How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [74]
A few minutes pass, and then he swings open the front door. “Deirdre?”
“Yes?”
“Your name is Deena.”
I smile. “That’s right.”
“My brother told me.”
He leaves and then opens the door again to add, “I guess I’m just not too smart.”
“Oh, not true,” I want to say, but he has already bounded out the door once more. Yes, you are smart, Jonas. You are smarter than over half of the people I know and your perspective on life is healthier than 99.9 percent of the population.
thirty-five
I’m late to work. Blame it on my aunt, who called to tell me about “seventy-seven things that make a woman beautiful”—some tips written by three massage therapists and an owner of a used car lot. I didn’t get the connection between the four compilers of the list, or even how they came up with the tips, but nevertheless I listened as Regena Lorraine read every single one over the phone. When she got to number sixty-three, I looked at the clock and, cradling my cell phone on my shoulder, managed to get my shoes tied.
When I enter The Center’s kitchen, I hear whispering. The squeak of chairs against the floor is loud. Then there is a rush to sit down, followed by an eerie silence. If the sink were still a dripping one, it would be making the only sound. Jonas repaired the leaky faucet sometime in July, long before I knew he was the church plumber and way before I knew he was Zack’s older brother.
The children pass looks to each other. Charlotte tries to hide a smile.
I ignore whatever it is that has gone on before my arrival and begin to take ingredients from my brown bag. “Today we are making chicken,” I say. The chicken breast fillets are at the bottom of my bag in a round plastic bowl.
No one says a word. Bubba sits on the edge of his chair. Bobby looks like he will explode with excitement.
The silence is killing me. “Do you remember what kind of chicken we decided on?”
Do they hear me? I try to encourage a response by adding, “We talked about it yesterday, and what did we say we would make today?”
They are all attentive; my gut tells me something is wrong. Was there a fight? Did Darren’s mom come barging into the kitchen demanding to see her boy? I search their faces. Darren even lifts his head from his notebook so that I can peer into his dark eyes. Could they be upset that I’m late? “I’m sorry,” I tell the group. “I know I was late to class. I know we stress how important it is to be on time.”
That must not be it; they continue to eye each other, mouths shut tightly.
I suppose I should just continue on, and be grateful that they are so quiet. I pull Ziploc bags of basil and oregano and a pint container of sour cream from the bag. I produce the recipe for this chicken dish and, holding the card, ask for a volunteer to come forward to read the ingredients and directions to the class.
There is noise at the kitchen door. Shuffling of feet. Then the door springs open and the kids all boom, “Surprise!” In walk Miriam and Zack. Miriam holds an aluminum plate, and as she comes closer, I see that it contains a pie. Lit candles are inserted in the top crust. She starts to sing and the group joins her. “Happy Birthday to you…”
Darren even sings; Regena Lorraine is right—his voice is good. It rings out over the other off-key voices.
How did they know?
“It’s peach pie, Miss Livingston!” shouts Lisa as Miriam presents the pie to me to blow out the candles.
“Your favorite,” says Bubba.
“Looks delicious.” Bobby stands next to me, eyeing the pie. His tummy is exposed; he pats it. “Oh, don’t worry. We didn’t make it. We could never make anything good without you helping us, Miss Livingston.”
I have never seen such a large peach pie. I wonder who baked it. Chef B would be delighted.
“Make a wish, a good one,” says Lisa.
Zack smiles; I blow out the candles.
The kids cheer, and then we all have a slice of peach pie. I can tell that everyone is on his or her best behavior, and this makes me feel honored. Bobby even uses a napkin to wipe his hands.
Zack tells me