How Sweet It Is (13 page)

C
harlotte, the quiet girl with long, dark hair and large round eyes, has a face that looks like a doll in the American Girl collection. While she might smile and show rows of bright teeth, she rarely says a word except to ask if she can go to the restroom. Miriam told me that this girl was abandoned by her mother at age five. Her mother, then only twenty-four, ran off with a Native American blackjack dealer. They left secretly in the night while Charlotte and her sister slept in their beds at home. Their maternal grandmother took care of them until her death, and then an aunt. Now twelve-year-old Charlotte lives with her sister, Cindy, who is twenty. Cindy works as a waitress at the Fryemont Inn’s restaurant, and rents an apartment on the edge of town.

“Is she always so quiet?” I asked Miriam once about Charlotte.

“Yes,” Miriam answered. “She is afraid of people, and especially of people leaving her.” She was in her office sipping from a mug of fresh coffee, taking a break from a hectic morning meeting with The Center’s accountant. I watched as she rubbed tension from her neck with one hand, balancing the chipped ceramic mug in the other. “Charlotte thinks, like most of these kids, that it was something she did to cause all those she cared about in life to abandon her.”

“Her fault? How could it be her fault?” My voice reached that high-pitched level Mom despises. “I mean, of course it’s not.”

Miriam found a place for the mug on her crowded desk. “No amount of convincing will make her believe it isn’t. The social workers try.”

I felt a familiar pain welling inside my chest when I heard that. How many hours had I spent after the accident, while working on my jigsaw puzzles, trying to convince myself that Lucas leaving me was not my fault? I blamed myself for his behavior, until finally, one night I realized that those pieces didn’t fit. He had made his own choices.

Just before Miriam headed off to a fundraising meeting, she told me, “Charlotte is quiet, but don’t let that make you think she’s not taking everything in. She is a smart cookie.”

And now in the church kitchen on this Wednesday afternoon, Charlotte is raising her hand in response to my question—“ Who wants to volunteer to slice tomatoes for a chef salad?”

Pinch me. I have the urge to dance around the kitchen. I motion for her to get out of her seat and come to the cutting board.

Slowly, she makes her way toward me, her long hair pushed away from her face by a silver headband. I watch as she carefully takes a juicy red tomato from the cluster I purchased and holds it under the running faucet in the sink. Timidly, she places the tomato on the cutting board. I want to help her so I look for a knife, but she has found one and uses it to cut the fruit in half. “This child has been listening!” I want to shout. In spite of all her restroom visits, she’s been paying attention.

Rainy lifts her sunglasses from her eyes and echoes my thoughts. “Nice job, Charlotte.”

Then Zack enters the room and all form of order is lost. The kids jump up to greet him, their chairs sliding across the linoleum. As he approaches Charlotte, she stops cutting to give him a hug.

Lucky guy. Bubba pounces onto his back, but Zack tells him to behave since this is Miss Livingston’s class. I smile and excuse myself, saying I need to get the other ingredients from my Jeep for the salad. I doubt anyone even notices as I leave the kitchen. They have King Zack with them; what more could they need?

Once again, I wish I could be the popular teacher who breathes peace and harmony. Walking toward my Jeep, I think that I could recline in the front seat, take a little siesta, and they’d never miss me. Chef B would be proud of me because I wrote five pages in my journal last night, but that meant I didn’t get to sleep until almost one. Which is probably why I left the majority of the ingredients for the salad in my Jeep.

From the trunk of my car, I take out a bag filled with lettuce, radishes, and cucumbers. I anticipate the taste of the salad we are about to prepare. Earlier I placed a jar of my own balsamic vinaigrette dressing in the kitchen’s fridge. I made a batch of it a few nights ago as I listened to my Vivaldi CD. Maybe Zack can join us and we can all eat the salad in the fellowship hall and comment on how perfect the dressing is. It occurs to me, then, to wonder if kids like balsamic vinaigrette dressing.

When I get to the glass front door of The Center, I see Bubba race out of the kitchen and down the hallway toward me. He flings open the door and yells, “Hurry!”

“What is it?”

His face is streaked with perspiration. “Charlotte!” he cries.

“What?”

“She cut her finger with the knife!”

We both rush into the kitchen and sure enough, Zack is securing a wet paper towel around Charlotte’s index finger.

“Is her finger still attached?” asks Bubba, making attempts to catch his breath. He may be skinny, but apparently he is not used to running.

Charlotte’s face is flushed, and I can see that she’s trying hard not to cry. She clings to Zack and sinks her teeth into her lower lip like Sally does.

Joy is crying. Massive sobs puff from her lungs.

Bubba repeats, “Is her finger still attached?”

From my purse, I grab a Band-Aid—a wide sterile strip with chocolate cupcakes on it. I found these chocolate cupcake bandages at an outlet store in Atlanta last fall. I peel off the paper cover and wrap it around the tip of Charlotte’s finger. Immediately, blood leaks through; I contain my nausea by swallowing a few times. Adding another Band-Aid, I wait to see. There is no sign of blood. “I think that did the trick,” I say.

“Wow,” says Dougy. “Miss Livingston even has Band-Aids with food on them!”

I smile in spite of the situation. Then I clean up the blood that dots the cutting board and knife. I don’t know what else to do. I want to hug Charlotte, but I notice Darren is glaring at me from his perch at the back of the room.

I suppose I should have offered a course in basic knife skills before allowing one of the students to use a knife in the kitchen. What was I thinking? These kids usually eat at McDonalds; they’ve probably never had cause to use a sharp knife before.

Zack tells the kids to get back in their chairs. Looking at me, he says, “It’s going to be fine.”

That is his standard reply to everything.

No one wants salad now, so we continue to make sure that Charlotte is going to be fine. She’s enjoying all the attention, and I think to myself that she deserves it. She’s had a rough day, and from what I’ve heard, her life’s been no slice of apple pie.

nineteen

A
s I store the salad in the fridge and then fill the sink to wash the dishes after class, I gaze out the kitchen window. Zack, dressed in shorts and a blue T-shirt, plays basketball with the guys and Lisa. Rainy, Charlotte, and Joy are on the sidelines. Charlotte is still getting lots of attention due to her wounded finger. Earlier, I watched Darren open the door for her when the group charged outside.

Lisa grabs the ball Zack gently tosses to her. The other girls cheer. Lisa flies down the court, her long brown hair swaying. Bobby sticks his fleshy abdomen at her, forcing her to stop. She looks for Zack, who is being blocked by Bubba, although it is hard for any five-foot-tall kid weighing approximately ninety-two pounds to really guard a man over six feet tall. As Lisa throws the ball to Zack, Darren tears down the court, snatches it out of the air, and rushes toward the other basket for a shot. The cheering section goes wild. In spite of Zack’s attempts, Darren scores two points. Bobby and Darren slap a high five.

How easy it is for Zack to reach these kids. He’s such a natural. Darren smiles when he’s with him. Darren has never smiled at me. The kid is like a splinter in my finger. I want to make him carry slop for the pigs until his arms wear out and then see if he’ll be too tired to irritate me with his defiant words. Zack must have opened up his own soul and let Jesus pour in the fruits of the spirit—all that patience, kindness, and joy. He oozes with every one of those on the basketball court. I know that he knows about each child’s history—how they were bruised or abandoned by their parents. Clearly, he is familiar with every child’s likes and dislikes, strengths and weaknesses. It is his job.

Two days ago, when he had to break up a fight between Darren and Dougy, he asked if I’d like to hear more about the children’s histories. I sucked in some air and said, “I really couldn’t.” I didn’t explain any more than that.

When they fight with each other, he knows how to command that they stop it and find a better way to resolve their issues. After the fight between Dougy and Darren, he had the boys write an essay on what they could offer to others around them.

“You mean like money?” asked Dougy. “Cuz I don’t got none of that.” His face was sweaty, and he kept wiping it with the collar of his shirt.

“No,” said Zack. “Things money can’t buy.”

“Ah,” said Dougy, as though a lightbulb had flickered on inside his head. “Priceless things. Like on the MasterCard commercial?”

“Exactly. It’s about who you are as a person. What can you give others?”

Darren started writing, using the same notebook he uses for his drawings. Dougy licked the tip of his pen and got to work. The two boys who had been hitting each other minutes earlier were now calmly contained in chairs, adhering to Zack’s assignment.

If the word
peace-magnet
appeared in the dictionary, the definition would include Zack’s name.

I turn away from the window and pop two Tylenol into my mouth and then realize that the pain is not in my legs or arms. The pain is inside, deeper than any limb. The pain, this time, is in my heart. Sure, I’ve had pain in my heart before, like when I heard Lucas was going out with Ella. I had pain when my almond butter torte didn’t win the Atlanta State Dessert Competition.

This is a different pain.

I’m not exactly sure of its cause.

I feel that if I’m going to have to suffer with pain, I should at least be able to know what’s causing it.

————

On my way home I stop by Ingle’s and buy the ingredients for Grandpa’s Southern Peanut Soup. Strategically, I avoid the magazine rack.

In the cabin’s kitchen, I find a large pan and rinse it out well because I don’t know how long these pots and pans have sat in these cabinets unused. Grandpa traveled a lot, and in his last years he was away much of the time in Greece and other parts of Europe. What a life. Instead of the cabin, he could have left me a plane ticket to Kos. The pictures sure look inviting with the shimmering blue ocean, white beaches, and graceful palm trees. In one picture stuck to the fridge with a magnet that says
It’s all Greek to me
, he stands by a sea that holds more shades of blue than any box of Crayolas.

I read over the recipe and line up all the ingredients needed to make the soup. I like to have everything ready to go and not have to dig around the cupboard for flour or sugar or measuring spoons once I start to create the recipe. I read the end of my grandpa’s instructions for serving the soup.
Eat it from the raccoon bowl.
What is a raccoon bowl? I have searched all over for it and have found nothing with a raccoon on it or in the shape of a raccoon. I’ll have to ask Aunt Regena Lorraine.

When I cook, there has to be music playing. Vivaldi, of course, is my favorite. I turn up the volume and begin to measure the ingredients using my stainless-steel measuring cups and spoons. These were a gift from Lucas, and I did consider tossing them and buying cheap plastic ones to replace them. Then I drank a cup of coffee and thought, “Am I crazy?” Keep the state-of-the-art measuring cups and spoons, girl. One day you will forget who gave them to you and be glad to have them.

I haven’t forgotten who gave them to me yet.

I read over the recipe to make sure I haven’t left anything out.

Ingredients:

   1 T butter
   2 T minced white onions
   2 T flour
   6 cups of chicken broth
   ½ cup heavy cream
   ½ cup milk 1 cup creamy peanut butter
   1 tsp red pepper
   Paprika
   Salt and pepper to taste
   1 cup dry roasted unsalted peanuts, chopped
   Fresh parsley

In a large pot, heat butter and onion over medium heat until tender. Stir in flour. Simmer and stir in chicken broth, cooking until soup thickens. Add other ingredients except the parsley and chopped roasted peanuts. Garnish with parsley and peanuts and serve in individual bowls.

When the soup forms little bubbles along its surface, I ladle two scoops into a small bowl. I sprinkle parsley and peanuts on the top. It looks good, I think. Chef B always told us the appearance of the food we serve at Palacio del Rey is just as important as the taste.

Standing by the stove, I eat. Single people are known for forgoing a sit-down meal so that they can stand in the kitchen and enjoy the solitary experience of eating over the sink or stove. This is how we manage to keep our tablecloths clean.

I stir the soup in my bowl and take another bite, tasting the distinct flavors of cream and peanut butter. I think it needs more salt. Grandpa had high blood pressure, so he probably cut down on the salt when he made this dish. I eat another spoonful. My mouth feels warm. My taste buds are satisfied, grateful. I smile at the picture of Grandpa on the fridge. “Do you get to eat this good in heaven?” I ask.