How Sweet It Is (25 page)

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 that Jonas suggested we get the pie from Southern Treats. “Jonas picked it up this morning on his way to a job in Dillsboro.”

I am about to ask how Jonas knew that it was my birthday. We never discussed birthdays, just age. But before I can form the question, Rainy hands me a glass of iced tea with a slice of lemon on the rim of the glass.

When I finish my piece of pie, Joy says, “Did you like it? I hate peach pie.”

“Well,” I quickly say, as Miriam arches her back, ready to reprimand the girl, “when it’s your birthday, we will be sure not to have peach pie.”

Miriam relaxes, pleased with my reply.

“That,” says Zack, as he places his empty paper plate in the trash, “was excellent.”

This time I smile. He likes my kind of pie; surely this is all the indication we need to know we’re meant to be.

“How old are you?” Lisa looks into my face, no trace of embarrassment about asking a woman her age.

“Is today really your birthday?” Flakes of pie crust cover Dougy’s lips.

“Yes, today is my birthday. I’m twenty-eight.”

“Zack is thirty-two,” says Dougy. His smile leaves his face as he notes Miriam’s strict glare. Correcting himself, he says, “I mean Mr. Anderson is thirty-two.”

This is the first time I’ve heard any child call Zack by his last name.

From the edge of the room, Charlotte moves toward me, her hands behind her back. When she reaches me, she displays a colorfully wrapped gift. Her smile is dazzling, and she says with clear intonation, “This is from all of us.”

The children are eager for me to open the present. I tear off the paper and hold a box made of cherrywood, with a little latch. Inside the box are small pads of paper, a pen, and a receipt book. I take each item and look it over, smiling the whole time.

“You have to have business things,” says Rainy as she pushes her sunglasses higher on her head. “If you’re going to have a cake business and make your cakes, you need supplies.”

“Ya gotta be professional,” Bubba adds.

“And polite!” Bobby digs into his second slice of pie.

“Thank you.” My throat fills. I would say more, but I can’t risk it.

Funny, I must be the crying type, after all.

————

Aunt Regena Lorraine takes me to dinner at the Fryemont Inn. Her main reason for calling earlier today was to say she wanted to treat me to a birthday dinner. After I said I’d love that, she proceeded to read the list of seventy-seven things that make a woman beautiful. One of them was growing older with flair and grace, so I guess the list was sort of appropriate for this day.

I wear a black skirt and gray sweater—my two pieces of clothing that actually have designer names—and I even put on my gold bracelet and earrings. My aunt wears an orange dress with deep front pockets and shoes that match. I don’t think I’ve ever seen orange shoes before. This must be part of her way to grow old with grace and flair.

We drive to the restaurant in her truck, and for this event Giovanni is not with us. “I’ll bring him a doggie bag,” Regena Lorriane tells me when I ask where her canine is this evening. “He’ll like that,” she says as she steers the bouncy truck down the road.

People talk about the Fryemont even in Atlanta. Some have spent the night in the inn, and others have only eaten in the dining room. When we arrive and my aunt parks, I realize that my excitement at the opportunity to be here is rising like yeasty dough.

Cindy, Charlotte’s sister, is working, and we ask the hostess if we can be seated at one of her tables.

“My sister likes you so much. She talks about you all the time,” Cindy tells me. And I recall the bake sale when Charlotte urged her sister to bid on my tiered cake. Cindy looks a little like her younger sister with her long hair but doesn’t have that American Girl doll quality. Maybe one doll per family is all the quota allows.

We are seated at a small table to the right of the large stone fireplace. A fire has been lit, and its light shines across the glossy hardwood floors. Sally would love this place.

“Order whatever you want,” Regena Lorraine says as we open menus.

I order rainbow trout, and, from the five ways it can be prepared, choose the crunchy almond topping. My aunt decides on the baked Virginia ham. She thinks Giovanni will like the leftovers. This is the first time I’ve been with someone who orders according to what her pet will like.

Before our food comes, as we sip from glasses of iced tea, I ask her, “Did you tell them it’s my birthday?”

“Here? Oh, I should. They’ll bring some dessert and sing to you. Good idea, Shug.”

“No.” I don’t want anyone singing to me here. “I meant at The Center.”

“Tell them what?”

“That it’s my birthday.”

“Oh yes, I did.” She places her glass on the table and fingers her own eyeglasses. “They did ask me at the bake sale.

Bubba asked.”

I smile, still warmed by the thoughtfulness of the children’s gift to me. I placed the little box on top of the desk in my bedroom right when I returned home from teaching this afternoon. My own cake-order box. Chef B will have to hear about this.

“How has your day been?” asks my aunt, as I admire the crackling fire and note the restaurant’s decor. The plum-and-white linens add a warm touch. I wonder if I could create this shade of plum to use for icing. A lemon cake with bold swirls of plum would make a great centerpiece for some festive occasion.

Gradually, I turn my attention to my aunt. “My day’s been good,” I say. This morning Jeannie called to wish me a happy birthday. Then Mom and Dad took turns talking to me. Mom wanted to make sure that UPS had done its job and delivered her gift to me.

“A jar of pickled pig’s feet?” I said to Mom. “It arrived.”

Before my aunt came to pick me up for dinner, Sally called. She told me that she and Jeannie were coming to visit me in two weeks.

As the logs glow in the fireplace beside our table, I feel cozy and relaxed. “It’s nice to be here,” I tell my aunt, and she admits that this is one of her favorite places.

I feel a tug at my heart and am about to recall my birthday last year and what Lucas gave me. The memory is there, waiting; I push it aside. Instead I say, “Guess what. I got another cake order for Friday, so I’ll need to squeeze making it in before the camping trip.”

“Are you excited?”

“I love getting orders.”

“About camping?”

I wrinkle my nose.

“Shug.” She laughs. “You are just like me. I’m not a camper, but Ernest was. He saw the beauty in every experience.”

I imagine he did. Anyone who believes that a lemon holds deep significance and that the right disposition is what it’s all about must have been able to handle everything. And I suppose his ability to enjoy life came from knowing whose hand held his.

After we finish our salads, Cindy brings us our entrees. My aunt immediately asks her for a small doggie bag. “This way I will put Giovanni’s portion aside and won’t be tempted to eat it.”

Cindy just nods, and I smile.

“Shug,” Regena Lorraine says as she cuts her slice of ham in half and secures one half in the Styrofoam box for her dog, “I am so glad it’s your birthday.”

The wait staff sings to me at dessert. Accompanied by Cindy, they bring a piece of chocolate cake with a single yellow lit candle. Cindy places it in front of me.

“You told them,” I say to my aunt, a tone of scolding to my voice.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Charlotte told me,” whispers Cindy. “She told me all about today.”

“Make a wish,” my aunt says.

The candle flickers as though it is winking at me.

I make the same wish I did earlier today at The Center. Perhaps wishing it two times in one day will better the chances of it coming true.

————

I sit in my bed with two pillows behind me and flip open my journal. I’m almost at the end of the book; there are only six crisp pages left. I can’t believe it. As I read a few of the earlier entries, I wonder who would have ever thought I’d end up wanting to write in this book so often?

Smiling to myself, I list all of the children’s names on a clean page, one line per child. Then I come up with a few descriptive words about each kid. Interesting that although the kids can be hellions, I have found something positive to put down for every one of them. This must be my grandfather’s influence. For Charlotte I write
angelic.
Bubba has
friendly
written by his name. I even come up with something positive for Darren. By Darren’s name, I write
never too noisy.

thirty-six

W
e take my Jeep, Zack’s silver Ford truck, and Robert’s emerald Dodge minivan. Rhonda, Charlotte, and Lisa ride with me. The food and cooking gear, along with the large plastic first-aid kit, have been loaded into the back of the Jeep. The sleeping bags and tents are in the bed of Zack’s truck.

We asked the church for donations of sleeping bags and tents. There were several announcements about the need in the Sunday bulletin. Apparently last year people were also asked to either lend or donate. The kids were told to bring their own pillows and flashlights. Darren’s grandmother bought him a new mega-flashlight. He turned it on while we were packing up the vehicles at The Center and blinded us all.

Bubba wanted to bring his camping chair, a blue vinyl foldup one. Zack asked him what he was going to do when others wanted a chair. “Huh?” Bubba’s mouth stayed open.

“How many kids are going on this trip, Bubba?” the social worker asked.

“I dunno. Seven, eight. Is this a trick question?”

Zack explained, “If there are eight kids and only one chair, what do you think is going to happen?”