Francesca's Kitchen (11 page)

F
rancesca filled a pot with water and put it on the back burner of the stove. She threw in a pinch of salt, turned the heat up high, and covered the pot. While she waited for the water to come to a boil, she began to peel and dice two cloves of garlic on her cutting board. Annoyed at the dull edge of the knife she was using, she impatiently tossed the knife into the sink and drew out another from the utensil drawer by her waist. This one, to her satisfaction, performed much better than the first, and she made quick work of the garlic. When she was done, she slid the diced garlic into a frying pan already coated thick with olive oil. She added a pat or two of butter and a sprinkling of crushed red pepper before setting the heat on low to let the garlic simmer. This accomplished, she looked over her shoulder at her son.

Joey was still at the table, looking over the sports section. He had barely spoken two words since his mother had first walked in to find him there. This reticence was not due to any particular indifference on his part. Joey, Francesca well understood, had simply inherited his father's preternatural state of perpetual calmness. He never seemed to get too worked up about anything, at least not so that it showed. In all the years since he had been a toddler, Francesca had rarely known her son to raise his voice in anger or to fly off the handle the way his mother and sisters were prone to do; he always seemed to be in control of himself. When he so chose, Joey could be a lively conversationalist. Growing up with a mother and two sisters, though, the opportunities to practice the art had been scant. Getting a word or two in edgewise had always been a challenge, and he had had to learn how to make every word count. Not that it mattered very much, for also like his father, Joey could usually convey more with a simple nod or gesture than most people could communicate with a mouthful of words. But for all his placid facade, Francesca knew, he had a lot percolating beneath the surface.

“All I have is a pound of linguine, and some lettuce and cucumber for a salad,” she told him. “If I'd known you were coming, I would have stopped at the market.”

Joey shrugged and jutted out his chin slightly, as if to say that whatever she made would be more than sufficient. He flipped to the next page of the paper.

Francesca turned back to the stove and took the lid off the pot on the back burner. The water had come to a rolling boil, and she was greeted by a great puff of steam, which quickly dispersed into the air. Francesca ripped open the package of linguine and dumped the long, brittle strands into the hissing water.

“Go get some cheese out of the fridge,” she said over her shoulder as she stirred the linguine with a big fork. “Get the Romano. I like that better than the Parmesan. And don't forget the grater.”

“You're the boss,” said Joey, finally opening his mouth. He pushed away from the table, stood, and walked to the refrigerator with a slight limp, evidence of a recent rugby injury, which immediately caught his mother's notice.

“I wish you would give up playing that crazy game of yours,” she told him. “You're getting too old, you know. One of these days, you're going to really hurt yourself. Then you'll be sorry.”

In all the years that he had played rugby after college, Joey had managed only once to talk Francesca into stopping by to watch one of his club's matches. She had been aghast at what she had witnessed. From what little she could discern of the mayhem on the field, the game involved little more than thirty grown men doing their utmost to tear each other limb from limb just to gain possession of the ball, which resembled a lopsided balloon. Any player who happened to have the misfortune of carrying the ball soon found himself attacked by a pack of maniacs. As for Francesca, she had found herself closing her eyes whenever Joey touched the ball, for she was certain that her son would be torn to shreds if he didn't have the sense to immediately pass it to someone else. It was even worse for her than when Joey had played high school football. At least then, he had worn pads and a helmet. These ruminations were unsettling enough for Francesca, but then another thought occurred to her.

“Hey,” she said. “I hope you didn't get that limp by jumping off one of those bridges like that fool on the postcard you sent me.”

“Wouldn't you like to know,” replied Joey, the corner of his mouth turning up into an impish smirk. He poked his head into the refrigerator to find the cheese. Not finding it immediately, he looked back to his mother.

“It's in the drawer on the left, where it always is,” she said before he had the chance to ask.

“Got it,” said Joey. He limped back to his chair, set the cheese on the table, and picked the sports section back up.

“Tell me the truth,” said Francesca, now with a worried strain in her voice. “Did you get that limp on the playing field or by jumping off one of those bridges with the rest of the idiots?”

Joey sank slightly lower behind the newspaper. “Do you know,” he began without looking up, “that an object falling to the earth accelerates thirty-three feet per second every second until it reaches terminal velocity?” Then he said no more.

Francesca scowled at her son. This was precisely the type of answer Joey gave whenever he was trying to avoid answering a direct question. It was another modus operandi that he had inherited directly from his father. It was enough to make Francesca scream—and like his father, Joey knew it—but she didn't. Instead, she took a breath to compose herself, turned back to the cutting board, and began to slice the cucumber for the salad.

“I'm not going to hit you right now,” she told him calmly, “because you're expecting it, and I'll only end up hurting myself. I'm gonna wait.”

Behind the newspaper, Joey's face broke out in a smile. How many times as a child had he heard his mother utter that same warning whenever he or one of his sisters had talked back to her or misbehaved in some other way? More than he could possibly remember. As children, Joey and his sisters had learned to fear that calm pronouncement, for they well knew that their mother was as good as her word. Sometimes days or even weeks would pass with nary a word on her part about whatever infraction one of the three might have committed. To all appearances, Francesca would forget about the whole thing. Lulled into a false sense of security, the children themselves would forget all about it. Then, on no day in particular, perhaps some quiet afternoon as they all sat in the dining room enjoying Sunday dinner together, her open hand would flash out unexpectedly from across the table and smack the offending party full force across the mouth.

“That,” she would explain to the aggrieved recipient, “was for talking back to me that last time.”

For his part, Leo would always look with pity on the red-faced child, but only give a shrug in response to his or her lamentations, as if to say, “What did you expect?”

Nothing warms a child's heart like the spectacle of an errant sibling being brought to justice, and such moments would inevitably elicit stifled giggles from the innocent. But no one was spared from her just punishments whenever one of them got out of line. As the baby of the family, Joey sometimes managed to get away with a few more shenanigans than his older sisters, but even he had often enough found himself on the receiving end of one of her wallops.

When the linguine was finished cooking, Francesca poured it all into a strainer in the sink. She gave the strainer a shake to rid it of the excess water before depositing the steaming strands into the frying pan. There she tossed them with a big wooden spoon and fork to mix them with the garlic and olive oil.

Joey eagerly folded the newspaper and put it aside when he saw his mother carrying the frying pan to the table. She set it in the center of the table on top of an oven pad, and nodded for him to help himself while she finished preparing the salad. Joey filled one bowl for himself and another for his mother before digging in. Francesca was happy to note that, by the time she sat down to eat, he was already working on a second helping.

“I missed this,” he sighed contentedly as he twirled the linguine onto his fork.

“How was the food down there?” asked Francesca.

“Eh,” grunted Joey with a shrug, enough of a response to tell his mother that the cuisine had not been up to her standards.

Narrowing her gaze at him, Francesca reached out and pushed some of Joey's curly hair away from his forehead to reveal an ugly-looking lump.

“Uff,” she grunted in consternation. “Look what you do to the beautiful face your father and I gave you. How did you manage to get
that
?”

“Don't worry. I didn't get it falling off a bridge,” he told her. “I just caught somebody's boot when I went down to get the ball during the match against—”

“Stop. Don't tell me anymore. I'm sorry I asked.”

Joey shrugged and turned his attention back to his bowl of linguine. Francesca studied him for a few moments while she grated some cheese onto her own bowlful.

“So,” she asked him, “did you find it?”

Joey looked up at her with a questioning look. “Find what?” he said.

“You know, what you've been looking for,” she answered. “Did you find it down there on the other side of the globe?”

“What makes you think that I'm looking for something?”

“Everybody's looking for something,” his mother told him. “It's what life is all about. Searching for the right things to make you feel whole, especially when you've lost something. But you know, you can run around the world all you want, but what you're looking for is right here,” she said, poking his chest above his heart. “That's what will tell you what you really need to know—what to look for and when you've found it—if you just pay attention instead of running away.” She paused. “It's been almost four years, you know. It's time to start listening again.”

Joey gave another one of his shrugs, telling her there was no use in pursuing this particular subject at the moment. He was not of a mind to discuss it. Instead, he glanced to the bowl on the counter.

Francesca shook her head, let out a low grumble, and stood. She gave him a gentle slap across the top of his head and went to get the salad.

“It's good to have you home,” she told him.

“It's nice to be home,” he said. “So, what have
you
been up to while I've been out of town? Find what
you've
been looking for?”

“And wouldn't
you
like to know,” answered his mother with a smug grin as she set the salad bowl on the table. “Now shut up and eat.”

As a young man who liked to keep his own counsel on matters close to his heart, Joey was not one to pry into those of someone else, not even his mother's, so he did as he was told and helped himself to the salad.

Joey stayed for a while after dinner, telling Francesca about his trip to Australia, the places he had seen, the people he had met, and the long flight home, until the jet lag suddenly hit him and his eyes began to droop. Francesca knew there was little use in trying to convince him to just stay and sleep in his old bed that night, so before it got too late, she shooed her yawning son out the door; she didn't want him falling asleep at the wheel on the way back to his apartment. Before Joey left, she instructed him to return the next day for Sunday dinner—and to bring his laundry, if he wanted. She stood at the door and watched him drive off, until his car was out of sight. Then she went back into the kitchen. As always, it made her sad to see him go, but at least now she finally had an excuse to thaw out that nice pork roast she'd been keeping in the freezer.

“M
y, aren't we looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning,” said Shirley, a knowing grin curling her lips as she passed Loretta on the way to her desk on Monday morning.

In reply, Loretta let out a low grumble that conveyed, despite its lack of words, a message of deep malice at her friend's annoying perkiness at that hour.

“Coffee should be ready any minute,” Shirley called cheerfully after her.

The morning was never a happy time for Loretta. The first thin sliver of sunlight to arc over the horizon each dawn pierced through the tiny gap between her window's drawn curtains and greeted her weary eyes with all the soft subtlety of a javelin. It was always a shock, one seconded only by the shrill cry of the alarm clock, which inevitably followed just a minute or two later. Monday mornings in the winter posed a particularly daunting challenge to her spirits. She dreaded the miserable first few moments when she awoke to the cold darkness of those early hours and lay there pondering the long workweek stretching out before her. It was like the dawn of the dead.

Somehow, despite her best intentions, the weekends never seemed to provide Loretta with the extra hours of restorative sleep that her body craved. The one just past had been no different. Instead of sleeping in on Saturday morning, Loretta had dragged herself out of bed and set about straightening up the house before the kids awoke. She was determined to get things in better order before Mrs. Campanile returned on Monday afternoon. Why she should be concerned with the old woman's opinion of her housekeeping, Loretta could not quite say. Nonetheless, the thought of it was enough to prod her into action.

Operations commenced in the living room, where at long last she boxed all the Christmas ornaments, dismantled the tree, and carted it all back to the basement. The removal of the tree and the rest of the holiday paraphernalia created a pleasing increase in floor space, which inspired Loretta to break out the vacuum cleaner and really give the place a thorough going-over. It wasn't long, though, before the howling of the machine shook the children from their slumber. Will and Penny soon descended the stairs and started their Saturday morning ritual of lying around watching cartoons, while their mother tried her best to work around them. By the time she had finished in the living room and set her sights on the kitchen, her son and daughter had already made themselves toast and Pop-Tarts (she had bought a new toaster at lunch the day before) and Nestlé Quik, which they proceeded to eat and drink in front of the television. Mesmerized by the tube, the two munched away, oblivious to the crumbs dropping onto the couch and floor where Loretta had just vacuumed. Equally maddening, their cups and plates later found their way right back into the sink, which she had only just emptied. The whole cycle began anew as the weekend progressed, and come Monday morning, as she stood at the doorway trying to herd Will and Penny out to the car, Loretta realized with dismay that the downstairs was in much the same state that it had been in on Friday night. She let out a weary, exasperated sigh as she slammed the front door shut. It was like swimming against the tide—and the tide always won.

Once settled behind her desk, Loretta let out a yawn while she waited for her computer screen to come aglow. Shirley soon appeared with the promised cup of coffee, and the two chatted about their weekends.

“So, how's the RISD girl working out as a babysitter?” asked Shirley, sitting back on the edge of Loretta's desk.

Loretta took a sip of her coffee and rolled her eyes. “Didn't I tell you?” she replied. “I had to get rid of her on Thursday.” At her coworker's behest, she recounted the dismaying circumstances that finally led to the young grad student's untimely dismissal from her babysitting position at the Simmons home.

“What a little tramp,” huffed Shirley with some conviction after Loretta had finished her recitation of the whole miserable incident. “You're better off without her.”

“That was pretty much the conclusion I came to,” said Loretta with a shrug. “Not that it made things any easier for me.”

“So, who's going to watch the kids after school now?”

“Guess.”

“Not the old Italian lady you told me about,” laughed Shirley. “I thought you said you didn't like her because she made you feel guilty.”

“She does,” answered Loretta. “But it wasn't like I had a lot of other options. Besides, at least when I called her, she showed up on time. She'll have to do for now.”

Shirley was about to pry more details about the babysitter situation out of Loretta when the two were surprised to see Mr. Pace walk through the door into the front lobby. It was quite early for the senior partner to arrive at the office; most mornings, he didn't saunter in until well after ten o'clock.

“Good morning, Mister Pace,” they said in unison.

“Good morning, ladies,” the old gentleman said amiably as he stood by the closet, pulling off his overcoat. “Please, don't look so surprised to see me. I do have to work sometimes, you know.” He took out a hanger, stuck it inside the coat, and stuffed the whole thing haphazardly into the closet. “That coffee looks wonderful,” he added hopefully.

“I'll get you a cup,” said Shirley, and off she went.

Pace strolled over to Loretta.

“Sounds like no golf today,” she said, giving him a smile. “Busy day planned?”

“Well,” he harrumphed, “at least by my standards. New client coming in today. New England Trucking. It's a family business. The Hadleys. Known them for years, so the powers that be pulled me out of the mothballs to make it look good.” He sat back against the desk in just the same spot Shirley had vacated and straightened his tie. “Funny,” he went on in a wistful tone, “but I can remember back when the Hadleys first started the business. They used to be just a little mom-and-pop operation back in those days. You could do that back then, just run a nice little business. Now, of course, the son's taken over, and they're buying up other small companies all over the region. It seems that's the way it is today in business: you either have to get bigger or sell out. I guess there's a certain logic to it that some people call progress. Anyway, we're helping them close on two deals just this week alone.”

Loretta immediately grasped the meaning of this last remark. Multiple closings meant multiple hours, usually extra hours, to prepare the required piles of legal documents. She'd be going home late at least one night that week.

“Sounds like we're all going to be busy,” she said, trying her best to hide the faint air of dread in her voice.

“I'm afraid so,” sighed Pace. “Isn't work awful?”

Loretta was about to offer her own opinion on the subject, one not greatly at variance with that of her employer, but just then Shirley appeared with a cup of coffee in hand. Pace accepted it with sincere gratitude and ambled off to his office. Shirley likewise repaired to her own desk to start her day.

Alone at her desk, Loretta eyed the calendar. The week ahead now looked even longer to her than it had just a few moments earlier. Occasionally being obligated to work some late hours came with the territory, and Loretta was not one to complain. She accepted it as part of the job. Her only concern now was that her new babysitter would not feel the same.