Chương 2
“You know it’s October,” I said. “Those peaches aren’t going to become July because you glare at them.”
“I’m not glaring.”
“You frightened that one.”
She put it back and chose canned peaches for the cobbler.
At the register, the total came to $587.43.
The cashier, a young man with a nose ring and a name tag that said DEVON, asked if we were catering a wedding.
“Birthday,” Gloria said.
“Big family?”
She looked at the cart. “Apparently.”
I reached for my wallet, but she had already taken the folded bills from an envelope in her purse. The money was soft from being counted and recounted. On top was a ten with a streak of blue ink across Andrew Jackson’s face. I had seen that bill in the coffee can.
“Gloria.”
“Not now.”
Devon looked from her to me and suddenly became very interested in the receipt paper.
We loaded the car in the wet parking lot. The trunk would not close until I moved two bags of flour to the back seat. Gloria tucked the receipt into her purse without looking at it.
I leaned against the car and pressed a hand to my lower back. Twenty years driving a city bus had left me with a spine that announced weather changes before the television did.
“You’re not doing this alone,” I said.
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know, Hank.”
“You say that, then you wait until I’m asleep and lift something that weighs more than you.”
She closed the passenger door, then opened it again because her scarf was caught.
“Would you rather argue here or at home?” she asked.
“At home. I’m more comfortable there.”
That made her laugh, which was the first useful thing either of us had done since Tiffany arrived.
By eleven that night, our kitchen no longer looked like a place where two people lived. Every counter held bowls, pans, cutting boards, cooling racks, or labeled containers. A stockpot steamed on the back burner. Two mixers ran at different speeds. Gloria had borrowed a countertop convection oven from the restaurant and another from our neighbor, Mrs. Alvarez, who delivered it with a plate of cinnamon cookies and stayed to chop onions.
“I don’t understand people who say food without garlic is food,” Mrs. Alvarez said.
“It’s still food,” Gloria told her.
“It’s sadness on a plate.”
At midnight, Mrs. Alvarez went home after making me promise to call if Gloria tried to carry the roasting pan by herself.
I sat on a stool beside the island and peeled potatoes. My back tolerated sitting if I kept one foot on the lower rung. Every few minutes Gloria passed behind me, and the heat from the kitchen moved with her.
She did not complain. That worried me more than complaining would have.
At 1:03 a.m., Tiffany sent a text.
Two more guests are vegan. One can’t have mushrooms. Nothing fancy. Thanks!
Gloria read it, placed the phone facedown, and continued rolling dough.
I dried my hands and picked it up.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Answering.”
“No.”
“I’m going to tell her the kitchen closed.”
“Hank.”
“She added guests at one in the morning.”
“I can see the time.”
“You can also see she doesn’t care.”
Gloria pressed both palms into the dough. “Kayla didn’t write the list.”
“Kayla can pick up a phone.”
“She’s a kid.”
“She’s eighteen tomorrow.”
“Today,” Gloria said.
The oven timer sounded.
She turned away before I could answer.
At two-thirty, the first trays of macarons were resting. At three, I fell asleep in the chair near the island with a dish towel on my shoulder. I woke because something metal struck the floor and Gloria drew in a breath through her teeth.
The microwave clock read 4:07.
A baking tray lay crooked beside the stove. Gloria stood at the counter with two fingers curled against her chest. The skin was already red.
I reached her before she could turn on the faucet.
“It’s not bad,” she said.
“It’s a burn.”
“The croissants—”
“The croissants are not members of this family.”
I pulled a clean towel from the drawer, soaked it in cool water, and wrapped it around her fingers. She tried to reach past me for the tray.
“Sit.”
“Hank, they’ll collapse.”
“Let them.”
She stared at me as though I had suggested burning down the house.
I guided her to the table. The chair legs scraped over the tile. Her face looked smaller without her glasses, which had slid down her nose.
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You looked peaceful.”
“I looked unconscious.”
“You were snoring.”
“That’s how you know I was helping.”
Her laugh came out thin. She lowered her forehead to my shoulder.
For a few seconds, neither of us moved. The mixers were off. Rain ticked against the kitchen window. Somewhere in the house, a pipe knocked twice.
Then Gloria straightened.
“I have to finish.”
“No.”
“I have twelve dishes left.”
“You have eight fingers left.”
“Ten.”
“Two are under protest.”
She looked toward the counters, calculating what could be abandoned. I watched her cross items off the menu in her head and put them back because someone might be disappointed.
That was her worst habit. People called it kindness because kindness sounded better than fear. Gloria had grown up in a house where affection disappeared when dinner was late, where her father’s silence lasted longer than his temper, and where being useful was the safest way to belong. She never said that directly. She did not need to. I had seen her apologize to a chair after bumping into it.
I changed the towel around her hand, made coffee, and took over the croissants. They did collapse.
Gloria pretended not to notice.
May you like
By eight in the morning, pale sunlight had begun to show through the kitchen windows. I carried finished trays to folding tables in the dining room while Gloria assembled salads and checked sauces.
She had made thirty-eight dishes from the list.
