The 25¢ Miracle

by Theresa Nelson

  She was just about to give up on a magazine called Kitchens of America when she came to a page with the headline: NEED A LITTLE ROMANCE IN YOUR LIFE? LUIGI INVITES YOU TO ITALY FOR THE EVENING! Under the words was a big color picture of a beautiful woman and a handsome man at a table for two. It looked as if they were floating in the air somehow or other, in front of some Italian-type city. Their eyes sparkled in the candlelight. There was a checkered tablecloth on the table and a crystal vase filled with roses and long-stemmed wine glasses half-filled with ruby-red wine and gilt-edged dinner plates piled high with spaghetti.

  It was just an ad for Luigi’s Spaghetti Sauce. That was all. But Elvira knew right away that it was perfect. That man and that woman were looking at each other just the way she wanted Miss Ivy and Hank to look at each other. And spaghetti was just the thing, too—it was tasty, it wasn’t too hard to fix, it was cheap—it was perfect. Another inspiration.

  Elvira looked at the picture for a long time, trying to memorize every detail. Spaghetti and bread and salad and wine and… what about dessert? They had to have dessert, didn’t they? Elvira laid down Kitchens of America (carefully, so as not to lose the magic picture) and thumbed through three more magazines before she found the answer. It was another picture—a picture of a lemon meringue pie—so lovely and luscious looking that it almost brought tears to her eyes. CREATE THE ULTIMATE DESSERT, said the caption. IT’S SIMPLE WITH CARLSON CORNSTARCH.

  The ultimate dessert. Well. That was the one, all right.

  Elvira couldn’t afford to buy the magazines, but she had brought along her spiral notebook, so she copied down the recipe for the pie and made notes about the spaghetti ad: “Checkered tablecloth, drippy candle stuck in fat bottle, salid, Italyun bread, roses…”

  Oh, it was going to be a wonderful dinner—a beautiful dinner—a perfect dinner!

  She spent the afternoon at Kroger, finding out how much everything was going to cost. She made a list and added it up:

  Ground beef (1 pound) — $1.49

  Spagetty (1 box) — .59

  Luigi’s Sp. Sauce — 2.29

  Italyun bread — 1.19

  Lemons (4 for) — 1.00

  Cornstarch — .47

  Lettuce — .89

  Salid dressing — 1.05

  Candle — .99

  $9.96

  Nine dollars and ninety-six cents! And not even counting the tax! That was cutting it pretty close. Hank didn’t usually give her more than ten dollars at a time, and she’d probably have to get milk or bread or something like that, besides. They had eggs already, thank goodness, but still—nine dollars and ninety-six cents?

  Well, he’d have to give her a couple of dollars extra this time. He’d just have to.

  Elvira spent all of Wednesday cleaning the trailer. She dusted it and swept it and squirted so much EZ-Kleen everywhere that the whole place reeked of ammonia.

  “What in the heck’s that smell?” asked Hank, when he came home from job-hunting that afternoon.

  “Oh, I just felt like doin’ a little housecleanin’,” Elvira answered, wishing her face wouldn’t get so red. “It—it don’t really smell all that strong, does it?” she added anxiously. She didn’t want Miss Ivy thinking the trailer smelled peculiar.

  Fortunately, the smell had pretty much worn away by Thursday. Thursday was shopping day.

  “Uh, I was just wonderin’,” Elvira began, when Hank had finished his coffee that morning—there wouldn’t have been any use in her asking him anything until he had his coffee—“Just wonderin’,” she said again. “We’re gettin’ pretty low on groceries.… Maybe I could run over to Kroger and pick up a couple of things. Would that be all right?”

  “Hmmm?” Hank was staring off into space; he seemed to be about a million miles away.

  “Groceries, I said. We need some groceries. I could go over there right now.”

  “Oh, all right,” Hank said absently. “I guess we do need some things.” He pulled out his old, beat-up wallet—smashed flat by long years of being sat on without having much inside—got out two five-dollar bills, and handed them to Elvira.

  She took a deep breath. “Uh, I need a little more than that. Just a couple dollars more.”

  Hank looked at her. “You ain’t thinkin’ ’bout buyin’ another one of them rosebushes?” He didn’t really sound mad. Just tired.

  “Oh, no, sir—just groceries—I swear.”

  “Girls oughtn’t to swear,” said Hank, but to Elvira’s huge relief, he pulled out another two dollars.

  Elvira did all the shopping that morning and spent the rest of the day working on decorations. She stuck the candle she had bought into an empty ketchup bottle covered with tin foil, cut up an old sheet to use as a tablecloth, and made a half-dozen roses out of Kleenex, since her poor old rosebush was fresh out. Fortunately, Miss Reba Foxworth had taught the fourth graders in Angleton everything there was to know about Kleenex roses. Well, thought Elvira, when she was done, it don’t look all that much like the magazine picture. But I bet it won’t be half bad by candlelight.

  Of course there was still the problem of telling Hank about the dinner party. Elvira decided that she was going to have to do it tonight. Tomorrow was Friday; she really couldn’t put it off any longer. She rehearsed the whole conversation carefully in her mind. She went over it and over it, so she’d be sure to say all the right things.

  Hank got home just before dark. They had chili and crackers for supper. Elvira had worked a can of chili into her purchases, so Hank wouldn’t ask her how she had managed to spend twelve dollars on groceries and not get anything for supper. His mood seemed to have improved some; he talked a little while they ate.

  “I was over at Kinsel Automotive this afternoon. They said come back next week—I might be able to fill in for a guy who’s goin’ on vacation.”

  “That’s good,” said Elvira. Inside her head she said, All right, go ahead and tell him now. This is the time to tell him, while he’s feelin’ pretty good.

  She tried to make her voice sound normal. “Uh, there’s somethin’ I been meanin’ to tell you about—I mean, ask you about.”

  “Well, what is it?” Hank looked right at her. It made her pretty nervous, but she forced herself to keep talking.

  “It’s all right, ain’t it—if—if Miss Ivy comes over here to dinner tomorrow night?” Elvira tried to make it sound like nothing at all—just a casual kind of thing—as if they had guests for dinner every night.

  But Hank didn’t take it quite that lightly. “You mean, that—woman?” He might as well have said, “You mean, that—alligator?” for the tone he said it in.

  “Y-yessir, you know—my friend. Miss Ivy.”

  Hank pushed his chair back from the table. “Good Lord, Elvira, I don’t want some woman comin’ over here for dinner! What are we gonna give her—half a can of tuna fish? We’re doin’ well just to feed ourselfs, as it is.”

  Elvira was ready for that. It was just what she had counted on him saying. “I got that all worked out,” she said, her confidence growing as she recited her lines. “I thought we’d have spaghetti tomorrow night. It’s real cheap, you know, and I already got everything I need for it. There’s plenty for three people.”

  But Hank just shook his head. “For two people, you mean. You and your friend. I guess she can come over, if you really want her to that bad, but y’all don’t need me here. I don’t want to be sittin’ around tryin’ to think of somethin’ to say to some—woman.”

  “But—” Elvira was thrown for a loop. Her voice lost its confidence. “But, you got to be here.…”

  “Why? She’s your friend, not mine. She don’t care nothin’ about seein’ me.”

  “But I already told Miss Ivy you’d be here, and she wants to meet you—”

  “No, she don’t. She’s just sayin’ that to be nice. Women are always sayin’ things they don’t mean. I’m tellin’ you, your friend don’t want to be botherin’ with me any more than I want to be both
erin’ with her.”

  Elvira was silent for a moment. She had to think, that was all. There had to be some way to get Hank to come to the dinner.… Funny, she had thought that the hard part would be getting him to agree to let Miss Ivy come, not in getting him to show up himself.

  “But it’s—it’s s’posed to be sorta like a party,” she faltered. “You know—a real party—for you and me and Miss Ivy. I got it all planned out.”

  “What do you mean, a party? What is it, her birthday or somethin’?”

  Elvira turned red. She looked down at her crackers. “No, sir, it ain’t nobody’s birthday.”

  “Well, then, why…” Hank began, and then he broke off suddenly. He stared at Elvira for a moment. Then he stood up and began pacing around the little kitchen like an old bear in a cage, mumbling to himself. Elvira caught the words “memory of a fence post.…” After a couple of minutes of this, he stopped and leaned on the sink; he turned on the water for no apparent reason and then turned it off once more. When he spoke again, his voice was different—quieter—

  “I forgot your birthday, didn’t I? You turned eleven the end of July.” He didn’t look at her. He just kept staring into the sink.

  “It don’t matter,” said Elvira. Her stomach was getting all knotted up. “It’s just little kids who care about that kinda thing. I’m—I’m way too old for that now.”

  “You wouldn’t catch Darla forgettin’ a thing like that,” Hank muttered.

  Elvira wished he hadn’t thought of the birthday. Now he’d be in a bad mood and never agree to come to dinner.

  He didn’t say he was sorry. Hank was never any good at saying he was sorry. Instead, he said, “For Gordon’s seed, Elvira, why didn’t you tell me? You should have told me.”

  Now Elvira felt guilty. It was her fault, somehow. If everything was ruined it would be all her own fault. She just sat there. She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  Hank turned around from the sink, but he still didn’t look directly at Elvira. He seemed to be concentrating on scratching a little glob of dried chili off the stove with his fingernail.

  “What time’s your—your friend s’posed to get here, anyway?”

  Elvira looked up, hardly daring to hope. “Eight o’clock.”

  “All right, then, eight o’clock,” said Hank. He heaved a sigh. “I don’t guess there’s nothin’ else I got to be doin’ tomorrow night at eight o’clock.”

  Elvira was so relieved she could have hugged him, but Hank wasn’t much on hugging. That sort of thing embarrassed him. So she just folded her arms tightly across her chest and tried to hold in her gladness.

  Everything was going to work out all right, after all. And eight o’clock tomorrow night was barely twenty-four hours away.

  12

  Elvira woke up the next morning in a cold sweat. She had dreamed she was in Oz—only it was really the Calder Public Library—and she couldn’t get home to fix dinner, because the Wicked Witch had changed her ruby slippers into overdue notices.

  It was a dream, she told herself. Only a dumb dream. Everything’s gonna be just fine. Sure it is.

  There was still so much to do. She had to settle down and do it, one step at a time. Thank the Lord she had made herself another list last night. Mrs. D. W. LeBlanc would have been proud. Elvira climbed out of bed, got out her spiral notebook, and opened it.

  THINGS I MUST DO ON FRIDAY.

  1. Bake pie.

  She stopped right there and closed her eyes. The thought of the pie was soothing to her soul. She could see it quite clearly, just the way it had looked in the picture, with those little curlicues of white tipped with golden brown floating on top of that sunny yellow filling.… Oh, yes, the pie—the “ultimate dessert”—baking the pie would be the perfect way to start a perfect day.

  She carried her notebook to the kitchen, turned to the page where she had copied down the recipe, and started piling all the ingredients on the table. Cornstarch, sugar, salt—check. Lemon juice, lemon rind, water—check. Three eggs, separated—

  Separated? Elvira wondered why they had to be separated. Well, if that’s what the recipe said… She got three eggs out of the refrigerator and carefully cracked them into three separate cereal bowls. There. Three eggs, separated—check. This was going to be a breeze.

  She was about to plunge on into the cooking instructions when Hank came into the kitchen.

  “What’s all this?” he asked, looking in bewilderment at all the stuff set out on the kitchen table.

  “I’m bakin’ a pie,” Elvira said proudly.

  “A pie? Where’d you learn how to bake a pie?” Hank sounded impressed.

  “Oh, there ain’t nothin’ to it. You just follow the recipe, that’s all. I copied it out of a magazine.”

  “Well, if that don’t beat all… That’s real smart of you, Elvira. You know, I ain’t had a piece of homemade pie since… well, in a long time,” he finished.

  “I’ll clean you up a spot on the table, so you can have your coffee.”

  “No, don’t bother with that—I can have coffee downtown somewhere. I got to be gettin’ downtown, anyway. You, uh, you need any help with anything before I go?”

  Elvira lifted her chin confidently. “No, sir. I got it all under control.”

  Hank looked relieved. “Well, all right. I guess I’ll see you later on, then.… You said eight o’clock, right?”

  “Y-yessir, but”—Elvira groped for words that wouldn’t make him mad—“but, well, maybe you could get here a little earlier, so you’d have some time to—well, you know—kinda get ready.…”

  To her huge relief, Hank grinned. “You want me to get slicked up for your friend, huh? You don’t hafta worry. I won’t shame you.” He started out the door. “See you later.”

  “’Bye,” Elvira called after him, and then she turned back to her pie with renewed enthusiasm. Hank had seemed so pleased that she was baking a pie.… Well, then, she’d bake a pie he’d never forget.

  That was at 9:36 A.M.

  By 10:42, she was feeling a shade less enthusiastic.

  Everything was just hunky-dory to begin with. She had to mix up the cornstarch and some sugar and salt and water and cook it until it turned into a kind of jelly—“thick enough to mound slightly when dropped from spoon.” That part was just fine. No problem. But then came the Great Egg Mystery. “Beat three egg yolks with one-half cup sugar,” the recipe said. Not the whites—just the yolks. Now, how am I s’posed to beat the yolks without beatin’ the whites? Elvira wondered, screwing up her forehead and scanning the rest of the recipe for clues. The only other mention of eggs was in the meringue part: “Beat egg whites until foamy.” Hmmm—egg whites—now, that was interesting. The recipe never mentioned yolks and whites in the same breath. Aha! “Three eggs, separated” must have meant yolk from white—not egg from egg. But solving that riddle was no trick at all compared to the actual job of getting the dad-blamed yolks away from those slimy whites. It took Elvira forty-five minutes, four bowls, three spoons, nine eggs, and untold grief, but she finally did it.

  11:37. Elvira was starting to sweat. The top of the filling was full of lumps, and the bottom was burnt. It smelled something like the Goodyear plant on a bad day. Well, heck, she told herself. I’ll just have to start over again. There ain’t nothin’ else for it.…

  12:58. The back of Elvira’s neck was beginning to ache, but she didn’t have time to think about that. She had to get this pie baked. She had finally finished with the filling and was ready to move on to the meringue, so she got out her mother’s old electric mixer and plugged it in. Well. That old mixer did a lot of things. It sputtered, it spurted, it showered sparks. Just about the only thing it didn’t do was work. All right, then, declared Elvira, her mouth set in a line of grim determination. I’ll beat the dang whites with my own dang arm. That’s what I’ll do.

  So she did. She beat them and beat them and beat them.…

  1:44. Elvira was reasonably certain that
her arm was going to fall off, but it didn’t, and, sure enough, those egg whites actually started to bear a faint resemblance to the meringue in the picture.…

  2:29. Just the crust to go. Elvira was tired, but cheerful. This ought to be the easiest part of all, she told herself. Why, crust ain’t nothin’ but dough, and dough ain’t nothin’ but flour and Crisco and a little salt and water, right?

  Wrong. That dough was the stickiest, glueyist, orneriest stuff that ever was. It stuck to everything in sight—Elvira’s hands, the bowl, the flour-sprinkled table.…

  3:08. Elvira had just about had it with all desserts, ultimate or otherwise. She got out her mother’s old rolling pin, pressed it to her sweaty forehead, and prayed that it would remember its stuff, but it didn’t do any good. If that rolling pin had ever known anything about pie crust, it had forgotten. It didn’t have a clue. It just sat there and stuck to the dough—or the dough stuck to it—it didn’t matter; it was a mess no matter how you looked at it. Elvira scraped the gook off the rolling pin and started over again, but it didn’t get any better. It got worse, if anything. So she scraped it off a second time and tried again… and again… and again…

  4:33. Elvira scraped it off one last time and flung the whole mess disgustedly back into the bowl. She was a wreck. A total wreck. She felt betrayed. Just when she needed Him the most, the Holy Ghost had left town. Elvira didn’t feel one bit inspired; she didn’t feel one bit sure of herself. All she felt was frustrated and mad. Mad, mostly. Too mad to give up. Too mad to let herself be beaten by a lemon pie. Somehow, everything seemed to have come down to that pie. She felt as if her whole plan depended on that treacherous lump of gluey gunk.

  Her plan—but what good was that, anyway? She must have been out of her mind to believe in anything so ridiculous. As nutty as Noreen Able.

  She squared her shoulders and looked fiercely at the enemy in the big plastic bowl. Well, she wasn’t going down without a fight. She had to try, that was all. Even if her plan didn’t have a snowball’s chance in Corpus Christi, it was better to try than to just give up and sit around waiting for Aunt Darla to come get her. She might be all out of inspiration, but she could still grit her teeth and try.