Good Grief (18 page)

20

“Wonderful, you’re
dating,
” Ruth says.

It’s a hot Sunday afternoon in the first week of May. Ruth, Crystal, and I lounge on the porch at Colonel Cranson’s, watching cars jerk and roll through the car wash.

“I guess you could call it that.” Suddenly I want to slide my wedding ring back on. A wedding ring is something you can
hide
behind. It hangs from a gold chain around my neck now, resting against my sternum. Whenever I’m reading, I can’t stop touching it, rubbing my thumb over the bumpy diamond, lifting the ring and holding it between my lips.

I remember thinking with tremendous relief on the morning I got married that I’d never be single again. Never have to worry whether a steamy soiree warranted a blood test. Never have to hide in the bathroom at midnight on New Year’s Eve from the looming sweaty dateless guy at the party.

The leaves on the trees are so green that they look painted on, and the air smells sweet, like soap and wax. Cool spray drifts across the street from the car wash, tickling our skin.

“This should be a spa treatment,” Ruth says, holding up her arms and closing her eyes. She looks beautiful in her long yellow sundress, which matches her hair. I’m proud of her; she came over to announce that she’s not going to let her ex-husband, Mark, move back in.

“Ask me about mica!” Crystal kicks the wicker table and our glasses of iced tea slosh over. A textbook lies open in her lap, a chunk of jagged black rock resting on the pages.

“What do you like about Drew?” Ruth asks me.

“He takes the grocery cart all the way back to the front of the store.” For some reason this is the first thing that comes to mind: Drew’s inherent conscientiousness.

“What’s he look like?” Ruth asks.

“
Ask
me about
mica,
” Crystal repeats. She squeezes the rock, its surface glittering in the sunlight. She’s dying to impress her teacher with her earth science presentation. He’s around her dad’s age, and I think she’s got a huge crush on him.

“I’ll help you in a minute,” I tell her. “You’re interrupting.”

“But this is
our
day.” Crystal glances sideways at Ruth. “Why does
she
have to be here?”

“Feel free to address me directly anytime,” Ruth says coolly.

Now I feel as though I’ve got two teenage daughters.

The sleeves of Crystal’s football jersey hang in bell shapes over her wrists. She sucks some of the fabric into her mouth and chews.

Ruth’s wicker chair creaks as she shifts her weight toward Crystal. “I’m sorry.” She peers up from under the brim of her straw hat. “Tell us about mica.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” I tell Ruth.

“Mica is any group of chemically and physically related mineral silicates . . .” Crystal shifts her eyes downward, peering at an index card on the table that’s filled with her big loopy handwriting in blue ballpoint pen. “Um . . . common in igneous and metamorphic rocks, each containing, um . . .” She picks up the card and reads slowly, “Hydroxyl,
alk
. . . alkali, and aluminum silicate groups, characteristically splitting into flexible sheets used in insul, insul—
shit
!” She gives up, flipping the card like a Frisbee into the grass. “I’m so
stupid
!” She bangs her bare heel on the porch and slides down in her chair until her chin rests on her chest.

“No, you’re not,” I tell her, retrieving the card.

“What
ever.
I picked mica because it’s, like, the prettiest, but I totally can’t
say
all that stuff.” She looks at the piece of inky rock accusingly.

“What’s metamorphic rock?” Ruth asks, giggling. “Is that a genre of music?”

I laugh, spurting out a little tea.

“It’s not
funny.
” Crystal snaps her textbook shut.

If Ethan were here, he’d have Crystal reciting eloquent paragraphs about mica in no time.

Last night, I dreamed Ethan and I were baking French bread on the big pine kitchen table at Colonel Cranson’s. As he punched down the dough, there was color in his cheeks and his eyes were bright. Then I was awake, fumbling under the covers, expecting to feel his arm or leg or the river of his pulse running through his belly. I snapped on the light and recorded the dream in a notebook that Sandy said we should keep by our beds. I was relieved that Ethan wasn’t ill in the dream. No tubes or bandages. It seemed possible that I might never dream of Ethan sick again, as though the cancer had gone away, as though he’d finally gotten better.

“Mr. Matthews is gonna think this
sucks,
” Crystal moans now. She picks at the mica’s brittle top layer, which flakes off like nail polish.

“When’s your project due?” Ruth asks.

The dryers in the car wash build to a high-pitched whir.

“Wednesday,” Crystal says to me, ignoring Ruth.

“Don’t worry,” I urge, trying to adopt Ethan’s optimism. “We’ll do some research and present it in layman’s terms that are easy to understand.” I pace across the porch, brainstorming mica.

“What’s
that
mean?” Crystal says.

“That means for people like you and me who aren’t so good at math and science.”

“But you’re, like, good at
everything,
” Crystal says, annoyed.

I stop pacing, floored by Crystal’s faith in me. She knows I can’t sew or do algebra. The peeling paint on the porch tickles my bare feet. “Oh, no,” I tell her. “
Ruth’s
good at everything.”

“Yeah,
right,
” Ruth says, chewing her ice. In college, whenever she and I teamed up on something—a duet in choir or a doubles tennis match—she joked that we were like Lucy and Ethel. But I always thought we were like Lucy and Grace Kelly.

“I don’t want to stand in front of the class and, like,
talk
in front of everyone.” Crystal tosses the mica in the grass and chews her fingernails.

I pull her hand from her mouth.

“Amber and Tiffanie did their projects together on sand,” she continues. “They, like, wore
bathing
suits and shorts, and they were such
dorks.
But Mr. Matthews laughed and gave them an A.”

Crystal tosses her science book at the mica. It lands with a thud on the lawn. “I’m going to stay home sick next week,” she says. “Why can’t Mr. Matthews teach something easier? He’s
totally
nice.”

I remember admiring a teacher this much. In fourth grade I fell in love with Miss Brown. Everything about her was brown—long brown hair that swept across her back and a brown wool beret. She even drove a little brown Celica. During science class Miss Brown took us for walks in the woods to pick up litter, which she said was terrible for the environment. She was beautiful, unlike the third-grade teacher, Miss Dillon, who had a bulbous mole on her chin and a disposition that flashed like lightning, threatening to shut down recess at any moment. “Can Miss Brown live with us?” I begged my mother. I felt Miss Brown would make a perfect addition to our too-small family.

“No, sweetie, she has her own house.”

“I’m
slow,
” Crystal says now, snapping her lighter on to light a cigarette. “That’s what my mom said.”

“Well, I’m sure she meant slow as in it takes you a while to find your coat slow,” I tell Crystal. “She didn’t mean stupid slow.”

“You can’t
say
that to kids,” Ruth says incredulously, frowning at Crystal’s cigarette.

“What
ever,
” Crystal snaps at her. “I’m, like,
flunking
pre-algebra.”

“You are not flunking,” I tell her. “You retook that test and got a C. That’s a big improvement.”

Crystal looks away and slides a hand up the sleeve of her jersey. I know she’s picking at the scabs on her arms. She hasn’t cut herself for almost two weeks. She’s made a pact with her psychiatrist, promising to call her if she feels like cutting. Meanwhile, she’s taken to compulsively drawing Xs in her notebooks, the pen slicing through the paper as she presses down.

“You’re smart,” I tell her. “You don’t need Mr. Matthews or your mom or Tiffanie and Amber to tell you that. It’s just true.”

The praise makes her flinch. I feel like a dumb self-help cassette tape, but I know if I complimented Crystal ten times a day, she still wouldn’t feel good about herself. She’s the only person I know whose self-esteem is lower than mine right now.

“Maybe you just need a little help with math and science,” Ruth offers.

“That’s what the tutor’s for,” I agree.

Crystal shrugs. “My mom says I can’t keep the tutor because it’s expensive.”

“I’ll pay for it,” I tell her. “It’s not that much.”

“What
ever.
”

“No, not ‘whatever.’ We’re going to get your grades up.”

“Even if you don’t get into vet school, there are lots of other jobs working with animals,” Ruth says.

“Like what?” Crystal grumbles.

“Like working at a pet grooming place, for example,” Ruth stammers, uncertain.

“Great, cutting dogs’
toenails.
”

“No, and training dogs,” Ruth adds. “Maybe training Seeing Eye dogs, and—”

“Or working with horses,” I offer. “You know, brushing them.”

“Horses are expensive,” Crystal says. I can see her mother’s logic at work here, telling Crystal that anything other than going to school and watching TV is too expensive.

“People pay you to take care of them,” Ruth says.

Crystal carves her thumbnail into the paint on the wicker tabletop.

“How much time have you put into this project so far?” I ask her, nodding at the mica. “Honestly? About fifteen minutes copying that card out of the encyclopedia?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, we just need to spend more time on it.” I say this firmly but kindly, just like the mom in the salad dressing ad who insists that her daughter gently tear the lettuce.

When Chef calls me into his office Wednesday afternoon, I wonder if I’m getting fired or demoted again.

“Sophie, may I see you?” He pokes his big bearded head out of his office, juts out his plum of a lower lip.

“Just a minute.” I set down the sifter, leaving a white spray of cake flour like a giant snowflake across the counter, and jot down how many cups I’ve measured so far.

If he fires me, maybe I’ll start my own little bakery selling the savory cheesecakes I’ve been refining. The recipes are mine, after all. I’ve surfed the Web for tips on creating a business plan. My heart thrummed in my chest as I considered gambling my nest egg on my own little shop in town.

Chef pushes his door shut. His jeans and flannel shirt hang neatly from a hanger on a hook on the back of the door, and his toque sits at attention on the corner of his desk.

“Have a seat,” he says, shuffling papers. My pink slip? News that you have to sit down for is never any good. I lean back in the Windsor chair, the spindles jabbing my spine.

“You’ve been doing a great job,” he mumbles.

I’m waiting for the “but.” I notice a lopsided clay bunny on Chef’s desk that was obviously made by a child. Its head and ears are way too big for its body. I wonder if Chef has a kid or if he’s an uncle, if he’s got a soft spot somewhere.

“George loves the savory cheesecake,” he continues. George is the persnickety owner of the restaurant who makes surprise reconnaissance visits. The first employee to spot George on the premises is supposed to yell, “Red light.” The first person to notice him leave is supposed to say, “Green light.” Then everyone goes back to sitting on the counters or swiping rolls out of the bread warmer.

“And the hazelnut torte is delicious.” Chef closes his eyes and purses his thick lips as though tasting the torte. While he’s one of the last people I’d relish praise from, I’m flattered.

“Thanks.”
Get to the point!

“I’m going to promote you to head baker.”

“Really?” A
promotion
! A kooky swell of self-confidence warms my chest, like when you practice your Oscar acceptance speech in the shower despite the fact that you’ve never even acted. But it’s only a job as a baker, for God’s sake. It’s not as though I’m secretary of state. Who
wouldn’t
get promoted from this rinky-dink, college-student job? “But I’m the
only
baker,” I remind Chef.

“True, but you’ll get a raise and have expanded duties. You’ll continue developing new recipes, order your own supplies, and manage the dishwasher. I may hire you a part-time helper so you won’t have as much prep work.” As he wheels his chair toward me, I catch his musky cologne and beef broth smell. “You’re a hard worker and you’ve got great potential. You’ll get your raise in your next paycheck.” Chef extends a doughy hand. I’m afraid a neck rub’s on the way, so I thank him and scoot out the door, bumping into the dishwasher, who’s on his way in to work.

“Sorry, man,” he says. He always calls me man.

Head baker. I turn back to my station, the late afternoon sun making the butcher block on the counter glow golden. Who knows, maybe one day I will open my own café. I picture customers sitting at sidewalk tables and tearing open sugary brioches, the sweet steam inside offering a bit of solace.

Early one Sunday morning the phone rings; it’s Marion. She makes small talk for a few minutes, managing to be pleasant and insulting at the same time. She asks if I’ve had a chance to explore Oregon’s beautiful hiking trails and maybe drop a few pounds in the process. Then she asks me to put Ethan on the line. At first I think she’s joking.

“Yeah, right, there are a few things I’d love to ask him,” I tell her. “Like where he put my passport!” To this day I haven’t found it. “Oh, and I’d love to be able to tell him that I got a promotion at work.”

“That’s nice, dear. Are you trying cases now?”

I realize she’s completely off her nut.

“I’m a baker,” I tell her.

“Ohhhh. A
baker.
” She always went overboard in tone when trying to feign interest in my life. “Is Ethan out mowing the lawn?” she adds impatiently.

The
lawn
? Ethan? My breath catches in my chest.

“No. He’s
dead.
Remember?”

The buzzer goes off in Marion’s kitchen and she says she’s got to run and take cookies out of the oven for the church bazaar. She asks me to have Ethan call her when he gets back in, then hangs up.