Authors: Jackie Lee Miles
I’m sitting with Mr. and Mrs. Sterling, reading them
The Great Gatsby
. Mavis says, “Why doesn’t he kiss her?” She says it almost every other paragraph and I’m thinking maybe I’ll read into the story that Gatsby does kiss Daisy and shut her up, but then I decide that changing the story may be worse than plagiarism, and I’ve been in enough trouble lately, thank you. Howard—that’s Mr. Sterling—says, “What’d ya say?” and Mavis shouts back her answer. “He didn’t kiss her!”
“Who cares?” Howard says and slaps the air. “Got any Mickey Spillane?”
He likes murder stories. I tell him I’ll check the library for next time. I’ve already read him two, but it is very hard to shout out the details of a crime. Actually it’s hard to shout out any book. I’m thinking of checking at the desk and explaining that Mr. Sterling’s hearing, I mean lack of hearing, is making it impossible to read. I’m probably getting cancer of my vocal chords from all the irritation. Maybe some arts and crafts would be better, anything that doesn’t involve hearing.
Guess what? Remember when my grandmother said there is good in everything? Well, she is making a believer out of me. Bridget is no longer attending Westwood Academy! She’s back at Parker Junior High. No charges were brought against Madeline and the ones against Bridget were reduced to a misdemeanor and she has to make restitution and she got forty hours of community service, too. It didn’t matter when we told them Madeline actually did it. Since no one can bear witness that they saw her put the items into Bridget’s bag, Madeline’s off the hook. For Bridget’s community service, they’ve assigned her to Table Grace Kitchen where people bring in food products that aren’t perishable and then they are distributed to families in need. Bridget gets to sort through all of the canned goods and put them into different piles to be passed out, so everyone doesn’t get ten cans of green beans and nothing else. They take volunteers too—not just who Juvenile Court sends them—so I volunteered and you would not believe how many hungry people there are around here. We are always low on food. They don’t take any perishables except bread. And they really like getting Pampers and other baby needs, and also grooming aids. I’m sorting through deodorant and toothpaste and shampoo to make up different packages to be included with the food boxes. One woman brought in L’Oreal shampoo and a matching bottle of conditioner and I kept them together in the package and imagined the lady that gets it thinking, wow, God really likes me. I picture her face lit up like a Christmas tree, and then I get kind of sad thinking what a silly thing to get excited about, if that’s all that poor lady has to get excited about and I put in a bottle of hand lotion that looks like it came from a gift shop. Really make her day. When you do something like work at a share kitchen you just know it’s an important thing. Your heart steps back and takes a good look at itself and says, ah, this feels really good. That’s what mine’s doing now.
Something sad happened on our street. Mrs. Reed died. She’s the lady who’s eighty something and lives next to Mrs. Anderson, the fat lady. What’s really spooky is Mrs. Reed wasn’t even sick that we know of. She gets up one morning, pats her cat on the head, has her tea and toast and
boom
, she’s on the floor dead. We’re gathered at her house now. My mother’s here. She’s home from Peachford and looking really good. Her skin is prettier than ever and there’s a glow on her cheeks that’s bound to get my father’s attention. She goes to an AA meeting every evening at six o’clock and then we have dinner when she gets back, so Rosa stays late. Mrs. Reed’s grandson is here. He’s been serving in Iraq in the Gulf War and happened to be back on leave when she died, so that was nice. He is so good-looking I almost grab my chest just looking at him. His name is Rodney Hall. His mother is Mrs. Reed’s youngest daughter, Pamela. Mrs. Reed has two other daughters, but they haven’t arrived yet. I think Rodney’s twenty years old, but I can’t be sure. He fought in the burning fields of Kuwait City when the Iraqi soldiers set the oil wells on fire, so he’s probably a hero and has saved many lives. I’m about swooning and Anthony Morelli can just forget it. Now I understand why divorce is so prevalent. Had I been able to actually marry Anthony I would have made a big—big—mistake. Now I’m in love for real. Anthony was the puppy kind, but it was hard to know until the real kind showed up right out of the blue. And all because Mrs. Reed keeled over. That part’s really sad, but true love will have its way, no getting around that.
Easter dinner. We are having ham and scalloped potatoes and creamed corn and fried okra and cornbread and rolls and iced tea and every kind of pie there is. Beth is here and Amy and Jeffrey and Howard and Vivian. There is laughter in the house again and everyone is smiling and eating and seeming to have a perfectly good time, except for me. I am hopelessly in love and feeling miserable, like I can’t get enough air into my lungs.
“What is it, Andi?” my mother says, and puts her hand to my forehead. “Do you have a fever?”
Yes, I have a major fever of the worst sort.
“No, I’m just not hungry,” I say. It’s true. I’m not. If there is one thing love is good for I have noticed is that it is a miracle diet. I have lost three pounds. It seems I’ve lost it from the head down. I finally have cheek bones.
“Oh look,” Beth says. “Andi’s losing her baby fat.” She holds my chin in her hand and turns my face from side to side. I hate her. She already pointed that out two years ago.
“Why Andi, you’re turning into an absolute beauty.”
I love her. She might be the sister I’ve been hoping for. Then I realize how strange she is. She didn’t even invite Parker to join us for dinner. So, why is she even getting married if she’s going to ignore him?
I don’t dwell on Beth. I think of Rodney which makes me sad. There’s something I’ve learned about the other kind of love—the romantic kind. Sad just rolls over you every minute you are not in the same room with the one you love, which is every waking hour I exist. I haven’t seen Rodney since the funeral which was eight days ago. But I will see him today. My mother has invited him and his mother to come for dessert. They are having their Easter dinner at some restaurant, I can’t remember which one, and will join us later. I should be very excited, but my stomach is too nervous and I am rehearsing what it is I want to say to him. It’s very important I choose just the right words, as he is leaving to go back to Iraq and who knows when I will see him again.
“I love you. I positively love you,” seems too much too soon. I’m thinking of maybe, “Can I ask you a question?” And he’ll say of course and I’ll say, “Do you believe in love at first sight?”
But that sounds like it’s a script for a movie. So dorky. When he gets here I manage to say, “Hi!” but then everyone is standing around in a circle so what else can I say? But later when I get a chance to talk with him alone, I say, “So, how’s the war going?” and he nearly chokes on his iced tea, and I want to kick myself. It’s a very serious thing, this war, and it comes out of my mouth like I’m inquiring about the weather.
“It’s not a good situation, Andi,” he says, “but I think we’re making progress.”
He’s so mature; I could just die on the spot acting so stupid. And then what is wrong with me? Out of the blue, I blurt out, “Do you believe in love at first sight?”
He doesn’t blink. “I’m not sure I do, Andi,” he says, “but I’m not convinced I don’t.” And he winks. I am the color of what’s left of the ham sitting on the dining room table.
“Would you like to see some photos of Kuwait?” he says, and reaches into the breast pocket of his uniform.
He wants to share his world with me—a world of war and death and suffering and oil field fires. He wants me to see what is going on in his life; to be prepared. My heart starts beating so fast I get the hiccups.
This is absolutely the best Easter of my entire life, bar none. Except for the hiccups.
***
Being in love for real is like watching the sun set and seeing every color that God ever created sit in the sky all at once. I play music on my stereo and dance around the room. I have my arms held out in a circle with each hand wrapped around one wrist like Rodney is in my arms and I’m in his. Really there’s only empty space, but someday there won’t be and that makes my heart just stand up.
We’ll have such an incredible life together. And three children—a boy and a girl and then a surprise baby; whatever it is we will love it. I am so far in the clouds I don’t even mind school anymore. In algebra if Ms. Hadley calls on me and says simplify the expression and writes on the board
2(a − 3) + 4b − 2(a − b − 3)
, I tell her I don’t know, like always, but I’m not the least bit embarrassed. Why be embarrassed? I plan to marry Rodney when I’m old enough and raise our children. Why would I need to know how to simplify a mathematical expression? Exactly. And when Mr. Finch in English asks me to define two independent clauses, I say it’s two sentences that can stand alone and take my seat (I mentioned I was going to work harder in English), but I don’t really care at all that I know the answer. My mind is seven thousand one hundred and ten miles away—the exact distance between Kuwait and Atlanta.
Amy and I are folding all of the baby things she got at her shower last night. Two of her friends, Trish and Marsha, held it here so she could just stay on the sofa and rest herself. Amy is eight months pregnant now. It’s so nice having baby showers when you know what kind of baby you’re having. There are blue rompers, and blue blankets and cute little boy-baby hats and shoes. I wonder during all those years when there was no way to know what kind of baby they were having how many women lined up to return things or just dressed their baby in whatever color was available, say a pink stretchy on a little baby boy and all day long people were saying, “Oh, isn’t she cute?”
Lately, being around Amy, I’m amazed at all the things pregnant woman cannot do anymore. It’s a wonder the rest of us are alive. The women were talking about it at the shower—how mothers who smoked and drank and took aspirin and ate blue cheese dressing and tuna from a can and never got tested for diabetes. And then after babies were born they were put to sleep on our tummies in a baby crib covered with bright colored lead-based paint. There were no childproof lids on medicine bottles, no latches on doors or cabinets, and kids rode bikes with no helmets. They rode in cars with no car seats or booster seats or air bags. They drank water from the garden hose and not from a bottle. They ate cupcakes and white bread and real butter and drank Kool-Aid made with sugar, but they weren’t overweight because they were always outside playing. My mom said they would leave home in the morning and play all day, so long as they were back by supper and then they’d go out again and stay outside until the streetlights came on. No one was able to reach them all day and it was okay. There were no PlayStations, Nintendos, or Xboxes. No video games or movies, and no cable TV, no three hundred channels and no surround-sound. Mostly they were pretty safe. They had lots of friends and went outside and found them. They fell out of trees, or slipped on the sidewalk, broke bones, and teeth and there weren’t any lawsuits. It was all part of growing up. They ate mud cookies and worms did not end up living in them. And if they got in trouble at school, they got in double trouble at home and their parents always sided with the principal.
I think of Amy’s baby and all the changes in the world since my mom was little and even since I was little and figure maybe it’s not so great and then I get scared for him.
***
I am looking at Anthony Morelli and thinking what did I ever see in this guy? And I am wondering do grown-ups ever step back and think the same thing? God help them. They are more likely to act on their impulses, whereas teenagers have restraint, because of our lack of freedom. It’s called “parents.” We are limited in our responses to our choices, but what about grown-ups? What do they have? That is a very good question. A big fat nothing and that’s why they end up in trouble. Take my father. He is still all over Donna without any consideration as to what this could do to his marriage, our family, life for all of us in general. He’s just full steam ahead.
I keep watching Anthony, carrying the cross up to the altar. It’s our last rehearsal this week before the first Mass after Easter, known as Prudence, when Jesus showed his wounds to the world. At least I think it is. Half the time I don’t listen while I’m here. If someone asked me if I find all of this boring—right now while I’m standing in front of the altar—I’d have to say a big fat YES.
Anthony is doing a good job. “Very nice,” Father Murphy says.
Anthony’s holding the cross up above his shoulders but just at the right angle so it looks very majestic without being showy. He’s a good cross-bearer. I will give him that. But do you think he even cares that I am no longer looking at him with great longing? Not one bit. He is all over Melanie Morrison, who I should really have a talk with. At least I should warn her about the balcony.
Rosa’s in the kitchen preparing dinner. It’s very interesting to watch her. She can have four things going on at once on the stove and in the oven and it always comes out perfect. Her face is dotted with perspiration and her cheeks are flushed, like always, but she is smiling and singing along with the radio, also like always. It is possible that she is the sunniest person I know. She has on the Spanish channel. I love Spanish music. It always sounds like they’re having a party, no matter the song. Maybe that is why Rosa’s so happy. You can’t listen to that type of music all day and stay sad.
The kitchen is filled with savory spices. I take a deep breath. Garlic, cumin, cinnamon, saffron and paprika are holding hands and floating in the air. It’s like walking into a fine Mexican restaurant. Rosa waddles back and forth between the pantry and the cooktop.
“Oh, Miss Andi,” she says when she sees me. “You give me a fright, no?”
“Sorry,” I say, then explain to her that it is major important that I learn to cook, immediately.
“I might be getting married much sooner than I planned,” I say.
“Married? Too young be married,” she says, and pats my arm. “But learn to cook is good. I teach you make enchiladas.”
She points to a pile of fresh ground beef sitting on the counter. It’s a brilliant red color and still oozing blood.
“I want to learn to cook,” I say eagerly, though I’m not quite sure my stomach does. I’m used to seeing food when it’s time to eat it.
“First we make beef recipe,” Rosa says, picking up a large frying pan.
She heats three tablespoons of vegetable oil over medium heat, then adds a whole yellow onion. It’s already finely chopped.
“Now cook three, maybe four minute, yes?” she says and hands me the spatula. This is easy. I’ll be an expert in no time. Rosa adds the ground beef along with a teaspoon and a half of salt. When the beef is almost done she adds four cloves of minced garlic.
“Now cook three more minute,” Rosa explains. “Is good.”
Once I do as she says, she pours in one cup of tomato sauce and two-and-a-quarter teaspoons of ground cumin. I haven’t written any of this down and now I realize it’s a bit more complicated than I anticipated. I’m not sure I remember the order we’ve added the different ingredients and wonder if it will be okay if I just add them all at once and cook it an extra minute or two when I make this recipe on my own. Surely, it will taste the same; it will be the same ingredients. Rosa puts three-quarters of a cup of water and one-quarter of a cup of oregano leaves into the blender. After it’s blended she motions that I should pour this onto the meat mixture.
“Now cook ten minute, yes?” Rosa nods her head.
I continue to follow her instructions.
“Turn down fire and cook ten more minute.” I do precisely what she says.
“Is good,” Rosa says smiling. “Is ready.”
She sets the dish aside. “Now we make enchilada and Spanish rice and refried beans,
sí
?”
I thought we just made the enchilada. Rosa explains that we’ve only made the first step. There are three steps before we even get to the Spanish rice or refried beans. First we make the ground beef mixture, which we have just done, next we are to make the enchilada sauce, and then we will make the actual enchiladas. Only then are we able to move onto the Spanish rice and refried beans. In a Mexican restaurant you make your selection and before you even finish munching on the chips and salsa, presto!—a large platter is before you with refried beans, Spanish rice, and your choice of entrée. I had no idea they went to so much trouble to place it there. I will never again take Mexican food for granted.
Rosa assembles the ingredients for the sauce which consists of two cups of chicken broth, four tablespoons of chili powder, one teaspoon of ground cumin, two heaping teaspoons of garlic powder, three-quarters of a teaspoon of salt, one pinch of ground cinnamon, one-third of a teaspoon sugar, five tablespoons of cold water, and five tablespoons of white flour. And that’s just the ingredients, not the steps that go along with actually making the sauce.
“We start sauce, yes?” Rosa says.
I don’t think so. “Not today,” I say, no longer interested in learning to cook. It’s far more work than I imagined. Maybe Rodney and I can eat our dinners out and I’ll fix breakfast. Breakfast is so much easier—eggs and bacon. Anyone can do that. You just crack an egg and fry it. And bacon—anyone can make that. Put it on paper towels in the microwave and
voilá
: bacon!