Southern Fried Sushi (27 page)

I still had one more important task.

Which is why I found myself on the steps of Titanic Farm & Real Estate house/office decorated with potted plants and cheerful red geraniums.

You. Are. Kidding. Me.

Titanic?
The boat that sank? I looked at the simple sign over the door and down at the printed Internet map. The five stars and 162 top-notch reviews, plus six real-estate awards. No mistake about it.

Our deals aren’t big—they’re titanic! read the slanted font over the name. Sell your property and make history with Titanic

Farm & Real Estate today!

Oh my word. I folded the paper. Didn’t anybody in Virginia hire marketing professionals?

I rang the doorbell, not sure if I should bring business cards or a Bundt cake to such an establishment. It was weird how many house/businesses there were in Staunton, as if someone had just moved the sofa out of the way and shoved in a desk, secretary, and multiple phone lines. I shielded my eyes in the warm morning sun and waited.

“Well, welcome, Shiloh!” said Lowell Armstrong, pumping my arm like an old friend. “Come on in!”

“No icebergs?” I looped my purse over the chair back.

“Sorry?”

“Never mind.”

I sat at the desk while a distracted secretary tap-tap-tapped away at the computer screen and answered phone calls. Lowell brought me a glass of water and tap-tap-tapped on his own computer, nodding and entering information as I talked about the house. A lot of tapping.

It felt odd to list Mom’s assets out like so much wampum, wanting to know how many dollars I could squeeze out of it. But this was business. Titanic Farm & Real Estate’s business, and unfortunately, mine, too.

“So.” Lowell stared at the screen. “Here’s your house. I can see it. Wanna take a look?”

He rotated the screen so I could see Mom’s roof on Google Earth. And right next to it, Stella’s bright yellow school bus.

“Look! I see it!” I pointed to a round, whitish smudge.

“Your mom’s house? No, it’s here.”

“I meant Stella’s satellite dish. You can see it from Google Earth.” I laughed.

Lowell scrunched his eyebrows then chuckled blandly. “Oh. Well. I suppose so. Now, let’s take a look at your mom’s house and her land. If I’m not mistaken, the acreage for this particularplot is a little larger than the rest, encompassing …”

I slumped back in the chair, feeling like a traitor. Lowell set up an appointment for the following week to come by and see the house before my training shift at Barnes & Noble, and I thanked him and gathered up my purse to leave. I sensed, however vaguely, that I was stabbing Mom in the back.

She left the house to me. She would have wanted me to do what’s best.

And I clopped my way uneasily down the wooden deck steps to the car, which was already heating up in the summer sun.

“Faye, you won’t believe all the stuff that crazy Realtor wants me to do to the house!” I crabbed, still stewing. “I guessed he’d want the barn swallows out of the eaves, but that’s nothing compared to the rest of his list!”

The fat packet he left me still lay on my kitchen table, papers ruffling in the window fan breeze. “Paint the kitchen? Pull up the bedroom carpet? He says a house is impersonal, like a can of tuna, and I have to make everything neutral and erase every trace of my existence! Poof!” I waved my arm like a wand.

“Tuna? Huh. That’s odd.” Faye pulled a whole chicken out of plastic, naked and pale, and I almost forgot what I was ranting about. She was here to teach me how to cook, since I knew squat about Southern food and most of what they sold in the grocery store, and I was here to complain.

She plopped the cold chicken, still oozing pinkish blood, onto a plate.

“Are you sure it’s safe to eat?” I poked the rubbery flesh, momentarily forgetting Lowell. “Doesn’t it have bones inside? And … contaminants?”

“Well, if ya eat it raw, yes,” said Faye, lifting an eyebrow. “Better roll up yer sleeves though. You ain’t never cooked nothin’ before, sugar?”

“Not from here, no,” I replied carefully. Leaned on my elbow, dreaming of the beautiful sushi rolls stuffed with egg and ginger I used to roll in my bamboo mat, slicing carefully in perfect disks. I couldn’t even find rice vinegar in Staunton.

“Well, chicken ‘n’ dumplin’s is easy. Yer gonna love it!”

Sweat already beaded under my crisp dress shirt. I washed my hands and opened another window. Wiped my brow. Mom’s house sure did suck up the searing July heat, and no airconditioning. During our Fourth of July cookout, the grass in my backyard was so dry Stella actually caught it on fire. Scorched it right to the ground in an ugly black patch. I forgave her, though, over watermelon, potato salad, and plates of her famous caramel-chocolate-chip cookies, sparklers raining brilliant drops into our sunburned faces.

I just hoped I could find a gigantic potted plant to cover the scorch mark when Lowell came to show the house.

“Now what?” I asked Faye as we salted and peppered the chicken and pulled it off the bones.

“Let’s make the dumplin’s while the chicken cooks.” Faye reached for a rib of celery. “This goes in with the onion for flavor.”

“What should I do?”

“Pour some flour in a bowl. About that much. Good.” Faye guided my flour-stained hands and got some on her glasses. I sneezed when a puff clouded up, and we laughed together.

“How much should I measure?” I jotted things down in a now flour-spattered notebook, moving aside a bunch of fresh parsley from Faye’s herb garden.

“I don’t know, sugar. Start with a cup. We’ll test its consistency. Now pour the milk on.”

What I saw when I mixed up the flour, milk, and salt made me seriously question why I’d agreed to dumplings. They’d go in my “Southern Speak” notebook as pure slime.

I kept my mouth shut and minced parsley. Then pressed and patted little wads of the flour/milk mixture, once it had formeda disgustingly sticky mass, into dumplings. Dusted them with flour. Waited for the chicken to cook and then cool a bit and dumped them into the pot with the chicken. Added some broth from a can. And shoved the whole thing on the stove top in a covered pot to cook.

“Do you really think I have to stage Mom’s house?” I complained while we cleaned up the mess and washed the dishes. “I can understand taking down the wallpaper, but I’m not redoing the whole place. People won’t buy a house just because I put colored pasta in the cabinets and tie ribbons around the towels.”

“Well, sweet pea, if ya wanna to sell it, ya’d prob’ly better do what Lowell recommended. After all, he don’t get paid if you don’t. He sees a lotta houses. Titanic Real Estate’s the best around.”

“But look, Faye! This is ridiculous!” I jabbed my finger at the list. “I’m not keeping wine glasses and a cheese wheel on the table. I’m not French, and neither was Mom. Besides, they’re saying now wine and cheese don’t actually go together so well after all. The wine overpowers it. It’s just a quirky affectation from the ‘60s.”

Faye stared at me over her glasses. “Well, sweetie, I don’t know nothin’ about wine. But I reckon we can do a couple of these things. Whaddaya think?” She looked over the list. “Here. ‘Plant flowers in colors that sell.’ You can talk to Adam.”

I hadn’t seen that one yet. “What does he want me to do, arrange them in the shape of McDonald’s arches or something?”

“Dunno, sugar. Ask Adam. But this one you can do. ‘Organize your cabinets. Turn cup handles facing the same direction.’ “

“If you think I’m going to …,” I grumbled, but Faye got up and opened my cabinet doors. Turned a few cup handles. Pulled the glasses forward. Wiped a spot on one with a dish cloth until it shone.

“See? It don’t take much, honey. I’ll he’p ya put it in order.”

We were still working on the spice rack, which I grudgingly helped dust and organize with labels facing forward, when my nose picked up a delicious, savory aroma. “What’s that smell?” I demanded.

“Chicken ‘n’ dumplin’s, honey.”

“Really?” I pulled the top off the pot. Took a whiff and staggered back in surprise. The fluffy dumplings reminded me vaguely of …
mochi?
pounded Japanese rice? … and the chicken sported a nice golden-brown color. Pepper flecks dotted the creamy gravy.

“Mmm-hmm,” said Faye nonchalantly. “Lookin’ good. Another five more minutes or so.”

Excitement rushed in with my hunger. “Do I put it in bowls? Plates?”

“Whatever, doll baby. I usually use a plate.”

“What do we have with it?”

“I dunno. Usually collards or some kinda vegetable. Corn on the cob if you got it.”

I looked in the fridge. “Baby carrots?”

“Well, maybe if you cook ‘em. ‘Course, the dumplin’s are almost done now. You could use the microwave.”

I sliced the baby carrots and nuked them. Set out plates. Poured some lemonade I’d made from a packet. Snapped two pictures with my camera—one with Faye smiling and one with the food.

We sat down, and I waited for Faye. “You want to pray?”

She gave me a funny look. “Why don’t you, sugar?”

“Me?” I stared back at her.
Why me?
“What am I supposed to say to God?”

“Whatever ya want.”

I started to complain, but Faye had been kind to me. I sighed. “Okay, but it won’t be anything spectacular.”

“The best prayers ain’t.”

“Well.” I closed my eyes and squirmed uncomfortably in my

chair. “God, I thank You for Faye. And for this food.”

I didn’t know what else to say. But Faye said to talk to God, so I laced my fingers together and tried hard. “By the way, God, I’m not entirely sure You’re there. So please show me if You are. Because I’d kind of like to know. Amen.”

Faye had probably never heard a more pagan prayer, but her expression did not change. She smiled at me and lifted her head. “Now, doll, which do ya want first—carrots or dumplin’s?” And began to serve me.

I
felt Adam’s cell phone buzzing in my pocket and surreptitiously put it up to my ear.

“Shiloh? Ya workin’ now?”

“Just clocked in. Where are you?”

“At the mall. Ken I come by a second? I’ve got some news for ya!” Becky sounded jubilant.

“Sure! We’re dead right now.” I met eyes with Jamie, who was busy shelving books. She grimaced and nodded.

“Okay. I’m almost there. See ya in a jiffy!”

I put my phone away and walked through the racks and bins of CDs, organizing and shoving them back in their slots. I loved working in the music section. Just walk and straighten and occasionally change the CDs playing across store speakers—which meant I got to choose.

If I could find something other than country music.

In the few weeks I’d worked at Barnes & Noble, I’d started to get in the swing of things. Buy food at the grocery store and cook it. Or if Tim was around, grill it. Discipline myself to keep the house neat as a pin, even if it meant staying up late just to scrub the tub and dust the windowsills.

I even bought boxes of stupid pasta for the cabinets, and Adam told me yellow is the “buying” color, à la McDonald’s arches (I’d guessed correctly), the Wal-Mart smiley face, and so on. I bought marigolds from the nursery where Faye worked, and Adam helped me plant them.

But Lowell would not budge on the wallpaper. He said if I didn’t get it down and paint the walls off-white, he wouldn’t sell my house. Ugly wallpaper would knock thousands off the sale, he griped.

Now I just had to figure out how to (1) strip wallpaper and paint like a pro and (2) do all of it with my busy work schedule. Maybe I could just stop sleeping. Or eating. And send Faye home with all the food herself.

I adjusted my scarf—a pink silk Louis Vuitton—and caught a glimpse of myself in the glass. Crisp button-up shirt, knee-length skirt, knee boots. The normal summer outfit of preppy Japanese girls. If I blinked, I could be back in Tokyo, standing in line for cream puffs at Beard Papa’s or shopping for expensive stationery.

But my eyes were too sad for that. Just rows and rows of books and a browsing teenager with a tattooed head.

Just then Becky peeked around a CD display, flushed and happy. “Shah-loh!” She bounced over and hugged me. “I heard ya got phone service again!”

“And Internet. You can thank Barnes & Noble.” I hugged her back. “Skype’s free, you know.” Which meant, thanks to a few days of surviving on crackers and baby carrots to make my first Internet hook-up payment, I could now talk to Kyoko all I wanted.

Becky rolled her eyes. “You and yer fancy computer lingo. Well, anyways, I’m happy for ya. How’s yer cookin’ with Faye comin’? She’s so excited about it, ya know. Tole me y’all made a apple pie last week!” She seemed ready to burst, suppressing a grin with great difficulty.

“And sausage milk gravy.” The gravy was actually really tasty—peppery, hearty, flavorful—so long as you didn’t look at it, spread there across the golden biscuits like pallid vomit.

“Lands, ya made gravy?”

I dropped my voice. “Did you know Faye keeps bacon grease in a cup on the back of her stove?”

Becky blinked. “Don’t everybody?”

My hand slipped on the CD I was straightening. “Uh … so what’s the big news?”

She whispered something in my ear.