R. Monte Belle Cancer Treatment Center. It was still there. Still beige brick–faced and still with the tinted front doors, so that the people who slipped in were gobbled up by anonymity immediately thereafter. A new doctor had been added across the bottom of the sign in bold black letters: Jeanette A. Patrick, MD.
“Oh, Chuy, you know what that means,” Virginia said. “There’s demand.”
It broke her heart to even think about it.
“Well, come on, I suppose I should at least let you sniff a little,” she said, pulling Chuy onto the lawn surrounding the center. He immediately went for the sign, gave it a couple of whiffs, then turned and hiked his leg on it.
She let him lead for a while, follow his nose, and tinkle to his heart’s content. This always led to a meandering, often circling, many times all-out stopping tour of the grass and even sometimes of people’s tires. Which she didn’t mind. Piss all over those tires, Chuy; that’s my boy. Give ’em a good soaking, she’d been known to say more than once.
But today she just didn’t have it in her, and neither did Chuy. After sniffing the entire perimeter of the sign, he seemed content to simply lie down in the grass, panting softly. Maybe he was finally too old to make this trip. Maybe it was a sign that they both needed to let the R. Monte Belle Cancer Treatment Center go. God, that was so much more easily said than done.
She decided to let Chuy rest for a while. She hooked her cane over the brick pedestal that the sign had been mounted in and let her backside lean against it. She was covering the words, but she didn’t really care. If someone passed the center, they would see it on their way by the other direction. Besides, didn’t everyone have one of those PGS contraptions that told them exactly where to go all the time now anyway? Nobody had to think for themselves. Cars were selfish little coffins-to-be, everyone too busy worrying about and listening to and looking at their contraptions they forget that they were essentially turned into mobile weapons in those things.
Deadly. Cars. Cancer. All of it.
She watched the door. A couple went inside, the woman’s head wrapped in a pink bandana. A child came out, her bald head exposed to the world. A perfectly healthy-looking man strolled inside. But wasn’t that how they all looked initially? On top of the world, as if nothing could possibly be wrong with them? As if they were going to be one of the few who beat it.
“We should do something, Chuy,” Virginia said absently as she watched a man carry another child out. The child was far beyond carrying age—maybe as old as eleven—and was draped over him in complete exhaustion. “We could make a difference.”
But what difference could they make? If anyone knew that even the kindest gestures couldn’t take away the feelings of despair and futility, she knew it. If anyone knew that no matter how sympathetic they were to your cancerous plight, you would still look at them with bitterness, with contempt that they were so unfairly healthy, even if you felt guilty for thinking those things, she knew it. What difference, indeed?
“Let’s go,” she said, abruptly pushing off the wall and giving Chuy’s leash an admittedly too-harsh tug. His tags rattled as he struggled to catch up with the movement. She grabbed her cane and slowly the two of them thumped back up the hill, through the neighborhood, and toward the square. She catalogued nothing on the way back. She noticed nobody. No peeling paint, no missing shutters. Even Chuy didn’t bother to sniff at the barking dogs.
• • •
That fat blond cook was the first thing she saw when she rounded the northeast corner of the square. It was late afternoon. The sun was going down, and even Virginia had begun to feel a little chilly. But the cook was bundled up so tight she looked like she was heading for a month of dogsledding.
She gave an exasperated sigh, stopped, leaned against her cane, and watched. Dammit. The last thing she needed tonight was an overwhelming food stench riding along a wave of imbecilic laughter. It was Wednesday—not even their regular night. They must have moved it for the holiday. Could they not have just taken Thanksgiving week off?
The cook struggled with a very large aluminum pan of something that she had pulled out of her backseat. Something orange dripped over the side, out from under the foil she’d covered it with. In the midst of her struggle, she happened to spot Virginia. She tensed, looked quickly over each shoulder, as if possibly Virginia had a couple of henchmen waiting in the wings to rub her out, and then continued trying to shut her car door with one leg as if Virginia hadn’t been standing there at all.
Chuy let out three sharp barks.
“You’re a good judge of character, my friend,” Virginia said, and then thumped toward the cook. Her feet were tired. Her right bunion throbbed. But she didn’t care.
“You’re not planning to have another class tonight, I hope,” she said.
The cook jumped, and more orange stuff sloshed out of the pan and down the front of her shirt. “Yes, I am,” she said. She sounded like she was going for nonchalant, but the quiver in her voice gave her away. “There’s no reason why I wouldn’t. I have every right to teach a class, and in fact an obligation to do so. People paid good money for it.”
She stepped up onto the curb blindly, seemed relieved that she’d made it, and then proceeded to wrestle with the logistics of getting the front door open. Finally, flustered, she let out a grunt.
“I don’t suppose you’ll help me out,” she said.
“Not if it means I’m going to have to have my apartment fumigated again,” Virginia countered, though, to be fair, she’d only considered the fumigation thing, and had decided she wouldn’t actually act on it until the class was officially over and the Kitchen Classroom was officially out of business. Which wouldn’t be too long from now if she had her way.
“I didn’t think you would, but it was worth a shot,” the fat cook said. She set the pan on the ground, opened the door, held it with her hip, and then picked up the pan again. “Have a good night.”
“You won’t get away with this,” Virginia Mash yelled at the door, which was closing behind the fat cook. She hated not getting in the last word. She yanked the door open. “For your information, I’ve hired an attorney.”
“Great. Tell that to Paula. I don’t own this place, she does.” The fat cook had set the pan on a counter and was busy wiping the front of her shirt with a paper towel. Looking for all the world like she didn’t really care if Virginia Mash was even in the room with her.
“I will sue you.”
The fat cook looked up and smiled, but it was sour underneath. “I just work here,” she said. “Would you like to stay? We’re making barbecue sauce.” She pulled back the foil, and a plume of steam mushroomed to the ceiling. Virginia Mash pinched her nose shut. “For brisket. Family recipe.”
“I would sooner starve to death.”
“Then you wouldn’t have to worry about the smell anymore,” the cook said, her voice agreeable but her message nasty.
Virginia Mash was aghast. She was used to a fight. She was used to tears. She was even used to dirty looks and hateful whispers. But she wasn’t used to such . . . pleasantness.
“When does the redhead get here?” she asked.
“Oh, I’m sure she’s here. Probably in the back or something. Would you like me to fetch her for you?”
Virginia scowled. Not really. After the walk, the cold, and this new attitude, not to mention the kids at the cancer center, she just really didn’t have it in her to fight tonight.
“Just be sure you don’t burn the place down,” she said. “And if you interrupt my TV shows tonight, I will be back.”
“Bye now,” the cook said, tossing the paper towel in the trash and offering a friendly wave. “We’ll save a station for you. Just in case you change your mind.”
“Over my dead body,” Virginia said, storming back out onto the sidewalk. But halfway up the stairs, the creak of the wooden steps echoing the
creak of her bones inside her feet, she realized what she’d said.
Over her dead body.
Given the day she’d had, it seemed like the world’s poorest choice of words.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Why on earth had Bren let Aunt Cathy bait her?
Really, she knew better. She knew the crazy old bat would try to get her to tackle a project only for the sake of saying she made her tackle it. She was, after all, the aunt who’d dared her to stick her tongue on a light pole during that fourth-grade snow day. She was the one who’d claimed it wasn’t possible to play human bowling on the stairs with a helmet, a flattened cardboard box, and three overturned buckets. She was the one who’d bet—actually bet an eight-year-old child!—that she couldn’t jump from her second-story window into the swimming pool below.
Bren had been falling for Aunt Cathy’s bait since she could say the words Uh-huh, I’ll prove it to you! She was more than old enough to know better now.
But there was something that just snapped inside of her when Aunt Cathy looked up skeptically from her plate on Thanksgiving Day and said, “This is just a turkey.”
“What do you mean, just a turkey?” Bren had said, feeling herself blanch. She had been up since the crack of dawn basting that turkey. Her eyeballs felt packed with sand thanks to that turkey. Her kitchen was a disaster because of that turkey. Granted, she hadn’t gone all out the way she would have if the kids had been home, but she had pulled down and dusted her grandma’s china, had whipped an entire bag of potatoes for just the four of them, and had gotten the name-brand cheese for the broccoli-rice casserole.
“I’m just saying, you’re a cooking professional now. I expect more of you.”
“I’m hardly a cooking professional. Besides, this is a traditional Thanksgiving turkey. You can’t do more with a Thanksgiving turkey,” Bren said defensively, but she could see on the faces of Gary and her mother that they maybe agreed just a little bit. Plus, the turkey was a little on the dry side. “Well, what do you think I should make?” she asked, a question she now realized was entirely, entirely stupid. “Since you want me to wow you.”
Aunt Cathy thought about it for a moment, swirling her spoon listlessly through her gravy, drumming the fingers of her other hand on the brown and orange tablecloth. Everyone stared at her. She stopped drumming and tapped a forefinger to her chin, making a production out of her decision making. “A turducken,” she finally said.
“What’s a turducken?” Gary asked.
“It’s a chicken inside a duck inside a turkey,” Aunt Cathy said, miming stuffing things into one another with her hands. “Or something like that. I saw it on that food channel.”
“I’ve heard it’s delicious,” Joan said. “I’ve never had one. I’ll admit I’ve always been kind of curious, though.”
“See?” Aunt Cathy said to Bren. “Nobody’s curious about plain old turkey. People want to see you stick a chicken up a duck’s ass.”
“Catherine, Bren probably doesn’t know how to make a turd-whatsis,” Gary said. Bren shot him a Thanks for the vote of confidence look.
“Turducken,” Aunt Cathy, Joan, and Bren all corrected at once.
“Exactly,” Gary said. “Bren here probably has no clue how to do that.”
Bren stared down at her plate. The turkey looked so. . . beige. Was turkey always so beige? She’d never noticed its beigeness before. Aunt Cathy was right. It was a cop-out. Not even a challenge, really. She could do better. Or at least she’d hoped she could.
“I absolutely know how to make a turducken,” she blurted. All eyes looked skeptical, but that only spurred her to keep going. “I’ve made them.”
“When?” Gary asked. “I’ve never had a chicken in a duck’s ass.”
“Before we got married,” Bren answered without missing a beat.
“You have not made a turducken before,” her mother said.
“Mom, you just didn’t know about them,” Bren said, but she couldn’t look her mother in the eye while saying it. “But I’ve made them. Tons.”
“Yeah, she’s made tons of them, Joanie,” Aunt Cathy said, slapping Bren’s mother on the arm. She was enjoying this way too much. “She probably has the best turducken recipe anyone’s ever tasted. Right, Brennie?”
The old woman’s eyes sparkled with gotcha. So Bren smiled sweetly.
“The perfect recipe.”
“And I’m sure you’d be willing to share it with your class, since I’m sure all of your students would love to know how to shove a chicken up a delicious duck’s ass,” Aunt Cathy challenged.
Bren refused to break gaze. “Of course I will.” She set her fork down, lifted her arms, victory-style, and declared, “Next week, we make turducken.”
But now it was next week and Bren couldn’t believe she’d let Aunt Cathy trick her into making a turducken, which, of course, she had never even contemplated making before, much less actually made.
Really, could it be that hard? Any harder than making a regular Thanksgiving turkey, even? Slap a little butter on that beast, some salt and pepper, cram some stuffing into the delicate regions, and bake it. Easy peasy.
Not so much. First was the fiasco of trying to find a damn duck—not so easy peasy in Vargo, where people lived off hamburger and chicken and the occasional pork chop. Then to find just the right size duck that would easily fit inside a turkey, while still allowing room for a chicken? Impossible.
Bren was still trying to wedge them together when a noise sounded behind her. She jumped as John appeared out of nowhere, gazing up at her from under his eyebrows, as if he were up to something.
“Oh, jeez, John, you scared the crap out of me. Gary’s not here yet. He and Gil went to get guitar strings. They should be back in a few minutes. You can go on downstairs if you want.”
But he didn’t go. He just stood there, staring at her, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other, that weird horror-movie grin creasing the bottom half of his face again.
She tried to get back to work, but found herself unable to do anything without periodically glancing over her shoulder at him. Maybe she should call Cindy. Make sure there aren’t any mental health concerns going on with her husband these days.
“You can go on down,” she said again.
“What are you up to here?” he said, and she noticed he’d moved a few inches closer to her. “Looks like you got a mess going on.”
“Making a turducken for my class,” she said. “Or trying to, anyway. But you’re right, all I seem to be making is a mess. I don’t know how on earth you’re supposed to fit a chicken inside of a duck. They really aren’t all that much smaller.” She tried wedging the chicken inside the duck again, but her hands slipped, and the chicken only managed to flop onto the floor with a wet splat. At this rate she was going to have to antibacterial-bomb her entire kitchen. “Dammit.”
John chuckled softly, then bent to pick up the chicken. “You have to bone it first,” he said. His face was extraordinarily red when he straightened. He held up the chicken. “This. You have to bone this.”
He moved to the sink and rinsed off the chicken, and then brought it to the cutting board and placed it on its back.
“Can I borrow?” he asked, pointing to the knife that lay on the counter near the other two birds.
“Of course,” Bren said. She handed the knife to him. He took it slowly, more of that smiling. Something felt so awkward in the air, yet she couldn’t really say what, since all the man was doing was taking the bones out of some poultry for her. Yet she wished Gary would get home already.
“You have to have a soft touch,” he said, and Bren felt herself blush. Great, now the blushing was contagious.
He worked deftly, as if he’d boned a lot of chickens in his lifetime.
“I had no idea you were such the chef,” she said, moving over to the sink
to wash her hands. “Maybe you should be teaching this class instead of me.”
“No, no,” he said. He drew a delicate slice in the chicken’s skin. “I’m no teacher. I’m only good in intimate situations.” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “Besides, you’re doing great. A natural, from what I hear.”
“Where would you hear that?”
His lips quivered as he stared intently at the chicken. “I just know you’re good at it.”
Bren shut off the water and grabbed a paper towel, which required her to lean across his arm. She really needed a bigger kitchen. “Well, I’m not. I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. I’ve practically burned down the place, and then spent a whole class period on barbecue sauce. And now I’m making a turducken just because my aunt Cathy gets my goat. Look at me. I didn’t even realize you have to take the bones out of the damn thing to make it fit in the other damn thing.”
She wadded up the paper towel and tossed it in the trash.
John pushed the flayed chicken to one side and picked up the duck. “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself, Bren,” he said. “You’re wonderful. Best I’ve ever seen.”
“Thanks, John,” she said. “I wish I could believe it.” She sank onto a stool. “I don’t feel so wonderful these days. The kids don’t want to come home. Kevin had a crazy night in Rome that I don’t know if I should even tell Gary about. My life’s just kind of feeling a little out of control right now.” As if on cue, her shoulder itched. She scratched at it impatiently.
“If only you could see Bren Epperson through my eyes,” he said, working, his back to her. “You would never doubt yourself again if you did.”
There was a ruckus as Gary and Gil popped through the front door, a tornado of noise and rustling plastic bags.
“Hey, Johnny’s already here!” Gary said, plunking the bags down on the kitchen table.
“I thought you were getting guitar strings,” Bren said, eyeing the multiple bags. She got up and peered into one, which held what looked like thirty-seven bags of beef jerky.
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