Goldenrod

by Ann McMan

  Maddie chuckled. “Close. Twelve milligrams of diphenhydramine.”

  “Hmmm. I wonder if it would work on Michael?”

  “In a larger dose, it probably would. Do you want to take some home?”

  “Do I know you?” David was scratching along the cat’s backbone. Rosebud’s purring reverberated off the walls of the small room. “Dispensing drugs without a license?”

  “I have a license.” Maddie measured Rosebud’s abdomen and set the correct exposure time. “That’s what those letters M.D. after my name stand for—remember?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I remember. You were a colossal drag for about eight years acquiring them. Now let’s get this party started. I have a date with a cranky, partially epilated stud muffin.”

  “Whatever. Let’s get her on her side and stretched out as far as possible. I want a good lateral view of her abdomen. When she seems good and relaxed, just move your hands away from that area and hold her head still. I’ll keep her back legs stretched out. It will only take a second to get the image.”

  “You’ll hold her feet? Don’t you have to leave the room to take the photo?”

  “No. I have a foot pedal. Okay. On the count of three. One. Two. Move your hands and hold. Three.” Maddie pushed the pedal and the machine whirred. “All done. Perfect.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yep.” Maddie removed the digital plate and placed it into a scanner. The radiograph of the cat’s interior popped up on a track-mounted computer screen about five seconds later. Maddie tapped a small white circle that glowed inside the cat’s abdomen. “Bingo. Thar she blows.”

  David peered at the screen. “That’s the ring? Boy. They aren’t kidding when they say gold goes with anything.”

  “It looks fine. See how it’s moved into her intestine? With luck, she’ll evacuate this with her next bowel movement.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Hard to say. It looks like there’s some stool in there right now. With luck, I’ll have it before tomorrow.”

  “Is that when you’re popping the question? Duh.” David smacked his forehead. “No wonder you asked Michael and Nadine to cook for you. I should’ve put two and two together.”

  “I really am sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, David. It all came up kind of quickly.”

  “No worries, Cinderella.” He smiled at her. “You know how happy this makes me, right?”

  Maddie nodded. “Be my maid of honor?”

  “Words I never thought I’d hear you say.” He pointed at the x-ray. “But at least I won’t have to carry that.”

  “True. Though I do plan to clean and disinfect it first.”

  “Yeah. Whatever. Although, I have been looking for the right occasion to wear that tulle veil I got last month at LulaKate.” He grinned at her. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  “Thanks, pal. There’s no one else I’d rather have at my side. Although . . .” Maddie hesitated.

  David smelled a rat. “What is it?”

  “I will ask one small thing of you.”

  “And that is?

  “Veil notwithstanding, you cannot wear this outfit.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Celine was surprised when James Lawrence called and asked if she could keep Henry a bit longer. He said he had a special errand to run and would be home later than planned. She told him to take his time. She enjoyed spending time with her two star pupils—even though she was scrupulous about making certain Dorothy was dropped off in time to meet her father for the ride home.

  Dorothy was very determined to avoid being late.

  Celine fetched both Henry and Dorothy in Troutdale on her way back home from Byron’s. Since Byron had the day off, he had persuaded her to stay on for breakfast, which naturally turned into lunch.

  Naturally.

  It hadn’t really taken much persuasion on his part.

  She should have been horrified by her behavior, but she wasn’t. If asked to explain it, she wouldn’t say that she’d experienced a revolution in her feelings. It was more like a quiet insurrection—as if all her battle-ready arguments laid down their arms and fled to the safe cover of the hills, where they planned to hide out until the conflict ended and their services were no longer required.

  The feeling was new to her, and new things were generally suspect. She preferred to live her life in the safe haven of “The Known.” Life was easier and less complicated when her emotions were kept under house arrest. It wasn’t the strange sensation that came along with giving in to a passion she could no longer manage or compartmentalize that bothered her—it was the shocking admission that she’d made a conscious choice to stop trying.

  Byron’s tagine was the culprit. The catalyst. The cause. It was all of those, and a heavenly host of other c words—like crazy, compulsive and confounding. That intoxicating, unlikely stew of his had pushed her headfirst off the plank of reason into an abyss of pure sensation that was as mysterious as it was fathomless. And its success had everything to do with combinations—another damn c word. Exotic tastes and flavors that had no known reason to work together combined to create an explosion of “Just Right.” Eggplant. Chickpeas. Dates. Almonds. Cilantro.

  Not things that normally would beckon, “blend us all together and see what happens.”

  Well, she saw all right. And for her, the metaphors were too numerous to ignore.

  As abstract relationship ingredients, she and Byron made no sense. There was absolutely no good reason why they should work together. And yet?

  They did work. Easily. Seamlessly. Abundantly. At one point in the evening, when she tried to give voice to her concerns, Byron laughed at her.

  “Do you wanna know why this works—really works—despite all the energy you keep putting into finding reasons why it shouldn’t?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “It’s because inside this rough-and-tumble exterior, I have a secret.” He leaned toward her. “I’m really a lesbian.”

  Celine tapped a finger against the stem of her wine glass. “I wonder how you’d look wearing this eggplant?”

  “I’m an autumn.” He batted his eyes at her. “So probably pretty good.”

  She tried not to laugh, but it was a losing battle.

  He reached across the table and took hold of her hand. “Surrender, Dorothy. Life in the Emerald City is rumored to be great. Why not give it a whirl?”

  He was right. And she’d run out of arguments. Resistance was futile. And it was time for her to emerge from the shadows and embrace what was left of the light. Wasn’t it Somerset Maugham who wrote that surrendering to happiness was a defeat better than many victories? If so, it was past time for her own human bondage to end.

  With that admission, there was only one course of action available to her.

  She tugged at his hand.

  “Be my date for the Fourth of July?”

  All the contours of her life changed in an instant, when he smiled and said yes. They were going to make a public appearance. As a couple. In front of her daughter. In front of the entire town.

  It was still too much to take in.

  Celine could hear Henry’s sweet voice drifting in through an open window. He was chattering away nonstop while Buddy stained the trim on her front porch railings. As was his habit with any project, Buddy was following a complex pattern that she was certain related to an obscure mathematical formula. Henry was watching him work and asking endless questions about topics that ranged from what Buddy thought the weather would be like next weekend for the fireworks, to if Buddy thought that dog barks worked the same way as human language. Buddy was rarely prolix with his responses to any questions, but Celine marveled at how Henry could manage to engage the young man in conversation so effortlessly—better, even, than Buddy’s father, Bert.

  Celine had earlier decreed that today should be a day without lessons. In her world, music was a discipline. And discipline was the precursor to art. Life was a discipline, too—and before today, she’
d always believed that the hard work, study and practice that were required to transform music into art were the same tools required to craft a successful life. But today she had gained new information that challenged her long-held thesis.

  Life was an art—not a discipline. And sometimes it was better to play, than to practice playing.

  She got no disagreement about that from Henry, who did little to conceal his excitement at the reprieve. But Dorothy appeared disappointed. So, Celine suggested a compromise.

  “Instead of practicing, how about we listen to some music about practicing?”

  “Can it be piano music?” Dorothy asked.

  “Absolutely. In fact, I know just the thing.”

  She selected her prized 1981 recording of Glenn Gould playing Bach’s Goldberg Variations. One aria with thirty variations—all sharing the same bass line. It was a stunning tour de force—an enduring textbook about what was possible to achieve at the keyboard in terms of performance, precision, technical finesse and compositional genius. She had no doubt that Dorothy would find the music as mesmerizing and as pleasing as she did.

  She had another thought, too.

  Byron had given her a jar of homemade jam—made from Clingstone peaches trucked up from Georgia. He said they were sweet and delicious and smelled like the promise of summer.

  “Why don’t we make some tea and share this wonderful jam with the boys?”

  “What are we gonna eat it on?” Dorothy looked around Celine’s kitchen, which was still far from fully stocked.

  “Good point. What do we have?” She walked to her pantry and opened its narrow door. The shelves were mostly empty. “Well, it looks like our choices are red rice and quinoa crackers or Health Warrior Chia Bars.”

  Dorothy looked distressed. “What are chia bars?”

  Celine closed the pantry door. “Something we’d never get Henry to eat.”

  “We could make biscuits.” Dorothy suggested.

  Biscuits? Celine had never baked biscuits in her life.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know the first thing about how to do that,” she apologized.

  “I could make them.”

  “You know how to bake?”

  “Some things.” Dorothy shrugged. “I know how to make biscuits pretty good.”

  “You do?” Celine smiled at the girl. “Would you like to teach me?”

  “Okay.”

  “What ingredients do we need?”

  “Just a couple things. Butter. Self-rising flour. Buttermilk.”

  “I don’t have buttermilk,” Celine noted. “But I have whole milk and we could sour it with some white vinegar.”

  Dorothy looked confused. “Is that the same thing?”

  “It will be in just a few minutes. See? That’s the beauty of science.”

  “I guess so. I’m not very good at science.”

  “Well, I’m not very good at cooking—so maybe we’ve arrived at a good division of labor. How much buttermilk do you need?”

  “I guess about two cups. Maybe a little more.”

  Celine assembled the ingredients. “Do you need measuring cups or a scale?”

  “No, ma’am. I just kind of eyeball it. They usually turn out okay.”

  “Is it all right if the butter is cold?”

  Dorothy nodded. “It’s supposed to be.”

  Celine got Dorothy a large mixing bowl and a couple of rubber spatulas. “What else do you need?”

  “Maybe a fork? A knife to cut the butter. And a rolling pin.”

  “A rolling pin?”

  “You don’t have one?”

  Celine shook her head.

  “We can use a liquor bottle.”

  Celine raised an eyebrow.

  “I saw it on TV on one of those cooking shows,” Dorothy explained.

  “Does it need to be a certain kind of liquor, or will any type do?”

  Dorothy seemed unsure about how to answer.

  “I’m joking.” Celine went to her freezer and pulled out a bottle of Grey Goose. “Is it okay if it’s cold?”

  Dorothy nodded. “We need to make the oven hot.”

  “Okay, chef.” Celine walked over to her bright red Viking range. “What temperature?”

  “Hot.”

  “Could you be a little more specific?”

  Dorothy shook her head. “Our oven at home doesn’t tell the temperature anymore. I just turn it way up and watch them while they’re baking.”

  “A quandary.” Celine looked at the oven dial. “How about we compromise? Let’s use 435. It’s a lot hotter than 350, but not as hot as 500.”

  “That should be okay.” Dorothy was scooping flour out of the bag. “I like this music. Each part is the same, but different.”

  “That’s correct. It’s why they’re called variations.”

  “Who was Goldberg?” Dorothy was cutting the stick of butter into smaller chunks and adding it to the bowl of flour.

  Celine set about souring the milk.

  “There is some discussion about that. Goldberg was believed to have been a student of Bach’s—a very talented harpsichordist. Some believe the Variations were composed for him.”

  “But this is a piano.”

  “Yes. The composition has been transcribed for many instruments, including piano. This recording is very famous—performed by Glenn Gould, one of the greatest pianists of all time.”

  Dorothy was now cutting the butter into the flour with a fork. “How many variations are there?”

  “Thirty.”

  “Thirty?” Dorothy seemed shocked. “Have you ever played them?”

  Celine nodded. “A long time ago. When I was in school studying music—before I decided to become a doctor.”

  “You studied music?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Where?”

  “At Juilliard in New York—where my father was a teacher.” She sniffed at the milk to check its progress. “Both of my parents were musicians.”

  “What was your name then?”

  Celine was confused by her question. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Wasn’t your name different then? Before you got married?”

  “Oh. No.” Celine smiled at her. “I kept my full name—even when I got married.”

  “What’s your middle name?”

  Celine smiled at Dorothy’s sudden inquisition. It was unlike her to be so forward.

  “It’s Weisz. My mother’s family name. What’s your middle name, Dorothy?”

  “It’s Gale.”

  Dorothy Gale? “Like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz?” she asked.

  Dorothy nodded. “My mama loved that story.”

  “I can see why.” She thought about Byron’s remark to her just that morning. Life in the Emerald City is rumored to be great. “It has a lot to teach us about hope and the things that matter.”

  “Was your daddy mad at you for changing your mind about school?”

  Celine thought about how to answer her question. “Mad” didn’t come close to describing all the things her father had been when she told him her decision. His sadness and disappointment had been harder to bear than his anger.

  And her mother’s reaction had been even worse. Hers had persisted for decades and tainted the rest of their relationship. Celine wore the stigma of her mother’s disapproval like a shroud, and it colored everything she did—even when she became a mother herself.

  “Yes,” she told Dorothy. “He was very upset with me.”

  “Did he hit you?”

  Celine was stunned by her question—but she tried fiercely not to show it.

  “No,” she said in a voice as casual as she could muster. “He didn’t.” She tried to make her next statement as innocuous as possible. “I guess I was fortunate.”

  “Yeah. My father wouldn’t have been that nice.”

  “Does he hit you?”

  Dorothy shrugged. Celine listened to the sound of her fork clacking against the side of the stoneware bowl. “
I need the buttermilk, now.”

  Celine picked up the measuring cup and carried it over to the table where Dorothy was working.

  “It’s been sitting long enough to be good and spoiled.” The irony of her own words was enough to make her want to scream.

  In the next room, Glenn Gould was moaning and humming his way through another Variation. They were coming fast and furious now. Celine wondered how many variations of the same question she would need to try before finding the right one to reach Dorothy.

  The door to the garden flew open and Henry came rushing inside. Buddy followed him more slowly.

  “We finished the porch, Gramma C.” He noticed what Dorothy was doing. “Are you cooking something?”

  “Dorothy is making biscuits for us. I have homemade jam from Sheriff Martin.”

  “I love biscuits!” Henry looked at Buddy. “Don’t you love biscuits, Buddy?”

  “Five is imperfect,” Buddy said. “Half of ten is not right. Ten is the number for God.”

  “What does that mean?” Henry looked at Dorothy. “Are you making five biscuits?”

  Dorothy shook her head. “I think he means the music.”

  “Are you talking about the music, Buddy?” Celine asked. “Could you hear it outside?”

  Henry nodded. “He heard you talking about it. He counted all the notes.”

  “Ninety-five bars,” Buddy said. “Nine plus five equals fourteen. Four plus one equals five. Five is half of ten. BACH is inside the center number. B plus A plus C plus H means two plus one plus three plus eight. Fourteen. One plus four equals five. Bach is five. Bach is the center number. The center number is not perfect. Bach is half of ten. Half of perfect. Ten is God. God makes the center right.”

  No one said anything. Mostly because there wasn’t any response to make.

  Dorothy picked up the Grey Goose bottle and began rolling out the biscuit dough.

  Variation eighteen began. Celine was curious to see if Buddy would notice the canon. She didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  “Row the boat. Row the boat,” he said. “All good things are three.”

  “Are we going to row a boat?” Henry asked.

  “No, sweetheart.” Celine ran a hand over Henry’s mop of hair. “Buddy means that some parts of the music have repeats in them—like the song ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat.’ Isn’t that right, Buddy?”