lunch and the birding expedition. Rasmussen must have thought it was a good idea, because then Adele called Bo on the intercom and asked him to call his golfing friend whose wife was in the Audubon Society. Then with a wink she took the van keys I gave her and tap-stepped her way out of the kitchen.
Adele was like and unlike Marla, I reflected as I stirred molasses into the bubbling pot of baked beans. Like Marla in being used to wealth and the power it confers. Unlike Marla in that Adele never discussed her back problems, she just poured the pain into energy for good deeds. If Marla was in pain, she made sure that it was news for the entire county. And to Marla, good deeds were for the Rockefellers.
Arch reappeared at the kitchen doorway.
“Mom,” he announced, “I need two hundred dollars for a silk cape and top hat.” He grinned.
“Excuse me?”
“I can ask Dad if it’s too much for you.”
“Arch, don’t. You know he’ll say no, that it should come out of the child-support money. Come on, hon. Can’t you do without it?”
He looked at me, a child’s freckled face wrinkled in adultlike dismay. “Well, I have to have them for the magic show,” he insisted. “Maybe Dad will get them since I talked him into paying for the other stuff.”
“What other stuff? Like that newspaper?”
Arch ducked into his bag and brought out a pair of handcuffs and a set of Chinese manacles. This latter I recognized as his favorite trick from our visits to magic shows when he was little. He couldn’t seem to decide between the two tricks. Finally he held up the handcuffs with his eyebrows raised.
“Lock these behind me, please.”
This was turning into a busy morning. But I acquiesced.
There was a pause as he leaned forward slightly. Then he triumphantly brought up his hands and the cuffs.
“How did you do that?”
“A magician never tells, Mom. Anyway, wait until you see me do it under water.”
“Under water! You can hardly do the doggie paddle. And remember the doctor said you should be extra careful because of that bronchitis and asthma you had in February—”
5 tablespoons unsalted butter
? A pound fresh mushrooms, washed, dried, trimmed, and diced
1 scallion, chopped
5 tablespoons all-purpose flour
2 cups chicken broth
2 cups milk
? teaspoon salt (optional)
black pepper (preferably freshly ground)
ground nutmeg (optional)
? A pound cream cheese, softened and cut into cubes
1 cup grated Swiss cheese (recommended: Jarlsberg)
? pound fresh spinach, washed, trimmed, cooked, and chopped
Melt the butter in a large saucepan. In it slowly saute the mushrooms and scallion until tender. Add flour and stir just until flour is cooked, a couple of minutes. Whisk in first chicken broth and then milk, stirring until thickened. Add salt if desired, pepper, nutmeg if desired, cream cheese, and Swiss cheese; stir until melted. Then stir in spinach. Heat and stir very gently. Season to taste. Serve hot.
Arch turned away. When I opened my mouth to say I was sorry, Julian’s honk sounded from outside.
“Gotta go. Oh,” he said as he ducked to retrieve something else. “One more thing.” It was the tone of voice he used when he knew I wasn’t going to like it. These things he always saved until the last moment before his school bus came, so we wouldn’t have time to argue. Apparently, summer school was no different.
I said, “I hope this one more thing will mean I can get all my cooking done today.”
“Here,” he said as he handed me
Julian honked again and Arch whipped out the front door. Behind them, Adele and the general waved from the back of the Range Rover. I opened the sheet Arch had given me. It detailed all my Poe homework:
I wondered if the teacher would like to be a caterer. What was I paying tuition for, anyway? Oh yes. Arch said she was nice.
The phone was ringing in the kitchen. It was the Audubon Society. Would I please have the general call about an outing? Was it this Saturday, the eleventh, that he wanted? You bet I’d have him call. I wanted to add,
I put the phone recorder on and did a yoga centering exercise. Arch had a girlfriend and wanted two hundred dollars for a magician’s costume. Adele needed lunch for two before I did a picnic for forty. There was going to be another rotten review in the
The phone rang and I listened to the message as it recorded. It was Marla.
The funeral for Philip Miller was at two P.M. the next day.
Somehow, I finished the cooking and set the table on the Farquhars’ covered porch. I banished thoughts about the funeral, went out to the garage and found a small pair of pruning shears next to the camping equipment. The new flowering plants Julian and General Bo had put into the smoothed-over garden crater yielded an acceptable arrangement for the luncheon with the Irascible Rasmussen. Adele and the general arrived in convoy with my van.
My van! The grille seemed to grin at me like an old friend. I started it up, checked the bungee cords that would hold the food on racks, checked to make sure the glove compartment still held my safety kit, with its bandages, sunscreen, instructions for doing the Heimlich maneuver in case someone choked, and my little bottle of ipecac, in case, God forbid, someone ate something he shouldn’t.
I tried to think positive thoughts as I drove to the Rumslinger ranch. Sure enough, the barbecue was an enormous success. George Rumslinger was a country-music star who had moved to Aspen Meadow and spent hundreds of thousands of dollars establishing a cattle ranch. The hands loved him not only for the good pay but because they regularly were treated to food and song. They pulled on the pony keg of Coors and dug heartily into the hills of barbecued chicken and ribs, bowls and baskets of salads and rolls, and stacks of Scout’s Brownies. Highlight of the day was when Rumslinger serenaded the crowd with his new hit remake of “I’m Just Roadkill on the Highway of Love.”
The foreman paid in cash and gave me a fifty-dollar tip. He was feeling so good he even asked if I had a favorite charity. In the spirit of killing two birds with one stone I mentioned the Elk Park Prep Pool project. I pointed out how good the decal would look on the rear window of his pickup truck.
He said, “Pretty ritzy school for the son of a caterer.”
I placed the cash in my zip bag and said nothing. If he wanted a decal, he could get it himself.
The black-capped chickadee’s plaintive song woke me Tuesday, the morning of Philip’s funeral. Adele had given me the day off from cooking and answering the phone. It was wonderful to be free. Part of the message from
