Killer Pancake

“Only dorks call them sneakers these days, Mom. But okay, sure. That was in November of sixth grade. You got me some new athletic shoes at Christmas. So?”

“I’m about to spend the cash equivalent of ten pairs of athletic shoes.”

Arch, being a literal fellow, looked at my feet. “Why’d you do that?”

“’Cuz my face needs it.”

He slowly raised his large brown eyes behind their tortoiseshell glasses from the floor to my face. “Am I missing something here?”

“Oh, Arch. I’m sorry. You went to bed early, and now you’re up early. What you’re missing is a nice breakfast. How about some?”

Unlike the previous day, he brightened. You never could tell with kids, when they would be hungry. But breakfast, unlike the world of beauty, was something we both understood. Since Marla was coming home in the late morning, I resolved to prepare a dish that I could take over and leave for the private nurse to heat up in Marla’s kitchen. Something healthful that wasn’t oatmeal. If I worked quickly, I’d still be able to set up for the food fair with time to spare. Watched by my ravenous son, I began to measure flour and whip yet more egg whites. Something beautiful and appealing to the eye and to the tongue. Something breakfast-y that would satisfy Marla’s sweet tooth. Something that could be frozen and reheated without catastrophe.

Within moments I was dropping dollops of batter speckled with fruit cocktail on a nonstick cookie sheet, and feeling pretty smug. Arch transported the food for the fair out to the van, and by the time he was finished, a delicious pancake aroma swirled through the kitchen.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” he said as he mixed Dutch cocoa powder with sugar to make hot chocolate. “Julian’s gone to visit some friends. He left early. And Tom left early too. Tom said to tell you Krill is an actor. I thought krill lived in the ocean.”

I said I wasn’t exactly sure, but I thought Krill was just some weird guy who was very convincing acting like a weird guy. I brought out the cookie sheet with the fruit-cocktail pancakes. Arch oohed approvingly at the golden, puffed rounds. He heated maple syrup—a mail- order gift from his grandparents, who doted on him—while I put together a fresh strawberry sauce for Marla.

When his mouth was full, Arch said, “You m’berd’s c’ming early f’ me today?” When I glared, he swallowed and repeated: “You remember Dad’s coming early for me today? We’re going over to his condo for the Fourth. I think Keystone puts on some fireworks. Now do you remember? Not as good as Aspen Meadow Lake, probably,” he added, no doubt to console me.

“No,” I said lightly, “I didn’t remember, thanks for reminding me. Are you packed?”

“Sort of. I still have to find my sparklers. Hey, Mom! These pancakes are awesome … I mean, cool! You should call them Killer Pancakes!” He shoveled in a few more mouthfuls. I looked out my kitchen window and found myself wishing for some of that soothing saxophone music. But at this hour, the only sound was the morning rush of traffic down Aspen Meadow’s Main Street, topped by a louder, closer sputter of a foreign car coming down our road. The sound was familiar, and I knew it the way I knew the sound of the mailman’s old grinding Subaru. But I couldn’t place it. Then I did hear a familiar roar—the Jerk’s Jeep. I sighed and headed for the front door to let him in before he staged some sort of stunt. He’d never touched me when Arch was present. On the other hand, when it came to my ex-husband, there was always a first time for most things bad.

I opened the door and he strode in angrily. He bellowed for Arch. He seemed loaded for bear, although I judged him to be sober. Of course, I’d been wrong about that before too.

“In the kitchen!” was Arch’s fearful response.

“Don’t mind me,” I said as I started to close the front door, then thought better of it and left it ajar.

John Richard bent over Arch’s plate which held only a half-pancake in a puddle of syrup. Then he slowly moved his eyes to stare into the half-full cup of hot chocolate. Arch, who had stopped eating, gave me a confused glance.

John Richard rasped, “Why do you eat that shit your mother gives you? You want to grow up fat and sick and have a heart attack like Marla?”

I said, “Get. Out.” Why was he doing this? Did he secretly feel guilty himself about Marla having the heart attack? Unlikely.

“Gee, Dad,” Arch interjected, “it’s okay—”

A loud knocking made the front-door frame reverberate; a female “Hoo-hoo?” echoed down the hall. John Richard stood with his hands on his hips, unmoving, staring at my collection of cookbooks as if fascinated by their arrangement on the shelf. Arch ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs. He knew he had to get his stuff, and quickly, to avoid a scene.

“Hoo-hoo, Goldy, it’s your partner in bleach!” came the voice again.

Frances Markasian peered into the foyer. She had reverted to her normal attire: black T-shirt, frayed blue jeans, duct-taped sneakers, voluminous black raincoat, and equally voluminous black purse. She looked like a skinny bat. “There you are!” she said. “Sorry to be here so early, but I was just trying to catch you before you went to the fair. Is that okay? Can we talk? Can I come in? I won’t smoke.”

I came out onto the front porch and gestured in the direction of the porch swing. “Let’s just stay out here. I thought I heard your Fiat, I just wasn’t used to hearing it so early in the morning.”

KILLER PANCAKES

2 cups all-purpose flour

1 cup sugar

1 teaspoon baking soda

? teaspoon salt

2 egg whites

1 16-ounce can juice-packed fruit cocktail, drained and juice reserved

maple syrup or chopped fresh strawberries macerated with a little sugarPreheat the oven to 350°. Spray 2 non-stick cookie sheets with vegetable oil and set aside.Sift the dry ingredients together and set aside. Beat the egg whites until frothy. Beat in the juice. Gradually add the dry mixture, stirring until well blended. Fold in the fruit cocktail.Using an ?-cup (2-tablespoon) measure, scoop dollops of pancake batter onto the sprayed pans, leaving at least 2 inches between the pancakes. Bake for 10 to 15 minutes or until puffed and golden. Serve hot with maple syrup, fresh strawberries, peaches, or other fruit.Serves 4

Frances backed toward the swing, her head tilted as she appraised me. “Goldy, are you all right?”

I attempted a smile. “Let’s just say I had an unexpected visitor early this morning.”

“Who?”

“Frances, what exactly is it you want me to do for you?”

She drew out a Marlboro, held it up for my inspection, and I nodded. Much as I hated cigarettes, I knew Frances would get down to business more quickly if she had nicotine. She fished around in her purse for a lighter, brought one out along with a Jolt cola, lit the cig, popped the can top, inhaled, exhaled, and took a big swig from the can, all in a quick series of practiced motions.

“Okay,” she said presently, “I need more Mignon cosmetics and I don’t want them to get suspicious. So I was hoping you could get the stuff for me—”

“Oh, Frances, for heaven’s sake, I have so much to do today—”

“—and I’ve checked with my editor, and he wants you to cater a big shower, for his wife in two weeks, lots of guests, couples, a hundred people, name your price.” She smiled broadly and took another drag.

I guess I could spare five or ten minutes. “Look, Frances. I can’t spend a lot of time at that counter today. I have another appointment today, my friend is coming home from the hospital, and I have to cook for a big party tonight—”

“I know, I know, the Braithwaites’. But that’s not until tonight, and I was really hoping you could get this stuff for me today.” I sighed. When did she think caterers did their preparations? The cigarette dangled from the side of her mouth as she rooted around in her purse again and finally pulled out a list along with a plastic zip bag. She unzipped the bag and fanned out its contents: three hundred-dollar bills. Then she