The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend (30 page)

Once he had done the dishes, he wiped down the counter and the other surfaces in the kitchen so that they were practically gleaming. As close as they would get to gleaming, anyway. He could see they were doing their best.

It was a nice kitchen, he thought. Friendly and unassuming.

He decided to take on the floor next. It needed sweeping and vacuuming. He hung up the bags and jackets in the hallway, and put all of the bits and pieces he found in the living room in a pile on the sofa so that he could wipe the table.

He hummed to himself while he vacuumed. It had been a long time since he last had anything useful to do, apart from helping out with the bookstore. He stretched. Sophy would have been proud if she could have seen him now.

‘So you see,' he said to her, ‘Dad's not out for the count yet.'

‘Ah, Claire,' Grace said, as though it was entirely normal that she was there. Claire hadn't stopped by for several years; Grace assumed that she saw enough hamburgers at work.

She poured them both a coffee as Claire sat down in front of her. ‘You know,' she said, ‘I've always liked you.'

There was nothing suspicious in Grace's tone.

‘Smart move, not marrying Graham,' she continued. ‘Boring type.'

‘How did you know it was him?'

Grace dismissed the question with a sweeping gesture, cigarette in hand.

‘Process of elimination. There weren't that many candidates to begin with, and you quickly decided you didn't want to get married. If it had been Tom or one of the others, you would've at least considered it.'

‘Tom and I, we've never …'

‘Well, that was a waste, if you ask me. Anyway, it's good that you stood your ground. You've raised your daughter to be strong. That's a sign of class.' She blinked. ‘Despite Graham. Though if we're honest, us Graces have also fallen for the wrong men in our time. Nothing wrong with that, of course. The trick is just not staying with them.'

‘Isn't it funny that you can be together with men who are so wrong for you that afterward you feel like you've been “cured” of them?' said Claire. ‘Like a cold. You get them, you get cured, you move on.'

‘Like colds,' said Grace. ‘I like it. Hits the nail on the head, doesn't it?'

Claire asked for another cup of coffee. ‘I've got a really long shift left,' she said.

Grace had taken in Claire's work uniform – the short black skirt, gym shoes and a white piqué shirt – her weary posture and facial expression, and come to the conclusion that Claire had already been to work. ‘Not more work, surely?' she said. Claire worked in two different hamburger joints, all the shifts she could.

‘I've got to find somewhere to buy home-made cakes.'

‘Sugar craving?' asked Grace, and Claire laughed.

‘Caroline's ordered me to have a cake stand. Apparently it's not a real market without one.'

There was a certain whining tiredness in her voice, but if she had been expecting sympathy she would probably be disappointed.

Instead, Grace chuckled and shook her head. ‘I wonder how many of those cakes are just passed back and forth between markets?'

‘Not as often as jelly,' said Claire. She gave a weary smile and made a move to get up.

‘Wait,' said Grace. ‘I want to test something on you.'

‘Mm?'

‘I've always said you should avoid being drawn into things, and especially into other people's business.'

Claire seemed to have no idea what Grace was talking about, but she sat down again. ‘Sounds smart,' she said.

‘Yeah. It does, doesn't it? But my friend Idgie has opened my eyes.' Claire looked like she was wondering who the hell this Idgie was, but Grace hadn't seemed to notice. She continued. ‘If you're tough and ballsy and, well, not as wimpish or idiotic as everyone else – shouldn't you offer people support? Don't you have a kind of moral obligation?'

‘Maybe,' Claire said cautiously. ‘Though I don't know whether I could. It's hard enough just going from job to job.'

‘Idgie gave liquor and food to hobos, and when an elephant needed to be won in a game of poker, well, she didn't hesitate to do that either. Makes you think, right?' Grace leaned against the counter and lit a cigarette.

‘Sure,' said Claire. ‘But an elephant … do you need an elephant?'

Grace gestured impatiently with her cigarette.

‘I can sort out the cakes for you,' she said. ‘Not many people know it, but I can actually bake. I've got an old family recipe for a fantastic rum-raisin cake. The secret is not using any rum.'

Claire blinked. ‘The market's on Saturday,' she said.

‘No problem.'

‘I'll pay you.'

‘No chance. Away with you now.'

It felt surprisingly good to see Claire's car approaching. George was sitting in his kitchen and he watched her park and climb out, still moving lethargically but not looking quite as resigned as the last time he'd seen her. She paused at her front door, resting her forehead against it as though it would be completely impossible to open it and face everything again.

He was happy that he had cleaned. He thought she would appreciate it. He spent a moment imagining her smiling face when she saw the clean floor, her relief when she saw the empty sink.

Then the first doubts crept in: would she think it was presumptuous of him? Just going into her apartment like that? Would she even realise that it had been him? Should he have left a note, apologised?

Finally, she unlocked the door, stepped inside and pulled it shut behind her.

It was a kind gesture, wasn't it, Sophy? he asked nervously. He couldn't see Claire any more. He had no idea how she had reacted.

She came over half an hour later, and she did not look happy. Her face was expressionless and her body tense, like she was fighting to keep control. He looked nervously at her and showed her into the kitchen, where she flopped into one of the chairs as though she couldn't keep herself upright any longer.

He wondered whether he should say something, explain himself, but in the end he simply put the coffee on and leaned back against the refrigerator in the same way he had done at her place. It felt better to stay standing.

‘I came to thank you,' she said, not sounding even the slightest bit grateful. In actual fact, she almost sounded aggressive. Just then, he noticed that she had a bottle of wine with her. She followed his gaze down to the bottle of wine, as though she had only just realised that it might not be the best gift for a newly sober alcoholic, and to his horror she reacted by bursting into tears.

Now he really didn't know what to say.

She gave what might have been a brief laugh but could just have easily have been a hiccup.

‘My God,' she said. ‘Look at me. Sitting here crying about an empty sink like a complete idiot.'

‘I …' he said, before falling silent. ‘Do you want a glass of wine maybe?'

She laughed, a real laugh this time. Then she added hesitantly: ‘Are you …?'

‘I'll have a cup of coffee. Don't worry, I can resist a bottle of red wine. It's never really been my thing anyway. Liquor, on the other hand.'

She smiled weakly.

‘OK,' she said. ‘Good.'

‘I hope you weren't angry?' he said. ‘I just wanted to help out.'

‘Help out!' She looked around his apartment. It was an exact copy of hers, though the mirror image, and utterly clean and tidy.

He smiled. ‘I've got nothing better to do.'

‘Clearly not.'

‘No,' he said quietly. He opened the bottle of wine in a quick, fluid movement which made her raise an eyebrow. ‘Plenty of experience,' he said. ‘Just because it wasn't my favourite doesn't mean I turned it down.' He poured her a glass and a cup of coffee for himself. ‘Though I'm not completely calm,' he admitted. ‘I don't really know if I should go to the dance. Since it'll be at the Square, I mean. Maybe it's best to avoid temptation.'

‘How's it going with … everything?' she asked, looking uncomfortable.

‘It's going well,' he said.

Claire nodded.

‘It's down to Sophy,' he said.

‘And Michelle?'

He smiled wearily. ‘No, she doesn't mean much to me any more.'

‘Don't worry about the dance,' said Claire. ‘If you want, I can keep an eye on you. If I see you anywhere near a bottle, I'll hit you on the head with it.'

That reassured him, but he wanted to be sure they understood one another. ‘You don't need to do it if it's a bottle of Coca-Cola,' he said.

Claire laughed so much at his attempt at a joke that he wasn't even slightly uneasy any longer. She
would
hit him on the head if he was about to fall off the wagon.
It'll be OK, Sophy
, he said to himself.

Claire drank the rest of her wine and got to her feet. Before she left, she paused in the hallway. She seemed more relaxed to him now. If her eyes were still slightly blank, at least they weren't full of tears.

‘George,' she said over her shoulder, not really looking at him. ‘Your cleaning?'

He nodded.

‘It's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me.'

Once she had gone, he stood in the kitchen looking at the half-full bottle of wine. He paused for only a moment before he put the cork back in and placed it on a shelf.

‘You know, Sophy,' he said, ‘I think I can actually promise you I'll never drink again.'

WHEN CAROLINE VISITED
her niece the following day, she was impressed for a number of reasons. Not only was the apartment unusually clean and tidy (even to her critical eye), but Claire had also managed to bake an utterly fantastic rum-raisin cake.

Caroline graciously cut a small piece for herself and amiably asked for the recipe. She felt more well disposed to her niece than she had for years.

But Claire managed only to stutter a completely improbable description of the cake standing in front of them. So improbable that Caroline couldn't help but wonder whether Claire had been slightly … tipsy when she baked it.

One part of her said that if Claire had managed to produce
this
when she was drunk, it was all the more impressive.

Caroline! said the other.

Eventually, Claire admitted that she hadn't baked it herself after all.

‘Did you
buy
it?' There was plenty more Caroline wanted to say on the subject, but she managed to hold it back. Instead, she asked: ‘What're we going to do about the market, then? We've got to have a whole stand of home-made cakes. If you'd told me earlier you couldn't manage, I could've sorted it out somehow, but now –'

‘We'll have the stand,' said Claire.

‘But how? You can't buy enough cakes to fill a stand. How will you afford that?' She paused for thought. ‘I suppose I'll have to pay for them,' she said reluctantly. The thought of being involved in selling shop-bought cakes at a market was worrying but not, she admitted to herself with a dry smile, as worrying as other things she had been buying lately. ‘How much do you need?'

Claire didn't seem nearly as interested in accepting her help as Caroline had thought. It looked as though she was weighing something up.

‘I didn't buy it,' she said.

Fifteen minutes later, Caroline marched into Grace's.

‘I hear you've been helping my niece,' she said.

Grace leaned against the counter and said: ‘I do what I can.' Then, suspiciously, she added: ‘Helping?'

‘With the baking.'

‘She told you I could
bake
? Couldn't she just have told you I was the Antichrist instead?'

‘Your rum-raisin cakes are fantastic.'

‘It's not rum.'

‘I don't want to know.'

Grace shrugged.

‘I think you should have a stand at the market. In your own name.'

Grace took an involuntary step backwards and stared at her in shock. ‘“Grace's Hamburgers”?' she said with as much sarcasm as she could muster.

‘I was thinking of something more along the lines of “Grace's Home-Made Cakes”.'

Sara looked up in surprise as a dark shadow blocked the light. Grace was towering in the doorway with an agitated expression which made Sara feel thankful that at the least she didn't have a shotgun to hand. She was still wearing her work clothes and smelled strongly of frying, but she had taken off her apron. She gushed the entire story about the cakes, Claire and Caroline in three short, agitated sentences.

‘It's an insult!' Grace continued. ‘And it's your fault. You and that damn Idgie and all those hobos, making me soft.'

‘Uh,' Sara said. ‘Do you want to come in?'

Grace stormed into the bookshop and sat on one of the armchairs with jerky, furious movements. Sara hesitated over by the counter. The shop suddenly felt very small. Grace had the ability to take up the entire room wherever she happened to be.

‘They want me to have a stand at the market.'

‘And, uh, what do they want you to sell?'

She wasn't quite sure it was entirely acceptable to be selling home-distilled alcohol at a market where there would be children and teenagers.

‘Home-made cakes,' Grace said in an ominous tone.

‘But that sounds nice,' Sara replied, relieved.

‘Nice! She's just doing it to provoke me. The point is that we Graces never let ourselves be drawn into this town's problems. We might create new ones, but us Graces having a stand of home-made cakes! As though we … as though we were collecting money for
the church
. And out in the open, too. Not even we're that shameless.' She paused, thinking. ‘Well, maybe Mom.'

‘Do you want some coffee?'

‘It's one thing doing it anonymously. I'm not saying the Grace women have never stepped up to help before, though probably not for church collections. Aside from Mom, but she was who she was.'