The Summer Kitchen (22 page)

“I think boys just grow up slower. They shouldn’t drive till they’re eighteen,” I said. “Just girls should drive when they turn sixteen.”

The lady chuckled. “That’s an idea.”

“Rusty grew up out of his driving problems, though,” I said, which was true enough. These days he knew we couldn’t afford to fix the truck. “I bet Christopher will, too.”

“I’m sure he will.” We finished the sandwiches, and she put them in a Wal-Mart sack. I didn’t reach for it, but just stood there where she could hand it to me.

“Guess we got that done quick,” I said, and my stomach squeezed like the apple-shaped stress ball Mrs. Dobbs used to keep on her desk.

“Guess we did,” she agreed.

“I can’t think of your name.” I tried not to keep looking at the bag, just in case it was going somewhere else. If it did, it wasn’t like me and Opal and Rusty would go hungry tonight. We had the food we’d bought yesterday.

I couldn’t keep handing our food to Angel and Ronnie and Boo, though.

The sandwich lady gave me a surprised look. “I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t introduce myself. I’m SandraKaye.” She shook my hand.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Kaye.” Mama would of been proud.

Mrs. Kaye smiled, like she thought I had good manners, too. “It’s SandraKaye,” she said. “It’s all one name. SandraKaye Darden, but Mrs. Kaye’s fine. I like it.”

“Cool.”

“Thank you for helping with the sandwiches.” She started wiping down the counter. I helped her cap the peanut butter and jelly, and put things away. There was a little food in the refrigerator. My stomach growled at it. Before I really thought about it, I reached over and picked up the sandwich bag. I hoped they were for us, or that was gonna look really stupid.

“I can give you a ride back with those, if you’d like,” Mrs. Kaye offered.

“Oh, it’s all right.” In case Rusty was home picking up Kiki, I sure didn’t want him seeing me get out of some strange lady’s car, and the thing about the sandwiches might really hurt his feelings, because even with him working so hard, we didn’t have enough money. “Me and Opal are gonna go by the Book Basket and get her another book on the way home. I think she knows this one by heart already. C’mon, Opal.”

Opal started putting all the Cootie things back in the box, and Mrs. Kaye squatted down to help her. “I’m not even sure all the pieces are here.”

“She doesn’t care,” I said, and really, I was thinking it’d be fun to have a game to play. We’d make some pieces if we had to.

Opal stood up and Miss Kaye helped her hold the doll, the book, and the game box. “I guess that’s it.”

“Guess so,” I agreed. “Opal, say thank you for the cool stuff.”

Opal smiled and showed every baby tooth she had. A couple of them were brown around the edges, like nobody had ever showed her how to brush. “Tang-oo cool ’tuff.”

“And thank you for the sandwiches. Say thank you, Mrs. Kaye.”

“Tang-oo, Mit-tay.” Opal smiled again, and I had to admit, she was really cute. I couldn’t think how anyone could ever hit something that cute.

Mrs. Kaye grabbed her purse off the counter, and we walked to the door together. On the way out, she had trouble getting the burglar bars to lock.

“These darned things,” she complained. “I’ve got to work on these tomorrow.”

I was glad she was planning to be back. “I could come and help you. I mean, Opal and me don’t have a lot going on. I could help you do this, and make some sandwiches and stuff. I’m good at fixing things.”
What a doof.
I sounded like a total suck-up, like the little twerps next door, ready to hang around anybody who had food.

I grabbed the burglar bars and helped her pull them to where the lock would work.

“All right, then,” she said. “Check and make sure it’s okay with your parents, and then I guess I’ll see you two tomorrow.”

Chapter 13

SandraKaye

When I arrived home, Chris was sitting out on the back steps with Bobo. Bobo’s Frisbee rested at Chris’s feet, and Bobo was lying beside it with his head on his paws, as if even he had given up on anything fun happening here. The pallor of our house struck me like a burst of cold air as I stood watching them through the glass. Christopher moved his hand. Bobo raised his head and watched, then rested his chin on his paws again.

There was life here,
I thought, and a kernel of bitterness sprouted in my chest, spawning something black and ugly. It grew quickly, putting down roots and stretching upward, working its way toward forming seed. The good feeling I’d had when I handed Cass the sandwiches, the sense of purpose, was gone, and I felt the pain of loss replacing it.
Why did this have to happen? Why us? We had a perfect family, a good life. . . .

But even as the thought crossed my mind, I pulled it back, examined it. How perfect was something that could crumble so quickly? Perhaps what we had was an easy life, all the required elements falling into place. We had enough money, a big house, an adoption when we couldn’t get pregnant, a miracle pregnancy to complete our family, career success for Rob, best friends right across the street. We were healthy. The boys never suffered anything more than the usual childhood ailments. They never got in any serious trouble. They succeeded in school, scored the big goals in soccer matches, and ran for touchdowns at the high school football games. We cheered them from the sidelines, then went home feeling triumphant. The sun rose again, Rob kissed me good-bye and headed off to save lives. I made sack lunches, went to mom meetings and Bible studies, made banners for next week’s game, and helped raise money for disaster relief funds and families who’d suffered unfortunate turns of fate.

It never occurred to me, while I was rallying to help those
less fortunate,
that fortunes can turn at any time, and only then do you find out what you’re made of, what’s beneath the surface. Across the street, I’d watched Holly’s crazy, chaotic family rally around her during her mother’s breast cancer death, and then less than a year later, Holly’s diagnosis, lumpectomy, and chemo. Holly’s kids, usually dependent and borderline irresponsible, had risen to the occasion, taking care of the house and each other. Richard worked half days as often as possible so he could hold Holly’s hand during treatments, or shuttle kids to activities, or cook supper. Everyone pulled together and pulled through.

I’d never asked myself whether, faced with something terrible and unexpected, we would come together or fall apart. Perhaps I’d thought that by making sure all the school papers were letter perfect, and all the toys were picked up and put away before bed, and the plates and cups were rinsed and stacked just so in the dishwasher, and the boys were studying and bringing home good grades, I could prevent life from ever taking a blind curve. Maybe Rob and I fed that idea in each other. Rob’s family was regimented, formal, and strict—the training ground for a long line of Dr. Dardens. Compared to the family I grew up in, they had it all together. It seemed a good road map, and it suited Rob’s personality. Even basketball in the driveway took on the air of a military drill when Rob was present, but I’d convinced myself it was all right. Jake never seemed to mind. He thrived on being pushed, on consistently reaching the goals, on working behind the scenes to help Christopher achieve them, too.

But maybe Jake
did
mind. Perhaps that was why he left. Perhaps he thought if he was no longer the perfect son, if he’d failed his obligations the night Poppy was killed, there was no place for him here. While we were creating the perfect life, we’d failed to make sure Jake knew—that he and Christopher both knew—they didn’t have to be perfect to be loved.

How can you teach your children something you’ve never believed yourself? Hadn’t I always felt the need to be perfect for Rob? Perfect for everyone? The right clothes, the right hair, the carefully applied makeup and the wrinkle creams, the gourmet cake at the school bake sale?

I’d never dropped the pretenses, even after Poppy’s death. At the memorial service I’d told everyone we were fine. We didn’t need colleagues and friends to bring casseroles to our door or check on us. We didn’t need the pastor to set up a time for bereavement counseling. We’d be all right, and yes, of course, I’d still be able to help with the canned food drive next week. It was best to stay busy. . . .

But I knew it wasn’t best. I knew Jake was suffering under a load of guilt, and Chris was locking himself in his room every afternoon, and Rob blamed Jake for partying with his fraternity brothers instead of keeping his usual Friday night date with Poppy, and Jake blamed himself. It was only a matter of time before someone said it out loud. I knew we were crumbling. I knew Jake was crumbling, but I didn’t confront it. I did what I’d always done. I covered everything over with a layer of frosting, so the neighbors wouldn’t see the fractures.

Now, looking at what was left of my perfect life, I thought of Cass in her inappropriately grown-up clothes and overdone makeup, her body still lanky and girlish and awkward, but filled with confidence, with fire and determination. At her age—whatever her age really was—I would never have walked up to a stranger’s door, come inside, and made sure I got what I wanted. I would have been too afraid—afraid I wasn’t wanted, afraid someone would tell me to go away, afraid I was being impolite, afraid I’d get in trouble, afraid of what people would think of me, afraid I’d end up with my feelings hurt. I would probably have starved to death, being quiet and polite, and staying within the boundaries . . .

Christopher noticed me watching him and came inside. Bobo sat looking through the glass with a sad expression on his bandit face. I made a mental note to take him along to Poppy’s house tomorrow. He would like the girls, and the girls would like him.

“Have you eaten?” I asked as Chris and I walked into the kitchen.

He nodded. “Yeah. Coach ran me by Sonic on the way home.” He pointed to a bag on the counter, then moved toward it with a guilty look. Rob didn’t like it when the boys ate junk food.

“Dad called my cell and said he’ll be late,” I told him.

The tension drained out of Chris in a way that was impossible to miss. He slurped the last of his soda, then buried the contraband in the trash, while I made myself a plate of leftover chicken salad. We hovered together in the kitchen, standing at the bar.

“Everything go all right at school?”

“Yeah, good, I guess.” Pushing his hands into his pockets, he studied the ugly size-thirteen purple Converse sneakers he’d just had to have. The sneakers crossed and uncrossed. Chris had something on his mind. “Did you find out anything more about my car?”

“I haven’t checked the answering machine yet.” I realized how strange that was. Normally, I went to the answering machine first, hoping there would be a message from Jake, or possibly some unexpected news about Poppy’s case.

Christopher sighed. “I checked it. It’s empty.”

I felt the sting of disappointment, a sharp edge that never seemed to dull. “I’ll check with the insurance company again tomorrow. I was tied up this afternoon.”

Chris’s lips pressed together and turned downward on one side. I ate a few bites of chicken salad. I could tell he was working up to something, deciding whether to let it out or give up without trying.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“I have to go into school early tomorrow to make up an in-class essay I missed. I was thinking . . . Jake’s car’s just sitting there in the garage.”

“Christopher . . .” I drew back, surprised. The car hadn’t moved since we’d brought it home from the airport. For six months it had remained parked in anticipation of Jake’s return. Using it would be like admitting he wasn’t coming back. “You know how your father feels about that car.”
You know how we all feel about that car. That’s Jake’s car. His graduation gift.

Chris sighed and nodded, then pushed off the counter and headed across the kitchen. “Yeah, I know,” he said, as if he wished he hadn’t brought it up. “Can I work out at the field house, then ride home with Coach again tomorrow?”

“I don’t think . . .” If Rob found out I wasn’t keeping Christopher under house arrest, he wouldn’t be happy. “We’d better . . .” I thought of Poppy’s place, and the sandwiches and the work I needed to do tomorrow. “Go ahead and plan on it. Just be home before six, all right?” Rob was never home before six.

“Okay.” Chris left the kitchen and disappeared upstairs for the rest of the evening. I finished eating, passed time sitting absently in front of the television, then checked e-mail. Nothing from Jake, just a forward from Andrea, the real estate lady, showing the online listing for Poppy’s house. She had copied the e-mail to Maryanne’s address, for Mother.

Maryanne had replied on Mother’s behalf.
Looks good. The sooner the better.—M.
Then she’d listed a fax number where paperwork could be sent, should an offer come in. At this point, the prospect of an offer seemed unlikely. So far, there had been no sign of Andrea other than the little billboard in the yard.

I hope no one answers right away,
I thought, and then I realized I hoped Andrea didn’t bring anyone to Poppy’s house ever.

Looking at the picture, I thought again of the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that needed to be made there tomorrow. More old puzzles or games might be hidden in the cedar chest under the window seat in the back bedroom. I hadn’t thought to clean that out when we held the estate sale. Clearly, little Opal needed some things to play with. . . .

I considered the idea as the evening wore on.

The next morning, the window seat was still on my mind. “Chris,” I said as he was preparing to bail out of the car a block from the school, so as not to be seen in the drop-off lane. “Didn’t Aunt Ruth keep toys for you guys under the window seat in the back bedroom?”

He paused with his hand on the door. “Yeah. I think she did. Some puzzles, and coloring books, and little dishes and toy cars and stuff. Why?” His eyes narrowed.

“Oh, no reason.” The answer was out of my mouth before I realized I was once again lying to one of the people I loved most, and there was something truly wrong with that. “I was just thinking. I don’t remember cleaning that out for the estate sale.”