by Nancy Moser
He blinked. “You remember its number?”
She nodded, as surprised as he. “Remember getting pizza delivery from Geddy’s because we didn’t want to leave that balcony?”
“It was a great trip. We should do it again.” He suddenly stood. “In fact, let’s go.”
“Go?”
He lowered himself to the step below her own, facing her. “Next week. I could take a couple days off, make it a four-day weekend.”
She immediately thought of her dialysis appointments on Friday and Monday. She shook her head. “I . . . I don’t . . .”
He studied her face a moment, then pushed against her leg to stand. “You don’t have time. I know. You have things to do at work, innocent defendants you need to get off on some tricky lawyer glitch. Heaven knows your work is the most important thing in your life.” He walked toward the leaves and picked up the rake. “Nice talking to you. Thanks for the hot chocolate.”
What just happened?
It didn’t matter. There was no way she could tell him about her disease right now.
She went inside.
* * *
Angie wasn’t two steps into the shelter when the director, Josh Cashinski, ran up to her with a fervor beyond his usual welcome. He grabbed Angie’s hand and pulled her back toward the kitchen. “I need your help. Now.”
Angie motioned for the girls to follow. Josh talked as they walked. “The cook quit. Joe quit. I pulled Sheena in to help, but she’s not used to cooking for a crowd.”
“Who is?”
He stopped in the doorway. “You, I hope.”
She had to laugh. “Me?”
With a sweep of his arm he encompassed the kitchen. “This is not my domain, Angie. Like I’ve told you before, I can open cans and stir, but I need someone to tell me which cans to open and what to stir.”
Sheena held up a big bag of frozen corn. “Is this the boil-in-the-bag stuff?”
Josh took Angie’s arm and whispered, “Help!”
She took a deep breath. “Show me the pantry.”
Josh kissed her on the cheek and led her into an alcove full of shelves.
“What can I do?” Sarah asked.
“Me too,” Margery said.
Angie had forgotten they were there. Proper introductions would have to wait. She shoved two huge cans of kidney beans into Margery’s arms, and tomato sauce into Sarah’s. To Josh she said, “Get me the biggest pot you got. We’re making chili.”
* * *
Joy. It was such a simple thing.
In theory.
Not in practice.
While cooking the meal at the shelter—while cooking the chili and baking the corn bread—Angie felt the stirrings of true joy. And by its unexpected emergence, she realized how lacking it had been in her life.
With the help of the girls, Josh, and Sheena, dinner was served and enjoyed by fifty-seven people. Some even came back for seconds. As the cleanup crew did their stuff, Josh approached Angie. “My compliments to the chef!”
“Oh, you.” She opened the refrigerator, moved some bags of lettuce, and set the jar of leftover chili on the refrigerator shelf. “It was a simple meal. Nothing fancy.”
Josh pointed toward the main room. “Did you see them asking for fancy? Home cooking is good cooking. You did great.”
“It was good,” Margery said as she wiped off a counter.
Sarah tied the top of a trash bag. “I’ve never had corn bread.”
Josh laughed. “My, my. Where have you been, girl?”
She shrugged. “I like it with honey. Lots of honey.”
Josh put a hand to his chest, being dramatic. “‘Kind words are like honey—sweet to the soul and healthy for the body.’” He bowed.
“You’re just trying to get me to do this again,” Angie said.
Josh blinked. He froze, then his face lit up. “That’s it! I do want you here. You belong here.”
Angie shook her head. “Josh, I was kidding . . .”
He took her hands. “I’m not! Take Joe’s place. Three days a week.”
“Three meals a day?” Even as she asked for this clarification, Angie’s mind was shouting, No, no, you can’t do this.
“Three a day. Nine meals total.”
She let her body catch up with her doubts by shaking her head no. “I couldn’t do that. I wouldn’t know what to cook that many times a—”
“So you don’t presently eat three meals a day?” Josh asked.
Margery laughed. “He’s got you on that one, Angie.”
Sarah moved close. “I’ll help you.”
“You have to go to school.”
“I’ll help you figure out the recipes and help down here when I can.”
“So will I,” Margery said.
Angie waved her hands, trying to stop their words. “I can’t do it. I can’t. My husband would never allow—”
Sheena raised a soapy hand from the sink. “Excuse me? Your husband will not allow? What century you living in, woman?”
“Yeah,” Sarah said.
“Yeah,” Josh said.
Angie noticed Margery didn’t add her two cents’ worth.
Josh untied her apron. “You go home right now and talk it over with hubby dearest.” He wadded the apron into a ball. “If you tell me yes, I’ll even get you your own special apron.”
“One that says Kiss the Cook!”
“Sarah!” Actually Angie was pleased with Sarah’s kidding. The girl had really come to life this afternoon.
As had she. As had she.
* * *
Angie found him lying on the couch, watching golf.
That was a good thing. Golf was calm. It was better than finding him watching all-star wrestling. Not that he would. Ever. Golf was acceptable. Wrestling was . . . sweaty.
Had Angie ever seen Stanford sweat?
She heard him snore.
Ah. That made sense. Often when Stanford said, “I’m going to watch golf” he really meant “I’m going to take a nap.” All those quiet pauses and the whispered commentary . . . Angie used to have the same thing happen while watching the old Mission Impossible show as a teenager. She’d see the initial scene where the boss man would get the assignment—should he decide to accept it—but then would inevitably slip off to sleep only to wake and find herself watching the local news.
Actually, she was glad he was asleep. Although spurred on by Josh, Margery, and Sarah, she knew there was no point in asking him if she could accept Josh’s job offer. The answer would be—
Stanford lifted his head and looked at her. “You’re back.”
“I am.”
He sat up and reached for a glass on the end table. It was empty. “Get me more tea, will you?”
“Sure.” She took the glass and headed to the kitchen. Then she stopped. What am I doing? She returned to the couch. Stanford was sitting with his feet on the coffee table. He had the remote in his hand. “I’ve been offered a job.”
He glanced at her. “Tea?”
She took a step closer. “I’ve been offered a job as a cook at the shelter. Three days a week.”
His forehead tightened, proving he had heard. “The answer’s no.”
“Why?” She knew very well why.
Stanford put his feet on the floor and tossed the remote on the cushion nearby. “Because I need you here. At home.”
A laugh escaped, surprising her. “To do what?”
“To do—?”
She strode to the space between husband and TV, leaving the coffee table as a buffer between them. “According to you I don’t clean, cook, dress, speak, think, or even make love to your standards. You don’t need me at home to do anything but provide you with a way to feel superior. In spite of what you think, I do have gifts. I do have something to offer the world. Something good.”
He crossed his hands over his ample midsection. “At the shelter.”
“Yes, at the—”
He laughed. “Actually, you do have something to offer the c
aliber of people at the city shelter. They, who have nothing, don’t expect much.” He picked up the remote. “Don’t be dumb, Angela. Anybody can do that job, and it’s not going to be you.” He put his feet back on the coffee table, motioned her to move out of the way—which she did. Then he turned up the volume. A commercial for the newest, bestest car in the world came on. “I’m thinking of getting one of those,” he said.
And Angie knew he would. What Stanford wanted, Stanford got. She walked away, her head and heart heavy.
“Talia called. They’ll be here at seven for dinner,” he said.
Dinner. She’d forgotten about their monthly family dinner.
Great. She had to cook again.
Her lack of joy revealed too much.
* * *
Talia squirted toilet-bowl cleaner under the rim and watched the green gel ooze down the sides toward the water. While it did its work she tackled the ring of soap scum on the tub she’d ignored too long. Her seven-months’-pregnant belly made the maneuvering difficult, and she didn’t like using the chemicals because of the baby, yet if she didn’t do it . . .
If only they could afford a cleaning service. Every two weeks would be great. Let someone else clean the bathrooms and dust and vacuum. That would still leave her the laundry, the cooking, the constant picking up, the kitchen, the baby care . . . at least the yard was handled. Nesto’s old buddies at the lawn business took care of that for free. One blessing among too many burdens—burdens that used to be blessings.
She turned on the water and rinsed the tub. She enjoyed the way the sides felt smooth now that she’d done her job. She rested on the edge of the tub and started to adjust the shower curtain to the inside when she noticed the bottom twelve inches of the curtain were dirty with soap scum. The curtain needed washing. And from this vantage point she noticed the baseboard could use dusting, and was that a cobweb dangling between the light fixture and the mirror?
It was too much. Never ending. Although she was handling the big chores, the details threatened to drag her under. “Don’t sweat the small stuff” was a good premise, but Talia knew the small stuff could grow to be big stuff and was often harder to control in the process. Small stuff like running out of gas, forgetting Tomás was in the backseat, melting Tupperware in the oven, forgetting to pick up Nesto’s medicine . . .
She put her head in her hands, not even caring that they smelled like cleanser. That’s what her life needed. A good cleansing. Bleaching. Scouring.
“What’s wrong?” Nesto stood in the doorway.
“Just taking a break.”
“You look like you’re ready to break.”
She stood, grabbed the toilet brush, and scrubbed the bowl, working up a froth. “I’m fine.”
“‘Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.’”
Talia flushed the toilet. She did not feel like having him quote Jesus at her. “I’ll be fine.”
He turned sideways in the doorway. “Come here. Sit. Rest your weary—”
She stomped a foot, causing water to splatter from the wet brush. “I can’t rest! Don’t you see? I get done with ten things and there’s twenty more waiting. It never ends, Nesto. Don’t you get it? I can’t rest, because if I do, we’ll all go under. We’ll drown. That’s the ball game. You get it? Do you get what I’m trying to say here?”
His shoulders drooped as he nodded. “Sorry I’m such a burden.”
The breath went out of her.
Talia knew she should counter his comment with “You aren’t a burden, honey” or at least an “I’m sorry for blowing up like that.”
But she didn’t.
She flushed the toilet and tackled the sink.
While Nesto slunk away.
Bad girl. Bad Talia.
At the moment, that’s who she was. And there wasn’t a thing she could do to change it.
* * *
They stood at the door to her parents’ home.
“We don’t need to go,” Nesto whispered.
He was wrong. Their monthly dinners were nearly mandatory. Sure, they could miss, but the price was high. Too high. Keeping the family fantasy going kept her parents at bay the other twenty-nine days of the month when phone calls sufficed for bonding. In the few times Talia had forgone the monthly dinner, her mother had hounded her to reschedule: “Your father insists. Can’t you do it to please him?” Why he insisted was beyond Talia. When they were there he always acted bored or distracted, and he still hadn’t accepted Nesto. Yet even so, she’d found it was best to just do it. Besides, she wouldn’t be any less exhausted a week from now.
She changed Tomás to her other hip and rang the doorbell.
Her father opened the door, a cell phone to his ear. He motioned them inside and disappeared into his oak-paneled office to the right of the entry. Nice to see you too.
Talia set Tomás down and took off his jacket. She was putting their coats in the entry closet when her mother came out of the kitchen. “You’re here. I didn’t hear the bell.”
Talia nodded toward the office where the sounds of a phone conversation could be heard. “Dad let us in.”
Her mother’s forehead furrowed but relaxed when she saw her grandson. “Tomás, my baby boy. Come to Nana.”
The light Talia saw exchanged between her mother and her son was the main reason Talia kept coming to dinner. With Nesto’s mother far away in Portugal and his father deceased, it was important Tomás enjoyed the love of the grandparents who were close.
She glanced at her father’s office. He was seated at the desk, still talking on the phone.
Grandparent. Singular. Talia could count on one hand the number of times her father had held Tomás. Even the times he looked—really looked—at his grandson seemed few and fleeting. Her father’s eyes seemed to scan over the boy as if he were of no more consequence than a lamp or a coffee-table book on the art of John Singer Sargent.
Not that Talia expected more. Her father had never been an affectionate man. As a girl if she did what it took to please him she might have received the use of the family car or the chance to go to breakfast with her friends after prom. Any reward was directly related to good behavior. And all bad behavior cost. Big-time. Talia had often kidded (in private) that she should get a big piece of poster board and chart the specific debits and credits of her father’s system. She’d call it the Love Balance Sheet. It would contain such tried-and-true entries as:
Mow the lawn = one hour of TV (and a microscopic assessment of each blade of grass)
Get an A on a test = new sweater (her mother picked out)
Come in late = 2 hours of chores (plus an hour lecture)
And her favorite:
Talk back = banishment to her bedroom (including periodic scoldings through the door)
It had taken Talia a long time to realize that banishment could be considered a reward, and as such, she had saved her moments of speaking her mind for times when being left alone was exactly what she desired. As far as the scoldings through the door? Earplugs and headphones covered that up quite nicely.
Her memories were interrupted by her father’s voice: “But I told you, the order has to be there Friday.”
At least he wasn’t yelling at her—or her mother. Although Talia had hoped her father would warm to a grandchild—especially a male grandchild—she’d based her hope on an idealized wish list of what a family should be like. A grandfather running toward a grandchild, stooped low with arms outstretched to gather him up for smiles, hugs, and kisses . . .
Her father, phone still to his ear, got out of his desk chair and came toward the glass French doors that separated office from foyer. And closed them.
Never mind. One parent down, one to—
Her mother, in possession of Tomás, led them into the kitchen. Nesto found the nearest chair. Angie nodded toward the counter while nuzzling the child to her cheek. “Would you stir the spices into the ricotta, dear?” Her mother got Tomás an
animal cracker and sat at the kitchen table with the boy in her lap. “Then spread a tablespoon of the mixture on those slices of roasted eggplant over there.”
Talia looked at the serving tray where eggplant slices were positioned like the spokes of a wheel. “Whatever are you making, Mother?”
“Roasted Vegetable Napoleons. I got the recipe on the Internet.”
But why? “You don’t have to cook fancy for us. Nesto and I are fine with frozen vegetables.”
“Canned vegetables are good too,” Nesto said.
Angie shook her head. “Your father likes things fancy, so I make them fancy—” she sighed—“or at least I try.” Her face brightened and her voice lowered. “But I have to tell you about a different kind of cooking. This noon, when I was at the shelter, I had to fill in for the cook who’d quit.”
Talia’s mother told them all about her chili-making experience using sweeping hand gestures and adjectives like exciting, invigorating, and meaningful. She took a final breath. “It was . . . fun.”
Nesto nodded. “You seem very happy.”
Angie’s chest puffed up like a dandy. “Yes, I guess I was.” Her smile faded. She pointed to the counter where bowls of vegetables lay sliced and ready. “Now, cover the ricotta with two potato slices and layer it with zucchini, onion, mozzarella, tomatoes, and end with the ricotta and eggplant.”
Talia got to work. But she would not be so easily swayed from the issue at hand. “You said you were happy. Were.”
Tomás wanted another cracker and Angie gave him one. It was fruitless to point out they were going to be eating dinner soon.
“I loved cooking that simple food—for people who appreciated every bite.”
Talia sprinkled the cheese on the Napoleons. “As I said, you don’t have to make fancy dishes like this for us.”
“I know, honey. But as I said, they’re not just for you.”
Talia stopped working and looked over her shoulder. “You’re not Dad’s servant, Mother. Or his slave.”
“Don’t be silly.”
Talia turned completely around to face her mother. “I wish it were silly.”
“Your father took me out of pover—”
“Poverty and gave you a good life. Made you a lady. I know. We all know. And it’s good to be grateful. But I get tired of watching you pay him back year after year, ignoring your own desires and preferences. Never having what you want, never getting to do what you want to—”