Getting Warmer

by Carol Snow

  “And Suzette seems really nice.”

  “She does.” My pen didn’t work. I threw it back into my bag and dug around until I found another one. Purple ink. It would have to do.

  Suzette reappeared with a Guy Buffet tray awash in pretty pastries and demitasse cups. “I thought you might be hungry.”

  “Not really,” I said. I was starving. “But I’ll try a bite or two.” She delicately unloaded the demitasse cups onto the table. “Do you like espresso?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Robert said. “Suzette, you totally rock.”

  After signing the necessary forms, Suzette gave us a tour of her gleaming chrome kitchen: the giant mixers, the prep counters, the commercial oven. A few staff members bustled about, happily stirring, sautéing and using words like “brochette.” Without exception, and even in their drab kitchen attire, the staff looked hipper than I, with creative piercings, whimsical jewelry and colorful hair streaks.

  Robert chattered nonstop about Suzette as we drove back to school in my Civic. I did my best to ignore him, but words like “cool,” “awesome,” and “totally rocking” kept sneaking into my consciousness.

  Robert couldn’t wait to go back. He couldn’t wait to take inventory. He couldn’t wait to use the giant mixers. He couldn’t wait to spend more time with Suzette. I felt like a divorced mother whose son had developed a crush on his father’s new girlfriend.

  I dropped Robert at his little orange car; the final bell had just rung. He gave me the biggest smile and a huge wave as he drove away, and I felt, at last, grateful to Suzette. She was exactly what Robert needed. From all appearances, she was responsible, upbeat, successful—everything anyone could want in a mentor. Or in a girlfriend. I thought of Jonathan. Jon.

  I hated her.

  Nicolette was at my desk. I had asked her to cover for me and had left her my lesson plans. The last class had been Adventures. We were reading The Red Badge of Courage. Marisol and a couple of the other girls were still in the classroom, clustered around Nicolette. They never hung around after the bell when I was teaching. When I was teaching, they poised their fingers above their cell phones as the second hand on the clock made its final journey to dismissal time.

  Marisol was sitting on my desk, her back to me. “Miss Badanski, this is like, the best class I have ever had. Ever. It was so totally not boring. You should so totally become a teacher.”

  “Thanks, Marisol.” Nicolette spotted me and smiled. “But I’m not half as fab a teacher as Miss Quackenbush. And, by the way, it’s not Miss Badanski anymore, it’s Mrs. Muntz.”

  “Oh, right, that’s, like, so totally cool that you got married. Can I see your ring?”

  As I approached the desk, the girls scattered. I felt like one of those big U-shaped magnets that shoots away oppositely charged filings. “Thanks, Nicolette. The Red Badge of Courage worked out okay?”

  “Nah.” She waved dismissively. “I hated that book in high school. What I read of it, anyway. It’s a total guy book. We talked about character and motivation, just like the lesson plan said, but instead of The Red Badge of Whatever”—here she paused for dramatic effect—“we talked about Veronica Mars.”

  “I haven’t read that.”

  “It isn’t a book, it’s a TV show. But it’s, like, got so much more character and motivation than that guy book. It was perfect. The class was totally into it.”

  I took a deep breath: let it go. “Anyway, I hope I didn’t get you in any trouble. Or that I didn’t get in any trouble,” I added as an afterthought.

  “We’re not the ones in trouble,” she murmured. “Staff meeting in the cafeteria. Starting . . .” She paused to look up at the clock. “Now. You’d better get down there. I’ll lock up.”

  Dr. White was wearing her black suit again, this time with a bright yellow shirt. If I wore something like that, I’d look like a bumblebee. The meeting had already begun. As I slipped onto a cafeteria table bench, Dr. White was saying, “. . . one of the most difficult personnel decisions I’ve ever had to make. Mr. Hansen has proven himself to be a talented teacher, and I’d looked forward to watching him grow both personally and professionally. However, Saturday’s action was an act of pure insubordination, not just toward me, but toward the school board, the PTA and the superintendent.”

  I scanned the room: no Lars. What were they going to do to him, anyway? Take away his drama responsibilities? Stick him with the slow kids? If Lars had tenure, he could perform ritual animal sacrifices without any significant consequence. But, like me, he was a relatively new teacher, and so, while it seemed unlikely, he could be—

  “Terminated.” Dr. White’s voice broke through my fog. I gasped. No one else did—but then, they’d been here all afternoon, so maybe this wasn’t news.

  I heard the cafeteria door swing shut and turned just in time to see Jill’s blond hair as she scurried out.

  Mrs. Clausen came over to me after the meeting. “Such a loss,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Lars was a really good teacher. His students will miss him.” Talking about him like this made him sound like he was dead. Still, deep within me I felt a hint of selfish relief: I’d still have to face Jill at school, but I wouldn’t have to live with Lars’s smirky blond presence anymore.

  As we walked out of the cafeteria, Mrs. Clausen talked about the impact Lars’s dismissal would have on the English department. When we reached our cars, she reopened a wound. “Do you have any plans for Thanksgiving?”

  “Thanksgiving? Oh, right. That’s coming up, isn’t it? It’ll be nice to have the time off, to catch up on work and everything.”

  “But what about dinner? If you don’t have any plans, Alan and I would love to have you join us.”

  I blinked up at Mrs. Clausen, awed by her generosity of spirit.

  “Can I make a pie?” I asked.

  twenty-seven

  Robert made the pie. It was pumpkin mousse in a gingersnap crust. He wanted to top it with meringue, but I told him that would be gilding the lily—at which point I had to explain what “gilding the lily” meant.

  He gave it to me on Wednesday afternoon, when I stopped off at Celebrations by Suzette. The little vases in the front room held marigolds. Suzette wore a burgundy shirt under her chef’s apron. Her blond hair was mussed in an oddly sexy way, little tendrils escaping down the back of her neck, as if she had just snuck off for an afternoon romp.

  “You must be busy,” I said.

  “I am, but I love it.” She smoothed her hair, to no avail. A flour smudge sat below her right eye, making it seem even greener. “Robert has been amazing. He made eleven pies today!”

  He grinned at her. “Twelve.” (The twelfth was mine, I guessed.)

  “The apples are mine, though,” she said. “Old family recipe. It’s Jon’s absolute favorite.”

  I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. “So . . . are you, will you be seeing Jonathan tomorrow?”

  “Of course! Jon, Jack, Krista—the whole crew. You’ve heard about Krista, haven’t you?” She shook her head. “Poor thing.”

  “Um, no.” I didn’t want to hear about Krista. I wanted to hear about “Jon.” Then again, maybe I didn’t. “What happened?”

  “She lost the baby. Breaks your heart.”

  As I rang the doorbell to the Clausens’ tidy ranch house, I tried not to think about Suzette. Or about Krista. But mostly, I tried not to think about Jonathan and his love of apple pies.

  The Clausens lived in Arcadia, a little slice of Southern California at the base of Camelback Mountain. Instead of cactus and gravel, orange groves and bright green lawns softened the winding streets and gentrified older homes. (“Older” being a relative term; in Arizona, anything built before 1980 was considered “older,” while anyone born after 1960 was considered young.) The Clausens’ house was beige with cranberry trim. A harvest wreath graced the front door.

  Mr. Clausen opened the door. He was tall and wiry, with a shiny pate and gold-rimmed glasse
s. I couldn’t remember his first name.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, Mr. Clausen. Thank you for inviting me.” The air smelled of roasting turkey and slow-cooked vegetables. Suddenly, I missed my parents.

  “Happy Thanksgiving to you, Natalie! But please, call me Alan.” He held out his hands for Robert’s pie. “Have you met Paul?”

  Paul and I stared at each other. He had on the same black silk shirt he’d worn on our aborted date. His hair was a little longer. He was better looking than I remembered. My face grew warm.

  Suddenly, he smiled. “We’ve met a couple of times, actually.” He held out his hand, and we shook like business acquaintances. Rethinking mid-shake, he squeezed my hand and leaned forward for a brief, friendly hug. “I’ve been meaning to call you,” he said as we walked into the living room. “To apologize.”

  “I’m the one who should apologize. I never should have said those things to Michelle. They weren’t true, anyway.”

  He waved it off. “Don’t worry about it. I was taking myself way too seriously. It was funny, in a way.”

  At times, the future can flash before your eyes. And in that moment, my future looked something like this: Paul and I would sit next to each other at the dinner table and reminisce about Boston. After a glass of wine, we would tell the Clausens about our two blind dates. Everyone would laugh. Tomorrow—no, later that same evening—Paul would call to say he’d really enjoyed talking to me. Perhaps he could take me out for dinner sometime soon?

  We would go to that Asian fusion place on Scottsdale Road. I would order the miso-marinated Chilean sea bass.

  From then on, we would go out a few times a week. I would try the sushi at the Asian fusion place. It would be really good. I would start spending nights at Paul’s tastefully furnished, centrally located apartment. Paul would turn out to be a wonderful cook. On Sundays, he would bring me breakfast in bed: bagels with cream cheese and smoked salmon.

  When we’d been going out a year—no, make that six months—Paul would present me with a velvet box. As I smiled at the gleaming diamond inside (which would be a respectable one carat) and then at Paul (who was really, truly wild about me), my face would hurt and I’d feel sad, though I wasn’t sure why.

  I would slip the ring onto my finger. We would call our parents. My mother would say, “You know we like Paul. But are you sure he’s the one?”

  I would look across the room at Paul’s steady, trustworthy face, blink, and say, “Yes, Mom. I’m sure.”

  A week or so later, when I’d grown used to wearing the ring (but before I’d received any engagement gifts that I’d have to ultimately return), I’d bump into Jonathan while buying organic produce at the Trader Joe’s on Frank Lloyd Wright Boulevard. We’d stare at each other. He’d notice the ring, and his face would fall.

  “I guess I always thought . . . never mind.”

  I’d touch his cheek, make him look me in the eyes. “What?”

  “That you would never love another man the way you loved me.”

  “I never did,” I’d whisper. My eyes would fill at the thought of hurting Paul. “I never could.”

  The jeweler would give Paul a full refund on the diamond.

  The girlfriend ruined everything. “I don’t think we’ve met,” she said, joining us next to the Clausens’ camelback sofa. She held out her right hand. Her left hand she planted firmly on the small of Paul’s back. She couldn’t have marked her territory more clearly if she’d peed on him.

  Her name was Janet, and she was an accountant. She and Paul had met through their running club. She was originally from Minnesota and had one of those funny accents that over-emphasize the o’s. Her straight brown hair angled down her face, resting at her collar. She was really, really skinny, with a long neck and a visible Adam’s apple. She started most of her sentences with: “Paul and I like to . . .”

  “Paul and I like to run up there,” she said when I told her I lived in North Scottsdale. “Some of the developments have nice running paths.”

  When Mr. Clausen—Alan—announced that dinner would be a little later than planned, Janet said, “Paul and I like to eat on the later side, anyway.”

  I wandered into the kitchen to say hello to Mrs. Clausen. The kitchen had sunny yellow walls and white appliances. Countless bowls, platters and cutting boards covered the blue-and-white tile countertop. Mrs. Clausen wore a flowered apron over a rust turtleneck and tan slacks. Her hair and makeup were perfect, of course, but her expression was worried. “I turned the oven off by mistake when I went to use the timer. Now the bird’s going to be out an hour later than planned.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Everyone’s nibbling on the veggies and dip. Can I peel the potatoes?”

  She rummaged through a drawer until she found a peeler. “That would be really helpful.”

  Dinner was served an hour and a half later than planned—at six-thirty rather than five. Outside the window, the orange trees looked black against the night sky. For dinner, in addition to the turkey and stuffing, there were mashed potatoes, rolls, broccoli, candied carrots and cranberry sauce. Janet had brought a yam casserole topped with marshmallows. “Would you like a roll?” I asked her, passing the basket.

  “No, thank you. Paul and I are trying to limit our glutens.”

  Elderly Mrs. Schroeder sat on the other side of me. “Will you be staying in Phoenix for long?” I asked her.

  “Oh, no, I hate Arizona!” she chuckled. “Never go there if I can help it. My husband, Larry, keeps trying to get me to move to Sun City, but I’m not budging. Have you met Larry?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “He’ll be here any minute. He went out to get milk.” I did a quick scan of the table. I wondered where Larry was going to sit.

  Across from me, Paul was saying to Jeff, one of the Clausens’ sons, “The trick is to bring twice as much water as you think you need. And to turn around before the sun starts getting hot.” Jeff was in his last year of college, applying to medical schools. The Clausens’ other son, who taught history to underprivileged seventh graders in Washington, D.C., was spending the holiday with his wife’s family.

  “Paul and I like to put in at least six miles on weekdays,” Janet piped in. “More on the weekends. Last Sunday morning we were out of the house before five.” So much for breakfast in bed.

  “Janet hasn’t run one marathon,” Paul announced.

  “We won’t hold that against you,” Jeff laughed.

  Janet leaned forward and grinned. “That’s true. I haven’t run one marathon—I’ve run three. Paul, you are so bad.”

  “Aargh!” Mrs. Schroeder shrieked. Conversation stopped dead. “There’s something wrong with the yam casserole! The marshmallows taste like dirt!” We all stared at the orange mound on her plate.

  “Those aren’t marshmallows,” Janet said, blinking furiously. “It’s tofu.”

  “Why? Why would you do that?” Mrs. Schroeder’s eyes bugged out. Her hands shook.

  “Paul and I like to limit our sugar intake,” Janet murmured.

  Mrs. Clausen stood up. “The casserole is delicious,” she said firmly. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to put the pies in the oven.”

  I snuck a peek at Mrs. Schroeder. She looked calmer, though her hands were still shaking a bit. I took a tiny bite of the yam casserole. She was right. It needed sugar.

  “Are you from California?” Mrs. Schroeder asked me.

  I checked her face. She was smiling pleasantly, all traces of irritation gone. “No, Massachusetts, actually.”

  She picked up her wineglass, took a tiny sip and put the glass carefully back in place. “How do you like California?”

  “California? It’s, um, nice, I guess. I’ve only been once.”

  “But you’re here now!” She picked up her fork and took a delicate bite of the yam casserole. “Tasty,” she said.

  When we’d all finished eating, I ignored Mrs. Clausen’s admonition to stay seated and started carting dirty
china into the kitchen. Soon, the counter was covered with half-empty serving bowls, sticky wineglasses and china plates coated with large portions of uneaten yam casserole. “I’ll deal with this mess later,” Mrs. Clausen said once the table was clear. “Let’s just serve the pies and get this over with.” I’d never imagined Mrs. Clausen could be anything but composed. Tonight she looked downright twitchy.

  “It’s too bad your father couldn’t be here tonight,” I said, picking up a stack of dessert plates.

  She stopped moving for a minute. “Natalie, my father couldn’t be anywhere tonight. My father died thirteen years ago.”

  I took a deep breath. At some level, I’d known this. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  She sighed. “Don’t be. My mother told you he’d gone out to get milk, didn’t she?” I nodded. “Most of the time, she’s okay. Or, at least not too bad. The medicines they’ve got these days—they’re amazing. But the minute the sun goes down . . .” She shook her head. “She used to be so sharp. So charming. This disease—it takes the person away but leaves the body behind. It’s cruel.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said again, overwhelmed by the inadequacy of my response.

  She shrugged with resignation and then smiled sadly. “My mother had a lot of good years. I’m thankful for that.” Then she drew herself up. “How are your parents doing? Are they holding up okay?”

  “Yes,” I said, swallowing hard. “They’re healthy. Perfectly healthy.”

  “Good. Then appreciate them while you can. Now, let’s get this dessert out there before my mother really loses it.” Oven mitts on her hands, she picked up the pumpkin pie. “Robert didn’t sneak any tofu in here, did he?”

  Mrs. Clausen sent me home with a brown bag of leftovers: a bag of turkey, some rolls, and the last two pieces of pumpkin pie. “Let me help you with that,” Paul said, taking the bag and walking me to my car. Janet had gone to “freshen up” before heading back to Ahwatukee. I unlocked my car doors and took the bag from Paul, placing it carefully on the front passenger seat and strapping it in.

  He laughed. “Do seat belt laws apply to turkeys?”