Francesca's Kitchen (12 page)

F
rancesca went to the window, parted the drapes, and peered out to the street. It was nearing four o'clock on Wednesday afternoon, and the winter sun was already dipping toward the tops of the leafless trees. Soon, she noted with consternation, the neighborhood would be lost in the shadows of the gathering twilight.

The old woman folded her arms and tapped her foot. Standing there, fretting about Will and Penny until she saw them come into sight, had in just three days become something of a daily routine for her. The school bus, according to their mother, dropped them off at the corner up the street at three forty-five each afternoon. Given a few minutes to traverse the sidewalk home, the children should have arrived at the doorstep by ten minutes to four. Francesca understood, of course, that the bus was not always on time, and that the two youngsters could not always be expected to come directly home without stopping to chat with their friends or frolicking in the snow for a few minutes. They were just kids after all. Just the same, the minutes passed at an excruciatingly ponderous pace while she waited for them to appear.

Francesca turned away from the window for a moment and regarded the interior of the house. Things in the living room remained very much in the same state of organized disarray, and the kitchen was still a catastrophe, but it had not escaped her notice when she arrived on Monday afternoon that over the weekend, the Simmons woman had at least managed to put away the Christmas decorations and toss out some of the old newspapers on the coffee table. She appreciated the effort the younger woman had made and the pride it displayed; maintaining an orderly household on a daily basis was challenging enough, never mind trying to do it all alone while holding down a full-time job and raising two small children. It was all Francesca could do to keep herself from pitching in and helping. Whenever she was seized by the notion, however, Peg's stern admonition to not get too involved echoed in her ears until she came to her senses.

At the sound of voices out on the doorstep, Francesca whirled around just in time to see the door swing open and Will and Penny come bustling into the front hall. There, as they did every afternoon, they unceremoniously dropped their backpacks. Weighted down with schoolbooks and whatever else they carried inside, the sacks thudded against the floor, their buckles and straps and zippers chinking at the abrupt halt.

“Hello, children,” Francesca greeted them as they peeled off their coats and hats. The hair on both their heads was matted down into snarled messes, but their cheeks were bright red from the cold, giving their faces irresistible glows.

“Hello,” they mumbled in reply after tossing their hats and coats onto a nearby chair already piled high with sweaters and jackets and who could say what other types of clothing. The whole thing looked ready to fall over onto the floor. Without another word, as had been the case every other day since Francesca had first come to the house, the two children went straight to the kitchen to scavenge for their after-school snacks. This was always a particularly painful moment for their new afternoon governess, who could do nothing but look on helplessly as they marched back out with their treats in hand. That Will and Penny should have craved something sweet after a long day at school was perfectly understandable to Francesca; she had, after all, raised three children of her own. What grieved her was that, in her mind, what they ate was nothing but processed junk. It made her shudder to watch.

As she did every afternoon, Penny headed directly upstairs. “I have to get on the computer, so don't bother me,” she warned her brother as she climbed the staircase.

“I don't care what you do,” Will replied, starting to follow her. Halfway up, though, he changed his mind, turned around, and came back down. At the bottom step, he stopped and gave Francesca a cautious, questioning look. “I'd like to watch some TV,” he said. “Is that all right?”

“Of course,” said Francesca, inwardly delighted that one of the children had finally said something to her other than hello or good-bye. She stepped aside to let him pass.

Will slouched over to the couch and plopped down. Holding in one hand the little wrapped snack cake he had pillaged from the kitchen, he reached around with the other, searching between the cushions for the television's remote control. Not finding it right away, he scanned the floor by his feet.

“I believe it's right there,” said Francesca, nodding to the end table at his elbow. “Right under the TV section from Sunday's paper.”

“Oh,” muttered Will, extracting the remote from its hiding place beneath the newspaper. He eyed her suspiciously for the briefest of moments before adding, “Thanks.”

“You're welcome,” Francesca replied. She watched him turn the television on and scroll through the channels until he found one of those crazy animated adventure shows Rosie and Alice let her grandsons watch after school. Just looking at the screen was enough to make her dizzy, never mind the noise. Just the same, Will settled back with that vacant look of rapt, total absorption that only the television seemed able to induce in children. The young boy breathed an audible sigh of relief and began to tear the plastic wrap off his snack cake. Francesca recognized that sigh, that unmistakable signal children gave after six hours of school-day stress—and children's days, she well understood, could be just as stressful as those of their parents—when they finally could ease back and unplug their minds for a while in the safe refuge of their own home.

“Tough day at school today?” said Francesca, hazarding an attempt at a conversation.

His eyes glued to the television, Will squirreled up the corner of his mouth and gave a shrug in reply. For a moment, Francesca expected him to say something, but to her disappointment, he instead took a bite of the cake. She took a seat on the chair adjacent to the couch and reached into her book bag for a magazine to peruse.

“I got a fifty on my math quiz,” Will suddenly confessed in a dejected voice, his gaze never straying from the television. “And Tubs Bennett hit me in the head with a snowball at recess.”

“Which felt worse?” asked Francesca. She was pleased to observe that her query, as intended, elicited the hint of a smile from the boy.

“Good question,” he replied.

“Who is this Tubs Bennett,” asked Francesca, pressing ahead, “and what made him hit you in the head with a snowball?”

“He's a big goof in the sixth grade,” lamented Will. “He likes to push around little kids, especially me, because he says my glasses make me look like Harry Potter.”

“What grade is Harry in?” Francesca asked, feigning ignorance.

“He doesn't go to
our
school!” exclaimed Will, his face brightening at the ludicrous question. “You
know
, he's the wizard
,
from the stories! Haven't you ever heard of Harry Potter?”

“Hmm, a wizard,” mused Francesca, hoping to string the boy along a little further. “Well, if that's the case, perhaps we could get him to turn Tubs Bennett into a toad.”

“Ha!” laughed Will. “That would be great. Maybe while he's at it, he could change the grade on my math quiz too!”

“I'm afraid you'll have to accomplish that trick on your own,” suggested Francesca.

This idea was not so well received, and the boy turned his attention back to the television.

Upon hearing the sound of their voices down in the living room, Penny came to the top of the staircase and beckoned Will to come up for a moment to look, she said, at something on the computer. Her tone, however, indicated that she had another motive for wishing to speak to her brother right away. His curiosity piqued by his sister's rare invitation to do anything at all with her connected to the computer, Will stuffed the rest of the cake into his mouth and bounded up the stairs, leaving a trail of crumbs in his wake.

From where she sat, Francesca could hear, but not quite make out, the whisperings of the two siblings. Not wanting to give herself away by going to the hallway to listen, she cocked her head in that direction, hoping to catch at least a snippet of what they were saying. This effort met with no success, and she could only sit and wait to see what they would do next. Will descended the stairs a few minutes later. Judging by the look on his face, Francesca surmised that his older sister had advised him against saying too much to their elderly babysitter. He came back into the living room, reinstalled himself on the couch, and lost himself once more in his television show.

Francesca was a bit disappointed that things had taken this turn. Nonetheless, she was pleased to have finally initiated some repartee, however slight, with one of the children. She was just about to congratulate herself on this feat when the telephone rang.

“I'll get it!” shrieked Penny, warding off the others lest it be a call for her. To her disappointment, the caller turned out to be not a friend, but her mother, calling to speak with Francesca. After grilling her mother for a few moments on what time she could be expected to come from work and what her plans were for dinner, Penny went to the top of the stairs. “It's for you, Mrs. Campa-Compa…Mrs. C,” she called down.

“Hello, Mrs. Campanile,” Loretta began when Francesca picked up the telephone in the kitchen. “I hope the children are behaving for you today.”

“Of course,” said Francesca, casting a glance back into the living room, where Will was still as one with the television. “They've been perfect.”

“That's good,” she said, “because I was wondering if you might be able to stay a little later today. It looks like I'm going to be busy here for a few more hours. Would that be all right?”

The request came as no surprise to Francesca. Loretta had told her on Monday that there was a chance she would need to work late at the office at least one night that week. Francesca had told her not to worry about it, that she could stay later if the occasion should arise. Just the same, she detected a nervous edge in the young mother's voice, as if she half-expected Francesca to refuse.

“Yes,” Francesca assured her, “of course it's all right. Don't worry. I'll stay with them until you come home.”

“Thank you so much,” said Loretta. “That's a big relief to me.”

“Oh, don't mention it, Mrs. Simmons, but there's just one thing,” Francesca added, for just then an intriguing thought had come to mind. “What about dinner for the children?”

“Actually,” Loretta said meekly, “I was going to ask you that next. Do you think it would be a problem…I mean, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, would you mind making dinner for them?”

Francesca could scarcely contain her glee. If not for her advanced years, she might have turned a cartwheel right on the spot.

“Of course I wouldn't mind,” she replied eagerly, her thoughts already racing through the possibilities, for surely there was something on hand in the cupboards or fridge that she could whip up for the two youngsters. “I'd be happy to do it.”

“Great,” said Loretta. “We should have plenty of frozen dinners to choose from. The kids can have whatever they want.”

Francesca was not certain that she had heard correctly.

“Frozen dinners?”

“Yes, they should be right there when you open the freezer.”

Still not quite grasping the concept of what the younger woman was proposing, Francesca went to the refrigerator. With the telephone in hand, she opened the freezer door and peered in. She extracted one of the frost-covered boxes and wiped clear the label. “Salisbury steak with potatoes and vegetables,” she muttered to herself. Francesca tried to gather her thoughts, but her mind was reeling. “You want me to cook these?” she finally asked, her face blanching.

“Oh, it's not hard,” Loretta assured her. “All you have to do is pop them into the microwave for a few minutes. Do you know how to work the microwave?”

“Oh, yes,” Francesca replied, trying her best to maintain her composure even though it felt as though someone had just thrust a dagger through her heart.

“I'm sure you'll be hungry too, so just help yourself to whatever you like,” Loretta added brightly. “I think there might be a fettuccine Alfredo in there.”

Francesca swallowed hard. The young woman could not possibly have imagined the pain this suggestion, so cruel in its innocence, had inflicted on her. “Thank you,” she said after pausing for a moment to chase the image of it from her mind, “but I'll probably just wait to have dinner at home.”

Francesca stared forlornly at the refrigerator door after she had finished receiving her instructions for dinner and hung up the phone. She turned and cast a miserable eye about at the seldom-used oven, the cluttered counters, and the inevitable sink full of dirty dishes. But frozen dinners! Her spirits sank, for she could not recall having ever been brought so low in a kitchen. But then the voices of Peg and Connie and Natalie resounded once more in her ears, reminding Francesca that this was not
her
kitchen, this was not
her
house, and these were not
her
children. She was there to do a job, and that job entailed doing whatever their mother asked. Blindly following orders had never been one of Francesca's strong suits—at her age, she didn't take orders from anyone—but she saw the wisdom in their advice, though it gave her little comfort. And so, her heart grieving, Francesca called for Will and Penny to come to the freezer to pick out their suppers.

If preparing the frozen meals had not been painful enough, watching the children eat them, sitting as they were on the living room couch instead of at the spots she had cleared for them at the table, was pure torture. It seemed to Francesca that she was being punished for some crime of which she had no recollection committing. Or perhaps it was some sort of penance she was being forced to perform, to cure her of her pride and stubbornness. Whichever the case, she turned away from the two children and looked upward.