How Sweet It Is (20 page)

Zack smiles. “I imagine it does.”

Jonas winks at me. “You pipe it,” he says.

“And you love pipes,” Bobby says.

“Yes, I love pipes.”

Zack grins, and Jonas turns back to me and says, “Ah, I haven’t introduced Zack to you, Deirdre. This is my brother.”

He places his arm around Zack’s shoulders. “I want some chocolate pie,” he tells Bubba, who is standing by the pies. “I have money today.” He fishes out a worn ten-dollar bill from his jeans.

Zack and Jonas are brothers? No, they can’t be. This is some sort of prank. Bubba and Dougy are probably behind it.

I look at the boys and see no smirks on their faces. While Zack talks with Jonas, I note the men’s features, and when they both smile, I see it. Something about the laugh lines around their eyes is identical. Other than those lines, Jonas’s mouth is wider, and Zack is not as muscular or broad in the shoulders. Yet, they are about the same height.

After I finish looking them over with all the discretion I can manage, I am hit like a tornado whips the side of a barn. All the things Jonas has told me about his brother fly at me. His brother was in love with a woman who died. He likes jazz; his favorite pie is lemon meringue. His brother is the best.

Immediately, I feel a blanket of embarrassment spread over me, tucking me in at every side. If they are brothers, and right now they appear to be close, then how much of what I’ve told Jonas has he shared with Zack?

I watch Jonas now; surely he wouldn’t have told Zack everything? Yet the comment Zack made about knowing I was engaged… So Jonas did tell his brother. I feel like suddenly the cloud has been lifted and I am seeing with 20/20 vision.

It is hard to concentrate on chocolate cookies and coffee when you’re trying to come to grips with the fact that two people you respect in very different ways share the same mother and father.

Marble Gray stops by my table and asks if Sinatra can have another cookie. She tells me that he just had surgery and almost died and oh, please, just one sugar cookie?

Rainy is about to tell her she needs to pay for the baked goods, I can feel it.

Quickly, I hand Marble an oatmeal cookie, and as she smiles and walks away, Rainy protests.

“Maybe she’ll go home soon,” I tell Rainy.

“She better,” says the girl as she forces air from her mouth. “I’m tired of her cheating people.”

twenty-eight

N
ight has fallen, and the church is nearly empty. Miriam went home, congratulating me on an excellent bake sale. Jonas sailed off in his truck, waving goodbye to his brother and saying he’d be by Zack’s later to check the pipes. My tiered cake was auctioned by Zack and made $80. Marble Gray wanted it, but the pink-curlered cheapskate was only willing to bid $11.50. Darren’s grandma offered $32 and Charlotte’s sister, Cindy, went up to $40. Aunt Regena Lorraine said she’d pay $50 and then someone yelled out $60 and before I could catch my breath, the bidding ended at $80. A couple about to celebrate their forty-fifth wedding anniversary carried it off in their silver sedan, looking almost as happy as the day they were married.

I’m in the kitchen washing out the coffeepots and thermoses we used for the coffee we sold. It was a good day, I think. The kids were on their best behavior and remembered to thank people for buying. Miriam counted the money and said we made $265.75. That’ll be enough to pay for the campsite and buy firewood and food for all the meals. There is also other money that has come in because Bubba and Bobby mowed lawns and pulled weeds for a few church members last weekend.

Zack enters the kitchen and places a pitcher that held cream on the counter. Then he sees me at the sink. Sometimes it feels like I spend my life at the kitchen sink.

“You could get the kids to wash the dishes,” he tells me.

I could, I think. But the question is, would they? Sometimes if you want a job done well and without complaints, the easiest way is to do it yourself.

Zack grins. “Things went smoothly today.”

“I think the world of Jonas,” I say. I smile as I think of how much he has added to my life. How he sings entire verses of Eagles songs to me, not just a line or two. His voice isn’t bad. He sang the other day, “ ‘Don’t let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy,’ ” which made me think, was that song penned for me? He’s always eager to try a new recipe I come up with, even the one that was more or less a failure the other night—squash biscotti.

Zack picks up a towel from the counter and a bowl from the drainer. “I’m sorry about Lucas.”

I hate hearing that name from Zack’s lips. Dismissing the subject, I say, “Oh, that’s all over.” Mom always said to act like nothing bothers you, that a real woman is an expert at covering her emotions with a slight lowering of her eyes. I focus on the dishwater, all the filmy suds.

“It hasn’t been that much time.” His words filter through the kitchen and grapple with my heart.

I want to say in a nonchalant tone, “Time? Who needs time?

I’m a picture of health and happiness right now.” Instead, I mumble, “I’m sorry about Abby.”

When I look up from the sink I see that his eyes hold pain—like two dark corridors that I will never be able to enter or bring any sunshine to. She must have been his moon and stars. Jonas said she was kind. The dead always seem larger than life; we forget their shortcomings, we honor their greatness.

“I had no idea it was you Jonas was talking about… at first.” Zack places the bowl in the cupboard with dozens just like it. He’s draped the towel over one shoulder, which makes me think of how my dad does the same thing when he dries dishes.

“What did he say about me?” How much does Zack know about me, my past?

Zack avoids my question; he’s deep in thought. At last he says, “It was the cupcake Band-Aid. He came over for dinner with that Band-Aid on his forehead. You gave Charlotte a Band-Aid that looked just like that when she cut her finger. And then I knew all that he was telling me about this nice woman named Deirdre was really you.”

I guess I have no secrets anymore. I bet Jonas has told his brother everything about me. I suppose the whole town will know all about me by morning. Marble Gray will be gossiping about me to the cashier at Ingle’s.

After a pause, Zack says, “He was proud of that donut the two of you decorated.”

“Oh, he did all the work.”

“Did he tell you what I said when he brought it to me that night?”

“Yeah.” I start to recite what I remember Jonas telling me his brother had said. “My brother liked the donut. He said that the woman who helped you is…”

When I hesitate, Zack completes my sentence. “The woman who taught you how to frost a donut has got to be one of society’s finest.”

I can feel heat rising from my face, like it does when I open an oven door to take out a nicely-browned cake.
Society’s finest?

Zack softly says, “I know about your accident. Jonas said that—”

“That I have awful scars?” I realize that everything I’ve told Jonas over these last months has probably been shared with his brother over coffee with lots of sugar.

“No.” Zack looks uncomfortable. “He didn’t say anything about any scars.”

The next thing I know I am showing my arms to Zack. I even lift my shirt a little so that he can see the deep scar on my abdomen. Bet you’ve never had anyone show you her scars before, I think as I look up at him. That will shock up your life a bit. I bet you’ll never speak to me with eyes shining and a smile again. I sigh. I don’t care. And I’m not even sure why I don’t care.

“Actually,” Zack says calmly, in his typical manner, “Jonas said you are a Vivaldi fan.”

“He did?” So, nothing about my accident, nothing about my scars? “Well, I am.” I feel foolish now for showing the Tigris and Euphrates to Zack. And especially for lifting my shirt and exposing the wound along my stomach. In church!

“I guess I should go,” he says.

Yeah, right, go. Don’t mind me. I’m just a little weird. A darkness has spread over me and I can’t find my way out. I suppose that, in Zack’s book, I am no longer one of society’s finest. I resume my coffeepot washing. Why was I suddenly so eager to show him the scars that I otherwise keep hidden even from my own eyes? I lift a soapy hand to my forehead to check for a fever.

“Deena?”

I give a slight nod.

“The kids like you.”

I am too tired to argue.

“They just have a little bit of difficulty with new people sometimes…” His voice meanders away like a winding mountain road. However, his next sentence is firm. “Your scars aren’t going to make them like you any less.”

Where is he going with this?

“In fact, most of them have their own set of scars. Physically or figuratively speaking.”

I nod again. I hope he won’t give me a speech about these poor children. Because the way I see it, maybe if they shaped up, their lives wouldn’t be so hard.

I silently berate myself for even thinking that.

You better let somebody love you, before it’s too late
. I add more Palmolive to the sink water, hoping that the force of squirting the liquid from the bottle will push aside the words to one of Jonas’s favorite songs.

“Everyone here is damaged.” Zack’s words hit me sharply because they are words I can take as my own. Damaged. That’s me. He continues, “But that’s not our main focus.”

“What is your main focus?” I ask, only because I am irritated. I was in a good mood right after the bake sale, but now he bothers me. I want to know what he is really made of. I want to pick at him to find out he isn’t all he appears to be. Yet, most of all, at this moment, I want to keep him here, talking to me.

“Love’s the main focus,” he says.

“Love?” Well, that’s about as vast and hard to come by as world peace. Love isn’t like a gift you can wrap up and place under the Christmas tree.

“Everybody needs love.”

Well, as the kids would say,
duh
.

“Even those who don’t know how to give it.”

Uh oh. Is he going to make a comment about my inability to show love to my fellow man? Because if he does I won’t be able to deny it. Gripping the edge of the sink, I wait.

“Like Darren.”

Darren does know how to show love, I think. He shows it to Zack. To the rest of us he just acts like we aren’t worthy. He’s selective and he’s chosen Zack. And Zack, of course, thinks he’s a terrific kid. His client. Social worker and patient. What a team. The two of them, leaving the rest of us out of their behavioral management plan. Softly I say, “Yeah.”

“Darren was burned as a child.” Zack’s voice is very soft and emotional.

“Burned? What do you mean?”

Zack’s solemn expression lets me know that this is not going to be an easy story. “When he was little, his mom got mad whenever he cried. Darren cried a lot. When he did, his mom would burn the bottoms of his feet on the kitchen stove.”

I feel my lunch rising to my throat. “They didn’t let her get away with it, did they?”

“She’s been in and out of jail. There was a restraining order against her, and now she is supposed to call before she expects to see Darren.”

My head swirls and I take little breaths.

“Darren has a hard time with authority. He’ll come around, though. He will.”

I may not last until he does.

“You have to give these kids a bunch of chances.”

I don’t like his tone because it makes me feel like I am the one with the problem. And, the truth is, I have so many. I’m just glad that Zack hasn’t read my journal.

He heads to the fridge, opens the door, and pours some cold water from a plastic container into a glass. “Would you like some water?”

Why does he have to be so… nice? I wish he’d just go. Leave me alone in the kitchen to wash the dishes. To ponder on how good a friend his brother is to me. To wonder why Jonas is so easy to be with, while Zack only brings out the insecurities I hold inside. “No, thanks.”

He stands closer to me. My heart begins to feel like bread dough being kneaded with tiny warm caresses. I watch as he takes another sip. His eyelashes flicker. “Sometimes the very people who want to be loved the most don’t know how to ask for love.”

“And why is that?” I concentrate on scrubbing the lid of the pot. I don’t dare look him in the eyes.

“They’ve been hurt.” He places the empty glass on the counter.

His know-it-all tone makes me wish he’d just leave me alone. He’s crossed the line, and the thing is, I’m certain that was his intention. Go, I want to shout. Go! My eyes fill with hot tears and that scares me.

Zack starts to dry a spoon. I had no idea there was a spoon in need of drying.

I feel my nose start to drip into the steamy sink of hot water. I sniff, once, twice. With a soapy finger, I wipe my nose.

“Are you—?”

Quickly, I toss out, “I’m fine.”

I can feel his eyes on me, boring into my soul. I thought I was ironclad and am not quite sure how he managed to find a gap.

The room feels warm. Maybe the air-conditioner, along with my humility and compassion, has stopped working.

Zack dries the same spoon over and over. “Deena?”

“What?”