an oyster and searching for the pearl. Rising steam heralded the coming delicacy. Gladys added the butter, loving how it liquefied upon contact. Then the preserves. Forget the chicken—this was the essence of the meal. The pièce de résistance. She couldn’t wait to be seated. The biscuit called to her like a Siren calling Odysseus. She picked up the hot biscuit gingerly, careful not to drip the preserves. She took a bite, eager to savor—
Yuck! Gladys leaned over the sink and spit it out.
The bitter taste was so bad she had to cover it up with a swig of her Fresca.
Confused, she took a bite of another biscuit—sans butter and boysenberries.
Yuck again.
Something had gone terribly wrong. Yet this was not a new recipe. Although she didn’t know it by heart, she’d never had the biscuits not turn out.
Gladys picked up the daisy-edged recipe card and read through the ingredients. The words appeared a bit blurry, so she moved to the better light above the sink. Flour, buttermilk, salt. Check.
Three teaspoons baking powder . . .
Gladys looked to the sink where she’d tossed the dirty measuring spoons. The powder-encrusted tablespoon glared at her. She put the spoon to the tip of her tongue.
Yup. Bitter. That was the taste of the moment, all right.
The evidence was in. She’d used three tablespoons, not three teaspoons.
A simple mistake. One anyone could make.
It had nothing to do with her eyes. Really, it didn’t.
Gladys put the offending spoon back in the sink with the deliberate motion of a doctor working with operating-room equipment. Then she calmly walked over to the baking sheet of biscuits, picked it up . . .
And flung it across the room.
The pan crashed against the corner of the kitchen island, did a backflip, nicked the fridge, and landed on the tile floor near a chair. The ten biscuits that had not been cannibalized abandoned ship—some sooner, some later, each one suffering a different degree of injury. Call 911. Paramedics needed.
The room responded with stunned silence. Even the fridge clicked off in shock, holding its breath in horror.
Like a drunk driver who’d just caused an accident, Gladys stared at the scene, uncomprehending. Then, realizing she was to blame, her legs gave out. She crumpled to the floor and began to sob. Long dormant tears forced their way to the surface. Given air, they let loose in sickening, wrenching wails.
Even as the sounds circled the room gaining speed and intensity, Gladys thought, Surely this can’t be coming from me.
She shut her mouth. The sounds stopped, proving her wrong.
Surely they were. Surely these disturbing sounds had been hiding, suspended, just waiting to be released.
Surely she wasn’t as in control as she’d thought she was.
Her legs protested the odd position and she moved them aside, allowing her bottom full access to the cold floor. She should get up. She should move as quickly as possible from this place of total despair to a familiar position, a posture and place that would remind her of all things normal, regular, and sane.
But she could not. During their escape, the wails had grabbed on to moderation, self-control, restraint, logic, and common sense, and had yanked them away from their safe core and hurled them into the room where they’d fallen into invisible and irretrievable piles of nothingness. Gladys leaned to the right, letting her shoulder find the floor. She curled up in a ball.
She was empty. She was hollow. She was spent.
She was done.
* * *
Ring. Peace. Ring. Peace.
Gladys opened her eyes in time to hear the phone ring the third time.
Where am I?
In a split second she placed herself on the floor of the kitchen. In another second she remembered why.
Ring.
The fourth ring? In another two rings, the answering machine would kick in.
Even as she pushed herself to her feet, even as her muscles complained, Gladys considered ignoring it.
But it might be Aunt June. It might be about Mama.
Family duty won out. She reached the phone right after the fifth ring. “Yes?”
“Gladys! I’m so glad you’re there. I tried calling the pharmacy, but it was closed and—”
“Talia?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. This is Talia.”
Talia explained that she’d forgotten to get Nesto’s medicine. She apologized profusely, but would be forever grateful . . .
“Don’t worry about it. Meet me at the store.”
Gladys hung up, glanced at the accident scene behind her, grabbed her purse, and headed out.
* * *
If effusive thanks and apologies were turned into real money, Gladys would have reached millionaire status that night. Within ten minutes Talia—and Nesto—were taken care of.
A crisis averted. Thanks to Dr. Gladys Quigley.
That done, Gladys put the tools of her trade away, getting ready to leave. But when she shut off the light, she did not move toward the door. She wanted to move—she intended to move
—but for some reason her body rebelled and stood fast.
In the dark.
In the empty store.
Then suddenly, she heard herself speak aloud. “What am I going to do?”
She looked up when the bell on the front door clanged. King entered, lit by the streetlight outside. “Gladys?”
She stepped toward the pharmacy window so he could see her. “Back here.”
He closed the door and locked it. He didn’t switch on the lights. “I saw the lights on, then go off. It’s long past closing. Is everything all—?”
“Talia needed a prescription for Nesto.”
“She couldn’t get this during the day?”
“She forgot.”
He walked through the store toward the pharmacy. “And you came to her rescue.”
“I couldn’t tell her no.” Do I have on any makeup at all? Did I cry it all off? Why hadn’t she cared about her looks when it had been Talia she was seeing? Hopefully, King would keep the lights out.
He came in the pharmacy. His hand reached for the switch.
“No!” she said. “Just keep it off. We don’t want to appear open.”
The glow of the streetlight had diminished intensity in the back, but there was enough. King took a step toward her, his head cocked. “Are you all right?”
Gladys reset the notepad and pen on the counter. “Long day.”
He took a step closer. “And?”
She moved the pen from the side of the notepad to the top. “And it was a long day.”
“Gladys . . .”
He was within touching distance now. His hand started to bridge the gap between them.
She stepped away. “Just go away, King. Leave me alone.”
His hand froze in midair. Then he said, “Never.”
“I can handle this.”
“Handle what?”
“This.”
“What’s this?”
She sighed dramatically. He was not going to go away.
Do you really want him to?
Before she could weigh the pros and cons of opening up to her partner, she heard herself say, “I lost it this evening.”
Blessedly, he did not ask what she’d lost. “‘She was lost, but now she is found.’”
Gladys had no idea what he was talking about. “I threw a pan of biscuits across my kitchen.”
His eyebrows rose. “Why?”
“Because they tasted awful.”
“You’re very hard on your food. I’m sure they were trying their best.”
“It was my fault. I put in three tablespoons of baking powder instead of three teaspoons.”
“That would do it.”
He wasn’t getting the significance. “Don’t you see? I made a mistake.”
“People do that.”
“No, they don’t! Most people can see the recipe card. Most people aren’t losing their eyesight!”
He hesitated a moment, then took a step toward her. To comfort her.
She walked away from him, shaking her head. “No. Don’t tell me it’s going to be all right, or say something placating like I have a right to be upset.”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
She pointed a finger at him. “Yes you were. I know you.”
At least he had the decency to shrug.
“The thing is, up until now I’ve handled everything life has thrown at me. And recently I’ve even handled an employee stealing from us, bad news from the eye doctor, my mother’s illness, and the knowledge that someone broke into the store.”
“That is a lot.”
She went back to her list, needing to get it out. “I’ve handled all those things with strength and grace. But tonight when I messed up the biscuits . . .”
“You realized you can’t do it all by yourself.”
This was not what she wanted to hear. “I can do it. I will do it. I just don’t know how.”
He leaned against the counter, showing her his profile. “Have you prayed about this, Red?”
“God helps those who help themselves.”
“Which you’ve done quite well at. As far as you’re able. But now . . .”
She paced between two shelves of meds. “God wants people to work things out. Certainly he has enough to do handling the big stuff of the world. Wars, pestilence, tornadoes, making sure every college football team wins the big game.”
“‘If you seek him, you will find him.’”
“But I don’t need to seek him.”
“You don’t? You don’t?”
It sounded like a trick question. She wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Do you actually think you get extra points for handling things yourself?”
She stopped at the end of the row. “Well . . . yeah. I don’t want to be a weakling.”
His jaw dropped. “So you think people who need God are weak?”
She shrugged. “Can’t you see that I’m trying to give God a break? Give him time to help people who really need him?”
“Which isn’t you.”
It was a cocky statement. Gladys hesitated.
“Your hesitation shows at least a smidgen of wisdom,” King said.
She put her hands on her hips. “Excuse me?”
“Ignorance and arrogance are close friends. It’s best to avoid both.”
“Are you calling me names?”
“You’re a smart woman, Gladys. Or at least I thought you were. And if you’d jump down from your pedestal you’d realize what you need to do.” He walked toward the front door.
“King? Come back here!”
“No thanks. I don’t want to interfere where I’m not wanted.” He unlocked the door, opened it, then looked back at her. “And neither does God.”
11
Turn to me and have mercy,
for I am alone and in deep distress.
PSALM 25:16
Mama held the lottery ticket and glared at me. “Are you sure that’s the number I should pick?”
I wasn’t sure. Not at all, but since Mama had insisted I pick the number this time it made sense to choose 9696969696. “It’s a good number,” I said.
“Better be.” Mama filled it in, chewing on her tongue. When she was done she held the ticket between us. “You don’t want to know what will happen if this loses.”
For once, Mama was right. I didn’t want to know. She’d changed so much in the past couple of years since leaving Daddy. She was more negative, more desperate. She was still consumed with living the good life, getting rich, and having more, but there was a panic about her, like she had to have it now.
It didn’t help that Daddy had remarried and had a good job in a town way out in California and Mama was still selling cosmetics. I liked Daddy’s wife, Anne. She was nice and had taken me shopping for school clothes when they came to town to visit the one time. Mama got really mad when I came home with those clothes. “How do you rate?” she’d yelled. “He gets a new house, a new job, a new town, a new wife, and I get nothing?”
I decided it wasn’t the time to tell Mama that Anne was pregnant, that Daddy was getting a new kid too.
But to make amends, I took one of the sweaters back to the store and used the money to buy Mama a pretty blouse. She was a little better after that.
But she’d be even better if she won the lottery. I prayed that God would make that happen. For both our sakes.
* * *
Mama sat on the couch, put an arm around me, and pulled me so close our hips touched. I had never seen her so happy. “This is going to be great. I wish Ted could be here.”
I had other wishes for my mother’s newest boyfriend. A slow boat and China were involved. And various forms of torture.
The smiling lady on the TV made the balls in the machine jump. One by one, they were sucked into a tube. She displayed them like they were huge, round pearls. “The first number is 9.”
Mama screamed. “Here we go!” She squeezed me tighter.
Another ball.
The lady was all teeth and hair. And curves. “The second number is 6.”
Another scream, but this time Mama kissed the top of my head. “I knew you could do it, Gigi! We’re going to be rich! I’m going to do so much for you, girl. We’ll get out of this stinkin’ place and—”
The third number swooshed into the tube. I didn’t need the lady to say what it was. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t a 9.
Mama sat perfectly still. And when the fourth number was also wrong . . . forget any more kisses, the arm around me, and sitting hip to hip. Mama stood over me, her face red.
As was the welt mark from the slap I got on my face. As were the finger marks that appeared on my arms after Mama grabbed me and shoved me across the room. As was the blood that trickled from the corner of my mouth, that dripped onto my knee as I cowered in the corner while Mama yelled at me.
“Why do I listen to you? You don’t know anything. You and that stupid number. You’re a freak and I don’t know why I ever kept you around.”
I needed to pick a new favorite color. Maybe blue.
Blue were the bruises . . .
* * *
I held my breath so I could listen to Mama’s breathing as she slept on the couch. I hadn’t moved from the corner, having learned that moving around—and especially trying to leave—only made things worse. Mama liked to have an audience when she got mad. And a victim. By staying put in the corner I was both. But that didn’t mean I could relax. Making myself as small a target as possible was important.
Mama snored. After shoving me across the room she’d started drinking. I figured she was passed out but she’d fooled me before, springing to life when I moved too soon.
I’d wait a little longer.
I let my tongue find the broken skin at the corner of my mouth. There was a scab there. I noticed some dried smudges of blood on my knee, so I spit on my finger and cleaned them off.
After I’d heard Mama call me the bad names—the first time—I’d stopped listening and started planning. I didn’t want to do this anymore. Today’s beating was worse than the others, and now that Ted was around . . .
At twelve I didn’t know the details of what a guy like that could do, but I knew the gist of it. Just the way he looked at me, all swarmy and schmoozy. It creeped me out. And from the things Mama had said tonight, I knew for sure if she had to choose between Ted and me, I was out.