Recipes for Disaster (23 page)

Mary throws a pillow at him. “My God, that’s a verbatim soundbite CNN has been repeating all day!”

Jeff throws it back at her. “Can I help it if I’ve memorized it? Hell, it’s all anyone says on the damn boob tube—”

“Jeff, if your mother hears you curse, you’ll get a mouthful of soap,” Jack warns him. “Enough already, both of you! Give it a break!” 

They quiet down, but their eyes stay fixated on the TV screen, where the crowd of DNC delegates shouts above the band blaring 
Happy Days Are Here Again
. Blue and white balloons tumble from the roof of the ballroom in a shower of glittering confetti as Catherine strides onto the stage, waving triumphantly to those who have just voted her their party’s nominee to be the next president of the United States.

Even when the band stops playing, the crowd’s roar only grows louder. Congresswoman Catherine Connelly Martin stands tall at the podium, in an elegant royal blue dress. Her eyes glisten triumphantly as she scans the room. She seems to glow as if she is absorbing their admiration into every cell of her body.

 Finally her audience grows silent. When she speaks, her voice never wavers, but gets stronger with each sentence. She talks of adversity, and sacrifice, and family. She decries a world of hatred, fear, and terror, calling instead for one in which prosperity reaches “every city, every town, every village and every person.” She warns the crowd that the tasks ahead won’t be easy. “It will take each and every one of us to fight the war on hatred. To take down those whose aim is to oppress us—not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, fiscally, and morally.”

“With that last line, she’s thrown in every platitude there is,” Jack murmurs.

Not quite. There’s more to come. Next, she hones in on the real point of her speech—that “you, the American people, can never forget what has made us strong in desperate times. Well ladies and gentlemen, times are once again desperate! This is why I call on you, once again, to be strong! To, like me, use  your tragedy as the catalyst to right the world—your world.” She pauses. “Our world.” 

A picture of Catherine and her family, arm in arm, appears on the JumboTron screen behind her. A moment later, a faint halo glows behind Robert’s head.

Catherine stares at the screen for a moment, then reaches up, as if to embrace it. “A man does not die for something which he himself does not believe in,” she declares. She then turns back to face the crowd. “All great movements are popular movements. They are the volcanic eruptions of human passions and emotions, stirred into activity by ruthless tragedy, or by the torch of the spoken word cast into the midst of the people. May my husband’s tragedy light the way for us all!”

“Seriously, did she just quote 
Mein Kampf
?” Jeff taps away on his iPad, hoping to find a citation for the passage.

Jack shakes his head in awe. “I hope Hilldale Middle holds onto this Civics teacher.” 

Mary groans. “When did you turn into such a little nerd?” 

Jeff’s retort is lost as his sister shushes him and points toward the TV. “Listen! I think she just announced that Mr. Chiffray was going to be … 
her running mate
?”

All eyes turn back to the TV set. Lee bounds onto the stage next to Catherine. They clasp their hands and raise them and bow to the crowd.

Jack lets loose with a long whistle. “I guess now we won’t be the only ones trying to figure out the mysterious Mr. Chiffray.”

“If they do, I hope they let his wife in on the secret. She’s dying to know.”

“I am so proud to have Lee by my side,” Catherine declares. “He is a tech industry leader and visionary who has been welcomed in the homes and hearts of world leaders everywhere. As a person with no experience in Big Government—but decades of experience in big ideas that have paid off in big dividends for his stockholders—Lee will play an integral role in my mission to streamline our government, and to attract the best and the brightest. No more ‘government as usual.’ It’s time to make your government accountable—to see it pay off—for you, our country’s stockholders!”

Catherine takes a step back so that Lee can take a solo bow in the spotlight. 

On cue, all the crowd placards flip to their back sides. No longer do they read WIN WITH MARTIN, but now say GOVERNMENT: PAY OFF!

Jack snorts so hard, he almost falls off the couch. 

Mary smacks his arm. “Dad, please be quiet! Evan just walked on the stage! Oh my God, he looks so sad!”

Babette and Janie walk on stage, nudging Evan to accompany them. Catherine takes his arm in hers, as if she’ll never let him go.

I guess that’s why the kid looks so scared.

I can’t take it anymore. I stumble into the kitchen, looking for anything to keep myself occupied, so that my mind doesn’t ponder the obvious outcome playing out, right before our eyes:

Catherine may be our next president. 

Alas, my suspension has made me manic in all my housewifery tasks. The dishes are done. The floor is swept. The windows sparkle like diamonds. The cake I made earlier this afternoon has been iced, and dinner is warming in the oven. 

My eyes roam hungrily around the room for a miniscule task:

The box left by Aunt Phyllis now crammed under the window seat.

Next stop, the garbage can.

I pick it up and take it out the back door.

Our dogs won’t take the message that I’m in no mood to play with them right now. I sidestep Rin Tin Tin, only to hear Lassie yelp when I step on her paw. I back up into the trash can when she jumps up onto me, and the box falls, scattering its contents all over the driveway.

This puts me on my hands and knees, gathering up the flotsam and jetsam of my so-called ’tween life. A Rubik’s Cube. An 
Alf
lunch box. A boom box. A Mary Lou Retton poster, and one of The Clash. And an avalanche of cassette tapes. As I toss them back into the box, the juke box in my brain skips from one tune to the next. First Michael Jackson mourns 
Billy Jean
. Next, The Police contemplate 
Every Breath She Takes
. In homage of Bobby’s kiss, I almost cut my hair like Annie Lennox. Why not look like her? The words, 
Sweet Dreams are Made of This
, expressed so perfectly my hope that he’d finally leave CeeCee for me.

What a fool I was back then.

Not much has changed.

The seam of a manila envelope has split open. Its contents litter the driveway. I bend down quickly, in order to pick them up before the breeze scatters them beyond my reach. They are mostly condolence cards, addressed to my father and me, and dated the week of my mother’s funeral. Back then I was too distraught to read them, and left most of them, unopened, on my mother’s kitchen counter. 

Aunt Phyllis must have shoved them in the envelope for safekeeping, where they stayed, the year I met and fell in love with Carl; even after my father’s death.

My mother would have been shocked at the thought that I’d never acknowledged the condolences of those who reached out to my father and me. Out of shame, I do so now.

My eyes tear up as I read their written thoughts of the woman I thought I knew so well. They describe her as “funny and bright,” and “always there for others” and “a friend indeed.”  

How I could use her now.

When I get to a card addressed solely to me, the handwriting stirs a long-lost memory. Inside is a letter as opposed to a card. 

It is signed by Bobby, and dated the day before my mother died. I flip over the envelope. Yes, the postmark is the same date.

The letter reads:

Dear Donna,

I want to apologize for any pain I may have caused you. I know I must have hurt you pretty badly because you no longer look in my direction and you walk off whenever I’m around. What CeeCee did was mean. And I was stupid to let her talk me into leading you on. She said you were like some of those girls who will do anything for a guy, even if he’s someone else’s boyfriend. I didn’t realize until it was too late that you aren’t like that at all.

You probably hate me, and I don’t blame you. But I still want you to know that I’m only with CeeCee because she’s got no one else in her life (her parents suck) and she’s not half as strong as you are.  

She’s not half as pretty, either.

If you ignore me from now on, I’ll understand. Just do me a favor and don’t let anyone take advantage of you like I almost did. You’re too sweet. No guy deserves you.

Okay, maybe I do. At least I hope you’ll think so one day and forgive me.

I’ll look you up when you’re a senior, when I’m home from college.

XXX and I mean it,

Bobby

This must be the snub Robert referred to, regarding that day so long ago after my high school’s basketball game, a few years after our last kiss. 

By then, the chasm in my heart had opened even deeper. Mother was gone, and Father was drinking himself to death.

I no longer need Bobby to warn me against boys like him. I’d found my solace on the firing range, with my Lady Smith & Wesson. 

Still, it would have been nice to have him around, to share jokes and dreams and secrets.

To kiss again.

No doubt Catherine misses his kisses, too. No amount of votes will change that.

If she doesn’t realize that already, she’ll find out soon enough.

Chapter 17

Witch Hunt

In politics, this is a vindictive, often irrational, investigation that preys on the public’s fears of political candidates behaving badly. 

It would be nice if they weren’t so often proven right.

The reference originally refers to witch hunts that took place in 17th-century Salem, Massachusetts, where many innocent women accused of witchcraft were burned at the stake or drowned.

Another fairy tale has a witch handing Snow White an apple. Here’s an updated, even more delicious recipe for this always tempting fruit:

Apple Dumplings

(From Donna Rich, Cape Hatteras, North Carolina)

Ingredients

2 Granny Smith Apples – peeled, cored, and cut into eight wedges each.

1 can Grands-type buttermilk biscuits, separated

1 stick Butter 

3/4 cup of Sugar 

1 cup of Water

1 ½ tsp Cinnamon and ¼ tsp Sugar

Directions

1: Roll each biscuit flat.

2: Top with an apple wedge, and seal around the edges

3: Place in 9 x 13-inch baking dish.

4: Bring the stick of butter, water and sugar to a boil, to create a sauce. 

5:  Pour the sauce over biscuit wedges. 

6: Sprinkle with cinnamon sugar mixture. (A dash of nutmeg may also be added.)

7:  Bake at 350 degrees, for 30 minutes, or until browned and bubbly.

8: Let cool, then enjoy with ice cream or whipped cream!

A personal summons from Ryan to come to Acme’s offices as soon as possible has me floating on air. 

Unfortunately, I get it during my volunteer time in the Hilldale Middle School’s lunch room. I’m supposed to be doling out Brussels sprouts, but the kids only want them as Milk Pong pucks, so when Hayley isn’t watching, I whisper to the kids that I’m fronting a tournament with a ten-dollar prize for the winner. 

In no time at all, I’m out of sprouts, and outta there.

When I walk into Acme, I do look marvelous. Five-inch heels and a body-hugging sweater over a pencil-thin skirt with a slit in the back that reveals the black seams crawling up my stockings will do that for a girl. 

I’m dressed to remind Ryan why he’s always considered me one of Acme’s most valuable assets: because I’m a sexy femme fatale who, with a single finger—placed tantalizingly on his lips, or curled around a gun trigger—can get any man to divulge his deepest, darkest secret. 

During my suspension period, I’ve been doing a little soul searching. My quest has turned me upside downward dog (yoga) and into the conjugation of verbs (French) and to the end of a six-mile run. 

During my worst days, my search takes me to the bottom of a bottle of a highly rated Pinot Noir.