Francesca's Kitchen (3 page)

A
few fragile flakes from the approaching snowstorm were already drifting down when Francesca left the market and started on her way home. It was late morning, nearing lunchtime, and the cars zipped up and down the road as she walked along the sidewalk. There was a palpable feeling of nervous tension in the air; she could see it in the faces of the passing motorists as they hastened along, almost frantic to run their errands before the real snow started to fall. Watching them go by, seeing the impatient frowns of the men and the worried looks of the women chirping away on their cell phones instead of paying attention to the road, Francesca could not help but laugh. It was always the same whenever the weathermen predicted a winter storm. The specter of a few inches of snow put everyone in a tizzy.

Clutching the handles of the cloth bag in which she carried her groceries, Francesca made her way along the sidewalk, keeping a watchful eye on the pavement lest she slip on a patch of ice. That was all she needed to have happen. God forbid she should fall and hurt herself; she would never hear the end of it from her son and daughters. Francesca might just have easily taken the car to the market instead of walking; she was a perfectly capable driver. But she liked the exercise and enjoyed being out in the open air. Besides, in her mind, the world was already going by much too fast. As far as she was concerned, people spent too much time hurrying from one place to another, from one task to another, without ever taking a moment to appreciate the journey. People, she often observed, would be far better off if they could only learn to slow their lives down a bit, but they were generally in too much of a rush to give the idea much thought.

An added benefit of walking to the market was the opportunity it afforded Francesca to monitor the comings and goings in the area. Hers wasn't what one might call a tough section of town by any means, but some of the shine had gone off the neighborhood since she and Leo had first moved there years ago. The main avenue down which she was walking was lined with two-and three-decker tenements, where generations of predominately Irish and Italian families had once lived together. They had been proud people who had kept their properties immaculate. It grieved Francesca to see the dilapidated condition into which many of those beautiful old homes had descended since the old families had moved out. Not that it was the fault of the new Hispanic and Asian families that had taken their place. Francesca blamed the landlords from whom the new families rented the houses. Had they lost all their pride? She was heartened, though, by the new shops and little restaurants and other businesses she saw the newcomers opening here and there. The neighborhood, as she saw it, was in transition. In time, these renters would become owners, and then those houses would be restored to their proper states. It was inevitable. Nothing instilled pride in a person more than owning his own home.

Francesca rounded the corner off the main road and walked up the street to her house. The street climbed a considerably steep hill, but her legs were more than equal to the task. Over the years, she'd made that climb more times than she could remember. When she finally made it to the house and through the front door, Francesca hurried straight to the kitchen, to put away her groceries. Her haste was not due to any great concern about the food spoiling. She kept the temperature so low inside that even if she left it all out on the counter, everything would probably stay fresh for days. Her real purpose in bustling so purposefully through the hallway to the kitchen was the reassuring noise that it created. It dispelled some of the quiet in the house and made her feel like less of a ghost rattling around within its walls.

The little red light on the telephone answering machine was flashing when she came into the kitchen. She gave the button a tap and listened to the messages while she sorted out the groceries on the table. The first was from Alice: “Hi, Mom. It's me. Just wanted to see how you were doing. I talked to Rosie yesterday. She said you guys had a good time together at her house. Hope you're all settled back in, now that you're home. We were watching the Weather Channel last night, and they said a big storm is heading your way. Looks like you might get a lot of snow. Make sure you stay inside. Don't try to shovel the walk or clean the car by yourself. Get one of the neighborhood kids to do it. You don't want to slip and fall. Anyway, no snow out here, just a lot of rain this week. So, that's all. I just wanted to say hi. Hope to see you soon. Yesterday, Will and Charlie were wondering when you were going to come out to visit us again in Oregon. They miss your lasagna. Give me a call when you get a chance. Love you.”

A beep, then the next message, this one from Rosanne: “Hi, Mom, It's me. You home? What are you doing? Out gallivanting again, or are you just screening your calls? No? Not there? Okay, just wanted to see how you're doing. I talked to Alice yesterday. Told her about your trip. Heard you guys might get a bunch of snow up there today, so I hope you get home soon before it starts. Call me.”

A succession of beeps without messages followed, then: “Hello. This is the West End Public Library calling to let you know that some books you reserved have come in. We'll hold them here for a week. Thank you.”

Francesca hurriedly put the groceries away and picked up the telephone to call Alice in Oregon. She was a little concerned because, given the time difference, her daughter ought to have been at work. Was something wrong, something she hadn't mentioned in her message? Francesca was always trying to read between the lines in this way, wondering how much her children didn't tell her about what was going on in their lives. It troubled her deeply. True, her children were all adults now. But even though they were all grown up, they still had a lot they could learn from their mother. There were still lots of ways she knew she could help them if they would only let her. Francesca knew that Rosie and Alice did their utmost to withhold from her anything that they thought might make her worry. But that only made her worry all the more! In her mind, it would be better to know the truth and play a part in dealing with it.

As was most often the case, though, there was nothing for Francesca to worry about. Alice had stayed out of work that day simply because her son Will had a case of the sniffles. Francesca was relieved. Just the same, she lectured Alice on making sure that her son got plenty of rest and drank enough fluids. A nice bowl of chicken-and-escarole soup would probably do wonders. She gave her daughter the recipe. For her part, Alice lectured her mother on the dangers of the ice and snow sure to accompany the storm the weathermen were predicting. Rosie did the same when Francesca called her a little while later. Francesca assured both of them that they needn't worry; she wasn't about to be taking any chances with the weather. It gave her a modicum of satisfaction to know that now
they
were worrying about
her
. What goes around always comes around.

When she was finished talking to Rosie, Francesca hung up the phone, erased the messages on the answering machine, and paused to look out the back window. The kitchen was her favorite room in the house, not so much because of her love of cooking, but because of the beautiful view it afforded of the city. When the leaves were off the trees, like they were at this time of year, you could look out across the backyard and see all the way downtown, to the dome of the State House, and beyond, to the houses up on the East Side. Turning over in her mind the third message on the answering machine, she stared thoughtfully at the drab shroud of gray clouds that had covered the sky over the city since her return from Florida. The snowflakes, she noticed, were coming down now with greater urgency, in a light but steady flurry. Deep within herself, part of Francesca was urging her to just stay inside, to curl up on the couch and take a nap. Another part of her, though, longed to be out of the house once more despite her daughters' advice to just stay put. She fretted about it for only a minute before deciding to pull her overcoat and hat back on.

“This is New England,” she told herself while she fished the car keys out of her pocketbook. “It's supposed to snow in the winter.”

T
he librarian was gazing out the window at the thickening snowfall when Francesca walked in. A small, handwritten sign on the young woman's desk announced that, due to the approaching storm, the weekly book club meeting had been cancelled for that afternoon. Francesca was not particularly disappointed by the announcement; she hadn't planned to attend the gathering. Still, she could not suppress a sigh of consternation at the thought of it. The library, she guessed, would be closing early as well. The coat and pocketbook resting to the librarian's side confirmed her suspicions.

“Hello, Rebecca,” said Francesca.

The young librarian turned to Francesca with fretful eyes. “Oh, hi, Mrs. Campanile,” she said, taking nervous note of the snowflakes on the shoulders of Francesca's coat and hat. “It looks like it's really starting to come down out there. Are the roads getting bad?”

“Treacherous,” Francesca fibbed. “My car barely made it up the hill to get here.”

Rebecca cast an anxious glance at the clock on the wall. “We're closing in a half hour—at two—today,” she advised her. Then, worriedly, “Is it really that bad out?”

The mischievous side of Francesca wanted to string the girl along a little further, but she thought better of it. “No, honey,” she answered with a smile. “I was just having a little fun with you. Trust me, if an old lady like me can drive through this weather, so can you. You're too young to be so worried about a few flakes of snow.”

“Ugh,” the young woman sighed. “I hate driving in the snow.”

Francesca set a cloth bag atop the desk. It was one of many she kept at home, in the closet by the front door. She had a sturdy bag ready for every occasion; this one she used to tote her books to and from the library. “I understand you have some new books for me,” she said, nodding to the bookshelf behind Rebecca.

Rebecca found the three items reserved for Francesca—two books and a set of Vietnamese language tapes—and placed them on the desktop next to her computer. She opened the cover of the first book and passed a handheld scanner over the bar code on the inside of the front cover. “Hmm, what are you studying this time?” she said, looking over the book's cover with curiosity
. “Perspectives on Vietnamese Culture,
” she read. “Sounds interesting. Plus a Fodor's guide to traveling in Vietnam,” she noted as she scanned the next book and then the language tapes. “Looks like someone is getting ready to take a trip to Southeast Asia.”

“Just in my mind,” chuckled Francesca. “Flying to Florida was far enough for me. I just like to study new things now and then, especially during the winter. It passes the time and keeps my brain from drying up inside my head.”

It was true. Francesca sometimes enjoyed watching television to pass the long, lonely nights at home, but more often than not, she preferred to put her mind to a more active use. She never quite understood why, but there was something about learning new things that gave her a warm feeling inside and always made her feel better about herself, especially whenever she was feeling a little down. For Francesca, to learn something new was to become a child again. Whether it was dabbling with a foreign language, or delving into ancient history, or struggling to understand the basic principles of physics, there seemed to be nothing that didn't pique her curiosity. When she tired of one subject, she simply moved on to the next. Her son, Joey, had often suggested that she might enjoy taking some night courses at one of the local colleges, perhaps work toward a degree in some field of study that she found interesting. Francesca, though, had always decided against it. Why should she pay all that money to take a course when she could learn everything she could ever want to learn for free right there at the local library?

“Well, learning to speak Vietnamese should keep you busy for a while,” said Rebecca, handing her the books and the tapes.

“We'll see,” said Francesca, tucking everything into her bag. “Not that I ever expect to use the language. It's just fun to know a little about these things sometimes.”

“Hey, you never know,” said Rebecca. “There are lots of Vietnamese people living in this part of the city now. Maybe you'll make some new friends.”

“Maybe,” said Francesca with a laugh. “I suppose there might be some old Vietnamese ladies around for me to talk to.”

“Or maybe a Vietnamese man,” said Rebecca playfully. “It won't be long before it's Valentine's Day, you know.”

“Oh, please,” laughed Francesca. “That's all I need right now.” She turned and nodded to the clock. “So I guess you'll be chasing everyone out in a few minutes, right?”

“Sorry,” shrugged Rebecca, looking only slightly sincere.

“Okay,” sighed Francesca. She had collected her things and was just starting to go when someone called to her from the back of the library.

“Frannie, is that you?” came a familiar voice.

Francesca looked about and saw Peg, one of her library friends, beckoning to her from the little computer room in the back. The library offered seniors free classes in Word and Excel, whatever they were, but Francesca rarely set foot in that room. When she wasn't taking out a book during one of her frequent visits to the library, she preferred to sit with the other library regulars in the periodicals section, perusing the nice variety of journals and magazines on display there. Now and then, though, she peeked into the computer room just to take a look at the monitors, which seemed to glow at her like giant square eyes. Though curious about the machines, she had yet to put her fingers on a keyboard. Francesca knew that everyone, even old biddies like Peg, were learning how to use computers, but something about even going near them made her uneasy. There was something threatening about the way they looked at her. Just the same, she nodded a thank-you to Rebecca and strolled over to talk to her friend, who had slipped back into the room.

“Come here, Frannie,” whispered Peg when Francesca stepped through the door. “You have to take a look at this.”

Francesca saw that Natalie and Connie, another two of her library friends, were seated at the other computer terminals. They both waved hello. The three old women, all of them bundled up in bulky sweaters despite the warmth inside the library, had their eyes glued to their respective computer screens while they pushed around a little plastic device that Francesca had heard them refer to as a mouse. That was another thing that gave Francesca pause. Why would she want to spend her time holding something named after a rodent? Nonetheless, she came closer to Peg and looked over her shoulder. Francesca had heard that people could find all manner of interesting things on the Internet; a world of information was right there at your fingertips, at least so they said. She was prepared to find Peg poring over an article about some new medical discovery, or perhaps reading up on investment advice for seniors. Instead, much to her embarrassed surprise, she found herself gazing at a full-screen photograph of Brad Pitt wearing little more than a pair of undershorts.

“Look at those abs,” enthused Peg. “Ooh, what I wouldn't give to be thirty years younger!”

“Thirty? Try forty,” suggested Natalie. She tugged her knit hat down further over her ears to stay warm before turning her attention back to the chat group she had logged on to.

“While you're at it, why not go for fifty?” added Connie, who was logged on to a chat group of her own. “I just told this guy that I'm blonde and twenty-one. He wants to do lunch.”

Francesca gave a little cough to clear her throat. “My,” she said, trying not to stare at the picture. “All this time, I thought you three were learning about word processing and spreadsheets and the rest of it.”

“Ayyy, forget that stuff,” huffed Peg. “It's boring. The Internet is where all the fun is. You can find just about anything or anyone you want to look at. All you have to do is Google them.”

“Goo-goo?” said Francesca. “What's that all about? Babies?”

“No, silly,” laughed Peg. “Goo-
gull
, not goo-
goo
. Don't you know anything?”

“Afraid not,” sighed Francesca. “At least, not about these things.”

“You should give it a try,” suggested Natalie. “It's a cinch.”

“What for?” replied Francesca. “What am I going to find out there with that thing that's so wonderful? I'd rather read a book.”

“Don't know what you're missing,” said Connie. “Besides, what else is there for old bats like us to do? It's fun, and e-mail's a great way to keep in touch with people.”

“Ayyy, that's what they invented stamps and envelopes for,” said Francesca. “There's nothing like getting a nice handwritten letter.”

“
Letter?”
Peg laughed along with the other two women. “What century are you living in? Nobody writes letters anymore.”

“Yes, I know,” said Francesca grumpily. “That's another thing I miss these days.” She gave another sigh. “Well, at least I know how to use the telephone whenever I want to hear someone's voice.”

Peg pulled her eyes away from Brad Pitt long enough to give Francesca a thoughtful look. “What's with the puss on your face today, Frannie?” she asked after a moment. “Everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Francesca, giving a shrug. “Just feeling a little blue, that's all.”

“What about? You just got back from Florida, right? Everything okay down there with your family?”

“Yes, of course,” Francesca replied. “They're all fine. It's just that…” She paused and looked away, her hands fidgeting with the straps of her book bag.

“What?” said Peg.

By now, Natalie and Connie had turned away from their monitors and were listening to what Francesca had to say. Francesca looked back at them, unable to suppress the glum expression on her face.

“I don't know,” she finally answered, giving a shrug. “It's just that I keep thinking about my daughters and my grandchildren. They're all so far away. I miss them, even more since I just saw them. Who knows, my son will probably move away somewhere next. You'd think that after all these years, I'd be used to it by now, but it just seems to feel worse every day. Lately, I just feel useless.”

“Don't we all,” sighed Connie.

“Don't worry, Frannie,” said Peg kindly. “It's just the winter getting you down, that's all. It's cold and dark outside, and we're all cooped up inside. What, you're supposed to be dancing a jig every minute of the day? But I know what you mean. It happens to me sometimes too, especially in January.”

“Me too,” Natalie added.

“Nighttime's the worst for me,” said Connie, nodding her head. “Sometimes all I do is sit in my kitchen and think about my children.”

“It's so strange, isn't it?” said Francesca. “I can remember a time when I couldn't wait for mine to all finally grow up and move out of the house and just stop driving me crazy. Now, a day doesn't go by without my wishing that I could have them all back upstairs at night, sleeping in their beds. I'd pay anything to have them small like that again for just one more day, to see them wake up and come downstairs for breakfast in the morning.”

“Who wouldn't?” said Peg. “But life goes on. You can't waste your time wishing you could turn back the clock. You should be happy just for the time you do spend with your children because, let me tell you, no matter where they live, there are no guarantees. My kids all still live in Rhode Island, and
I
hardly ever get a chance to see them. I'm thinking about moving down to Florida. At least then, maybe they'll want to visit me with the grandkids more often in the winter. You haven't got it so bad. Besides, you still have your son close to home.”

“Ayyy, that one,” scoffed Francesca. “He might just as well be living on the far side of the moon. The only time I get to see him is when he's hungry or he wants me to do his laundry for him. The kid needs a wife.”

“Yeah, but then what would there be for you to do?” asked Natalie.

“You know, you're not being very helpful,” replied Francesca ruefully.

At that, the four women all laughed.

Feeling a little better, Francesca looked across the library to the front desk, where Rebecca was pulling on her overcoat. “Well, I guess I better get going. Looks like Chicken Little's getting ready to throw us all out any second.”

“Bah,” huffed Natalie with a wave of her hand.

“Let her try,” Connie chimed in.

Francesca turned to go.

“Hey, Frannie,” said Peg, patting her hand, “try not to worry about it, okay? Before you know it, it will be spring, and things will look a lot brighter.”

“Sure, I guess,” said Francesca. “But what do I do in the meantime to keep myself from going crazy?”

“You have those,” said Peg, nodding to her book bag.

“And if they don't do the trick?”

“Then you can always try what I do on those days when I'm a little bit down in the dumps.”

“What's that?”

Peg smiled and nodded to the monitor. “I check out those abs.”



Later that evening, Francesca stood at the kitchen counter, beating some eggs in a bowl. She stirred in a little milk and some bits of cheese before pouring it all over a batch of ground beef and onions she had sizzling in a frying pan atop the stove. While everything simmered, she threw together a quick salad of lettuce and cucumbers, with a little oil and vinegar as a simple dressing, then she turned her attention back to the eggs, moving them around with a spatula to keep them from sticking to the bottom of the pan. When they were cooked, she pushed them onto a plate, added a splash of Tabasco sauce, and poured herself a little glass of red wine. The addition of the heel of a loaf of bread made it a simple but hearty meal, more than enough to warm her up a little on a cold winter's night. Francesca put everything onto a dinner tray and carried it into the den.