The Replacement Wife (42 page)

It was the last evening of her cooking class, and she wanted to end it, as she would a proper meal, with dessert. If these kids retained nothing else from the weeks of learning the skills they’d need to get jobs in the restaurant industry, they’d know what a real cake was. Most knew only the store-bought kind: supermarket fare and cheap bakery cakes that tasted like flavored cotton balls. Also, she figured it would provide a welcome distraction from the drama surrounding Tamika and Daarel’s latest breakup, which was simmering like a stockpot on the back burner, the girls siding with Tamika and the boys united in their defense of their man Daarel.

This was their third breakup. It was the same story each time: Tamika was working to better herself, while Daarel’s career goal, if you could call it that, was to become a rapper—a restaurant job would only be until he signed his first record deal, he liked to boast. Tamika was fed up with his “foolish” dreaming and he with her nagging. Yet, though they were worlds apart in terms of ambition, their chemistry was such that they could never stay apart for very long.

Angie’s attention was diverted by a skirmish that had broken out on the fringes of the group, where Tre’Shawn and Julio were unpacking the bags of supplies she’d brought. She watched big, brawny Tre’Shawn give Julio a rough shove that sent the smaller boy reeling. “Watch yo’self, punk!”

“I ain’t no punk!” Julio strutted back over to Tre’Shawn, drawing himself up in an effort to look taller.

Tre’Shawn glared at him. “Then why you ack like one?”

Angie darted over to break it up. “Guys, guys. What’s gotten into you?” Julio and Tre’Shawn had always gotten along well in the past. “Will somebody please tell me what’s going on?”

Tre’Shawn jabbed a finger in Julio’s direction. “He bad-mouthing my boy.” Tre’Shawn took his role as Daarel’s wingman seriously. The two had been best friends since elementary school.

“I ain’t bad-mouthing nobody. All’s I’m saying is there’s two sides to every story.” Julio shot an apprehensive glance over his shoulder at Daarel, a hulking figure to his left. Daarel gave him the stink eye, while Tamika stood with her arms folded over her chest wearing a superior look.

“Right now, there’s only one side. And that is, if you two don’t get back into line, I’ll be royally pissed off,” Angie said in her sternest voice. “Whatever goes on outside this room, I expect you to check it at the door along with your attitude. You’re here to learn, not beat one another up. And since this is our last night, it’d be nice if we could end it on a positive note. Now, who’s up for cake?” She turned to address the other kids, who dropped their defensive postures and brightened. They hooted, and D’Enice did a little dance. Only Chandra looked less than enthused. She cast a dubious eye on the bunch of carrots Julio was pulling from one of the grocery bags.

“What kind of cake?” she asked. Skinny Chandra was not an adventurous eater. The other kids would try anything, and some had even developed a taste for foods that had made them wrinkle their noses at the outset, but Chandra was stubbornly set in her likes and dislikes. She preferred frozen fish sticks to fresh fish properly cooked and boxed mac and cheese to homemade spaghetti
alla carbonara
. She was a devout disciple of Colonel Sanders. Angie considered it a minor triumph that she’d gotten Chandra to eat steak that was medium rare as opposed to well done.

“
What kind?
Girl, who cares? It’s cake!” yelled D’Enice.

“Carrot cake to be exact,” Angie said. “Which is the closest thing to heaven, in my opinion. Now, there are probably more recipes for carrot cake than there are conspiracy theories on who shot JFK”—she ignored the blank looks at the historical reference, preferring not to be reminded of the glaring deficiencies in the city’s public education system—“but this one comes with a pedigree, from none other than the White House. So, if it’s good enough for VIPs and visiting dignitaries, it’s certainly good enough for you guys.” She cast a pointed glance at Chandra. “Okay? Now, if everyone will please put their aprons on, we can get this show on the road.”

She showed them the proper way to measure dry ingredients—
spoon the flour into the measuring cup, then level it off with a knife, so you don’t put in too much
—and how to cream the butter with the sugar—
add the sugar a heaping tablespoon at a time, until the mixture looks like whipped cream.
Raul and Tamika were given the task of peeling and grating the carrots. Tre’Shawn and Daarel cracked the eggs into a bowl. Julio was in charge of grating the nutmeg, which he did with his usual panache, making believe he was in a mariachi band while singing along in a loud voice, which had everyone cracking up. Even Angie joined in on the merriment.

When the batter was ready, she divided it between three cake pans. After the pans had gone into the oven, she unwrapped the cake layers she’d baked the night before. “Now, for the
really
fun part,” she said. Her students looked on, rapt as little children, as she demonstrated the making of the frosting. With the electric mixer, she beat cubes of butter and cream cheese that she’d set out earlier to soften, before sifting a mound of confectioners’ sugar into the bowl, over which she drizzled cream, beating all the while. She finished with a splash of vanilla extract for flavor.

She let each of her students take a turn frosting the cake, using an offset spatula, while she supervised. Tamika, Chandra, and Raul each frosted their portion with painstaking care. Julio, Jermaine, D’Enice, and Tre’Shawn’s efforts were clumsier—more frosting ended up on their fingers, and subsequently in their mouths, than on the cake. Huge, hulking Daarel, with his hands like catcher’s mitts, was the surprise star: He was given the top of the cake to frost and did so expertly, swirling it into little peaks the way she’d shown him, sneaking glances at Tamika all the while.

Angie then handed out plastic spoons and the bowl was passed around so each student could have a lick of the leftover frosting. Tre’Shawn was like a kid at Christmas, so excited he kept snatching the bowl out of the others’ hands, amid hollered protests and threats of retribution. When the bowl was scraped clean, they sat down to eat the cake they’d all had a hand in making.

“Damn, that’s good!” declared D’Enice after one bite.

The others pronounced it the best cake
ever
. Even Chandra polished off her piece.

Julio asked if he could take home a piece of what was left, so his brothers and sisters could have some, which elicited cries of “No fair!” and “Cheater!” from those who seemed to think it an unfair advantage that he had so many siblings. Angie settled the debate by dividing up the remains and giving each student a piece to take home. Then finally, it was time to call it a night. She climbed onto a chair, a move that brought a wave of mock groans. She grinned. “Don’t worry. I’m not known for my oratory skills, so I’ll make this brief.” She scanned the faces of the boys and girls she’d come to think of as family, as noisy and fractious as her own, lovable and aggravating in equal measure. “Well, this has been fun, hasn’t it? Call me crazy, but I’m going to miss your sorry asses. It’s a miracle none of you lost a finger or an eye, the way you samurais handle knives. But you’ve come a long way, and I’m proud of you.” She started to choke up a bit, and paused to clear her throat. “You should be proud of yourselves, too. Believe me, not everyone can fillet a fish or make pasta from scratch. So if any of you should decide to make a career of it . . .”

“Hoo, boy. Not me, man!” interjected Raul. His cousin worked as a short-order cook and the pay sucked, he declared. After he was shouted down, he was forced to concede, “Well, I guess it wouldn’t be
too
bad, if it was, like, a real restaurant—you know, with tablecloths and stuff.”

“Raul’s right—the pay
does
suck,” Angie told them. “But you don’t do it for the money. You do it because you can’t
not
do it. That’s what’s most important: Whatever you do for a living, you’ve got to love it. You’ve got to love it enough to look forward to going to work each day even if your boss is a jerk or your coworkers give you a hard time. Because even though it may not seem like it right now, life is short. Trust me on that. Way too short to waste it on a job that sucks.”

After she’d said her piece, she started to climb down. But before both feet were on the floor, she was scooped up by a pair of brawny arms and found herself looking into Daarel’s grinning face. He paraded her up and down the length of the cafeteria while she cried out in mock protest and the others hooted and laughed and clapped. When he finally set her down, he did so as gently as if she were made of glass. Then everyone gathered around to say their good-byes.

“We gonna miss you, Miss D,” said Julio. He looked as if he wanted to hug her, but ended up giving her a bro handshake instead.

“You know where to find me, guys. Seriously, don’t make me come after you.” She wagged a finger in mock admonition.

Raul wanted to know if she had a Facebook page. She told him no—when would she have the time?—and he shook his head woefully, saying, “Yo, Miss D. You got to get
down
with it.”

D’Enice and Chandra both had tears in their eyes when they hugged her. Tamika was the only one of the girls who didn’t puddle up; for her, this was the beginning rather than the end. She would continue to work for Angie, after school and on weekends, until she went away to college next year.

Angie’s heart was full as she watched her kids troop out the door, each clutching their wedge of cake, on a paper plate wrapped in Saran Wrap, as proudly as if it were a diploma, which in a way it was. They jostled one another, slapped palms and bumped knuckles, and called out good-natured taunts in parting. Even Tamika and Daarel appeared to have made peace, if only for the moment. They fell into step with each other on their way out, their arms nearly brushing.

Angie thought of Edward. She didn’t know what to expect after the email from Camille earlier in the day. The cat was out of the bag, that much was clear. Had Edward confessed, or had Camille found out by accident? Either way, it was awful.
Poor Camille
. Angie felt sick about it. She wondered, too, what it meant for her and Edward. Was this the end? She’d know soon enough. She was meeting him for a drink later that evening. But first, she had dinner with her mom and Francine to get through—they’d made an afternoon of it in the city, and she’d promised to take them to her favorite restaurant in her neighborhood. She could only hope her mom wouldn’t catch a whiff of something that didn’t smell right.

EVERY OTHER MONTH
or so, Francine dragged their mother into Manhattan for a day of sightseeing and culture. They visited monuments and historic sites; they went to the museum exhibits Francine had circled in her copy of that week’s
Time Out,
or a Broadway show if they could get good seats via TKTS. Francine was the only one of Angie’s sisters who hadn’t surrendered body and soul to the ’burbs. And though their mother would’ve been perfectly content if she never took another trip into Manhattan, she was the only one available to accompany Francine on these jaunts—Julia, Susanne, and Rosemary all worked jobs with less flexibility than Francine’s—so she’d become the default sidekick. If Angie wasn’t too busy, she usually met them for an early dinner before they headed back to Long Island.

“Cozy,” Angie’s mother pronounced as they entered the restaurant. “Cozy” was code for cramped. Later on, Angie knew, Loretta would rave to her friends about the “charming” place her daughter, the chef, had taken her to, with its black-and-white floor tiles, punched-tin ceiling and kitschy decor complete with stuffed animal heads on the walls, but in truth she preferred dining out at restaurants like Antoine’s, in Oyster Bay, with its ancient, red-jacketed waiters and leather-bound menus as hefty as the stone tablets Moses brought down from the Mount. (Though Angie herself hadn’t dined there in years, she was sure if she were to go there now she would see the same steak
au poivre
and crêpes suzette on the menu that she’d thought the height of sophistication when her parents took her there to celebrate her high-school graduation.)

“I’m glad you like it, Ma.” Angie was careful to keep her eyes averted from Francine. She’d have only to glance at her sister to get them both started. When they were kids, just the sight of Francine’s twitching lips, in response to some remark their mother had made, was enough to send Angie into paroxysms of hilarity. She couldn’t count the number of times they’d been banished from the dinner table or sent to their rooms for being “disrespectful.” “You should try the lasagna. They make their noodles from scratch just like Nonna used to.”

Angie conversed briefly with the hostess, whom she knew slightly, an aspiring performance artist named Naomi whose multitoned hair and multiple piercings were another thing Loretta would no doubt comment on to Francine on the way home. It wasn’t until they were seated at their table that Loretta lit up, at the appearance of their handsome young waiter. She chatted him up as if they were guests at a party he was hosting. After he’d taken their orders and left, she remarked, “What a nice young man. I wonder if he has a girlfriend.”

“Doubtful,” Angie replied. Francine gave a snort, while their mother wore a blank look. Angie spelled it out. “Mom, he’s gay.”

Loretta arched her penciled brows in a skeptical look. “You know this for a fact?”

“No, but—”

“Then how can you be sure?”

“If you see bear tracks, do you need to see the bear to know it was there?” One of her mother’s favorite expressions, and one that Angie used now to illustrate her point. “Trust me. I’ve worked in enough restaurants to know gay from straight.”

“Maybe he’s a switch-hitter,” Francine said.

“Well, we wouldn’t want
that,
” Loretta said. She was tolerant but only to a point.

We?
How had it come to this? Her love life a joint enterprise to be endlessly discussed and dissected. “Ma. Can we please just this once have a nice dinner that isn’t about you trying to fix me up with every guy you meet who’s the right age and doesn’t look like the Unabomber?”