Linda had overlooked one disadvantage with the catering business. We weren’t making enough money for her to quit her job yet, but she no longer had the Bronco for work. The Bronco had been a shared enterprise when we both had jobs in the city, and we had coordinated a schedule that allowed us to both use it without having to rely on public transportation. Now she had to take a bus to work in the mornings, while I cruised through the neighborhoods.
It was all Briana’s fault. Briana was holding us back from our careers. She was keeping us from making a comfortable living. Briana responded with her usual fortitude. “Only eighteen pounds left to go! I made an appointment for tomorrow with the doctor so he would give me a diet plan.” She winked. “I’m sure it will be a divine diet.”
“You’re going to an old folk’s hospital for a diet plan?”
“It’s not an old folk’s hospital. I checked. It’s just a regular medical clinic, but they have a special Geriatrics ward because of how many old timers there are around here. Yeah, and there’s a senior citizen’s center nearby, too. Your competition for meals on wheels.”
“Whether you lose weight or not, you have to get a job. Every month you come up with the same excuses.”
“I’ve been helping out. What would you do if you didn’t have me cleaning up after you? You never thought about that, did you? You leave your stuff laying around like pigs.”
I guess our private rooms could testify to that statement, but it was a very pleasant, lived in clutter. “There is a point,” said Linda reluctantly. Your kitchen and dining room have just about turned into a restaurant. We need someone there to keep it organized, and you don’t have the time.”
“Maybe I should shut it down and go back to the way we were.”
“Back to the way we were? No, I like this better. You’ll start making more money, Jenna, and so will I once I gain a strong clientele. It’s just a matter of time.”
When you weighed in terms of productivity, Linda and I were a flurry. The craftsmanship of our hands didn’t extend just to food, beverages, and awesome hair. We both like to arrange things. We like to mold things and sew things. The creativity that flows out of our fingertips is like watching fairies twirl about in Disney animation. But we never think a great deal about the scraps and pieces left behind. Briana does. She thrives on chaos yet brings order to disorder.
She should be one of those complex superheroes/villains. She dresses like one. While Linda and I changed clothes frequently, adding a bit more disorder to our rooms, Briana didn’t. Her favorite clothes to wear were either knee length, form clinging pants or sweat pants, and halter tops. As I’ve said before, she looked incredible in halter tops.
We left the table, defeated always by Briana’s tactics. All things considering, it probably was good to have a neat freak around as she did keep the atmosphere congenial.
The next morning began as a normal day. I received five orders for breakfast, all within a close circumference of the house. Midday would be busier but wouldn’t take up much more territory. I idled at Melanie’s house to discuss tactics for expanding my territory.
“It’s the doctor,” she said. “He tells all his patients to stick with the senior meals provided by the center because they’re healthier. Most people are kind of afraid to defy him. They know the next time they come in with an ache or a pain, he’s going to blame it on the way they take care of themselves, and he’s going to scold them.”
“He scolds them?”
“That he does. Not as badly as Julia did. Julia could make you feel like you were getting lashed with a whip. You’ve got bursitis acting up? That’s your fault. She gave you a careful set of exercises to do and foods to eat. If you didn’t follow her instructions exactly, there wasn’t much more help she could give you. Blood clots, liver disease, chronic breathing problems; you did it all to yourself because you didn’t listen to her. She was a fright.”
“I guess you were glad when she left.”
“I guess everyone was, except the doctor. He wasn’t able to get his seniors into shape so easily without her.” She chuckled. “Especially when you figure there are those among us who have been rebels since we took our first breath. We don’t take no shit from no one.”
She opened up the pastry box to taste one of the freshly fried tarts. “These are so good. I love forbidden foods. Did you ever ask the doctor about your daddy?”
“Yes. He said Julia didn’t misdiagnose my daddy’s tumor. It was benign.”
“He was sweet on her, but I don’t know that he’d lie for her.”
“But why would my daddy lie?”
Melanie laughed so loud, she barked. “Lying was second nature to your daddy. The only truth he ever told was to those witches who wanted his house. Any everybody thought it was the biggest lie yet. Karma is beautiful.”
“I wonder why he did that.”
“He made you his heir before he ever married his first wife, so that if they divorced, she could never claim the house. It was already in your name. He just never bothered telling them all the technical details, so when they filed, they were in for quite a surprise. The house could only be liquidated with your signature on the agreement, and of course, your father had no intention of asking for it. You were his security. His straw man.”
“If the tumor wasn’t malignant, then who had a motive to kill him?”
“Oh, lots of people. Your daddy drew women to him like a magnet.”
“Like Zeke.”
“Not like Zeke. Zeke is different. He loves people. He’s just very open minded. Billy, the old man with the cane, is his great-uncle, you know. He was his grandfather’s youngest brother.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Yep. Taught that boy everything he knows. Don’t think the mom and dad approved. They’re kind of yuppies. But Zeek moved in with his grandfather to be his care-taker when he was just eighteen and stayed in the neighborhood after his granddaddy passed away. There’s not a selfish bone in that boy’s body, but your daddy was a different kind of man. He used women.
Most of the community had grown fed up with him by the time he announced he had a malignant brain tumor. It softened up a lot of hearts that had grown pretty hard. We even took up a collection for him. Well, you see now, don’t you, how he could have been anybody’s target?”
“I can see why Dr. Andrews didn’t like him.”
“Oh, Dr. Andrews. Don’t worry about him. He doesn’t like anything that’s not wrapped up as a vitamin. The day you start trying to please him is the day you’ll become unhappy.”
“Thank you, Melanie. I’ll remember that.” I finished emptying my case, zipped it up and started for her door.
“Oh, one more thing!” Said Melanie. “Before you go. Would you be willing to ask Linda if she’s willing to give me a shampoo and clip? I’ll pay for it. It’s just that I hate this politician style cut they always give me at the center, and the last time I asked for a little color, it came out cotton candy blue. I know I’m getting old, honey, but I still want to look a bit rad.”
I gave her a gentle squeeze. “I know she’d love to work on your hair. I’ll tell Briana to schedule you in. Linda’s been giving haircuts to the men on their days off.”
“Yes, I know. Ralph gets his cuts there.”
“Oh my. I hope it doesn’t bother you.”
“Not at all. His haircuts seem to improve his performance.”
Briana still hadn’t returned from her doctor’s appointment by the time I had finished my rounds, but I didn’t find that too surprising. Briana had hardly left the house at all since we first moved in and she was probably dallying about, taking in the scenery. Any time of year, there was something thick and rich and green about Seattle that made you lose yourself in nature’s wonders and forget about time.
Linda returned from work early. She was filled with artistic frustration. She had been passed up for a chair that would have given her a sweet list of youthful customers who wanted the razor-end, spiked cu
ts, and the feathered, layered looks that Linda was so skillful at giving, and left with the handful of whining, unimaginative complainers. She was only mildly comforted when I told her Melanie wanted an appointment. “She still has a thick head of hair. If she wants me to do something rad with it, I can do that.”
We had sat down to eat dinner when Briana finally came in. She was not at all her bubbly self. Her footsteps made a small, trembling sound as she walked across the room, and she settled down to eat without hardly putting anything on her plate.
Linda finally broke the silence. “Didn’t you get a clean bill of health?”
Briana nodded.
“You’re not pregnant, are you?”
“No.” She broke into tears. “No! It’s the doctor! He’s such an awful man. I did just what he told me to do. I stepped on the scales. I gave blood. I underwent an examination, and I’ll tell you now, it was completely impersonal. And that was the awful part of it. He was our neighbor and he treated me like a laboratory specimen!”
She sobbed for a while before she got her tears enough under control to continue. “He told me the only reason I was fat was because I ate too much. I don’t have a thyroid problem. I don’t have unusually large bones. He said my big thighs were the trans-fats from all the deep-fat fried foods I ate and if I wasn’t careful, my arteries would become congested, which would cause all kinds of problems.
He kept calling me fat! And said I was morbidly obese. And he said…” Another fit of tears hiccupped out of her. “He said we were making the whole community unhealthy.”
“Is that so?” I began a slow burn that started at my throat, then worked its way up around my face until my cheeks were flushed and my ears were ringing. “He thinks our food is unhealthy? Did he give you a diet plan?”
She nodded. My eyes quickly scanned the list of things she could eat, while my mind thumbed through my list of recipes. I sniffed. As a chef, I had more tricks than a magician. If healthy was what the doctor wanted, healthy is what the community would get, but it would still be delicious.
My girls were still dispirited. It was time for a pep talk. “We got beat up. But it’s not going to happen again. We’ve been hospitable to the doctor. We’ve been good neighbors, but we’re not going to let him control us or make us feel bad for being who we are.
We know how to prepare wholesome foods. Everything we cook is from scratch. All we really have to do is cut the grease. We’re going to advertise. We’ll put up flyers at the senior center, on the billboards. We’ll put together a real business website. Dr. Andrews is not going to defeat us.”
“That sounds good for you, and for Briana. I know your business can take off, but I’m still stuck.”
“Quit your job,” I said casually. “Seriously. We don’t even use the den. Turn it into a salon. At the worst, we’ll still break even at the end of the month. We’ve all been bending over backwards for people who don’t appreciate us, when right here in the neighborhood, they like us just the way we are. Why are we trying to please those who don’t give a damn?”
We put together a battle plan. We would buy all our produce from the farmer’s market and nearby countryside, use healthy sweeteners, and… my eye wandered toward the back yard. We hadn’t used it all summer and barely knew what it looked like. We marched as a unit to check it out.
Waist high grass and spindly wildflowers had blown over and turned brown. A small shed in the corner of the lot revealed an old-fashioned push mower and a rototiller. Next to the shed, were the staked in remnants of a garden. “We’ll plow this up and plant it in the spring,” I said. “It’s too late in the year to plant anything now.”
“Bet your pop grew some herb out here,” said Briana, looking around the shed. It was rather bare and clean, well-insulated, with stout wiring. The light switch worked.
“The only herbs we’ll be growing are thyme and rosemary. There’s no need to compete with anyone.”
“Just saying.” Briana’s tears were quite dry now. She bounced around a little as though eager to begin our new project. “We should go out to the countryside once a week. I’ll bet Washington farm boys are gorgeous.”
Unfortunately, we didn’t see as many Washington farm boys as we did strong-muscled women with their hair tied loosely back, and aprons stained with vegetable matter. They bartered hard but gave loyalty points to returning customers, treating them to a little extra this or that, or knocking the price down a little.
Still, we enjoyed our excursions out to the country, and some of the apple blossoms that had faded from our cheeks during our spell of urban living, began returning with more vigor. We were as bursting with vitamins as the fresh-picked cherries on the table. We were bursting so much, we began to feel like the ice cream guy who cranks up his tunes while he cruises slowly down the residential blocks and through the city parks. Only, instead of children running to our window, we were greeted by old-timers in woolen caps and zip-up hoodies. Our business was growing and there was not one thing the doctor could do about it.
Melanie was a bit nervous about her appointment. She liked having a natural look. She was among the stubborn few who absolutely refused to take pills of any kind, although she was quite free with herbs. Dr. Andrews said she was lucky, but I sometimes wondered if she knew some things. There was something sharp and clever about her, like an attorney or a mystery writer.
Linda has a very soothing personality. She knows that her size is intimidating to people, even bony, sixty-year-old activists who battled with the dark forces on waves of psychedelics. She looked at Melanie’s long hair and tested the texture by rubbing it between her fingers. “What kind of look are you aiming for, Melanie?”
“You know. Something sexy. Something that doesn’t scream, ‘old woman’. Don’t cut it too much. I don’t want it short, but I’m tired of the nag head.”
“I’ll need to cut it here, and here,” Linda explained, indicating drastic changes in front. “It will give your hair more volume. Are you ready for this?”
Melanie whimpered but nodded her head. Ever so gently, as gently as washing a frightened kitten, Linda bent Melanie’s head over the sink and washed her hair. It was the beginning of the Melanie transformation.
Among a whole different breed of people, we probably would have been called witches. We dabble in herbs, chemicals, colors, extracts, tastes, scents and sensations. Fortunately, these were a people of science. Sometimes their science walked off the shelf into the twilight world of psychic phenomena and alien abduction, but at least they were inclined to be friendly toward all abnormal behavior.
While Linda gave her a hot oil treatment, we gave her a facial and softened her hands, scraped the dead skin away from the cuticles, and filed her nails. While she pulled bits of hair through the holes of a plastic cap, color treating them, coaxing out warm tones of ash that paled to blonde, and mixed subtly with gray, we soaked her feet, treated a fungus infection and clipped her overgrown toenails.
We moisturized and buffed her face with a tiny bit of rouged powder. We touched up the white hairs in her eyebrows and added just a tinge of color to her lips. Finally, there was the unveiling. Melanie’s hair feathered down from her cheeks to her shoulders, where it tapered to the back, leaving it long and swinging. She had bangs in front that flipped a little to one side. The mixed hair color made it an indeterminate shade between blonde and brown, which meant as her hair grew out, there would be no shocking contrast between the hair color and her roots.
Melanie took one look, then burst into tears. “You don’t like it?” Asked Linda with alarm.
“Oh, it’s not that,” she said. “It’s just that my hair is more beautiful than I am.”
Melanie may have only seen a sagging chin and sharp collar bones when she looked in the mirror, but to us, she was beautiful. More importantly, she was to her husband, Ralph, as well. As she became more accustomed to her look, she began buying clothing to suit it, softening her bony frame with bright, flowing colors.
&
nbsp; Overall, Melanie’s appointment was successful. We soon had a clientele who wanted their hair colored or treated, haircuts, cosmetics consultations, face wraps and nail care.
We were forging ahead. The first month we saw enough profit to cover more than just our minimal monthly expenses, we celebrated, quickly depleting it, but we didn’t mind. We were on our own and our heads were still above water.
We were slowly creeping into the solid senior community that followed faithfully Dr. Andrews’ dietary management, replenishing the elderly customers with fresh fruit smoothies, incredible yogurt substitutes for creams and whips, whole wheat breads, baked chicken and mouth-watering seafood. Maybe somebody at the senior center cafeteria complained, or maybe Dr. Andrews got a whiff of my apple strudel and couldn’t take it anymore.
Apple strudel is my signature dish. Washington apples have the most incredible baking qualities, I could bathe in them. I can fix an apple just about any way you can dream of eating it, but the dish I have polished to perfection is apple strudel. The crust is light as a feather, golden brown, sprinkled with a coating of raw sugar. The fruit inside bubbles in honey and cinnamon, drifting its heavenly scent into the wild blue mountains.
He came in for coffee while I set my strudel on the countertop to cool. He looked at the little, wrapped treats that were just begging for someone to try them. “I see you’ve extended your fat food services.”
“Just because something is tasty doesn’t mean it’s unhealthy,” I answered cheerfully. “No MSG’s. No preservatives. No processed sugar or corn syrup. Unbleached flour. Fresh, Washington apples. How much healthier can you get?”
“I’m sorry I was harsh on Briana.”
“You should tell her to her face.”
“Somebody had to say it. One of my patients had a minor stroke a week after the block party. Several had dangerously high blood pressure. You have to think…”
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