Mary Jane by Jessica Blau (debian ebook reader TXT) 📗

for a moment. Quickly, she righted all the silverware, pulled out a knife, sliced off a pat of butter, put it in a frying pan, and turned on the flame.

“I’ll try to use less butter next time.” My voice was quiet, hesitant.

“And you definitely oversalt.” Mom laid three pieces of bread in the pan.

“I can be more careful.”

“One should never be careless or haphazard when cooking. Particularly when it comes to butter and salt.” She unwrapped theKraft slices and laid them on the bread.

“Did you like Izzy? Don’t you think she’s cute?” I felt desperate for my mother to understand the magic of the Cone house.

“How did those people eat before you arrived? They talked about you like you were Gandhi feeding the starving masses.”

Was there anything I could say that would shift my mother’s focus from disparaging the Cones to appreciating them? Or, atthe very least, maybe she could appreciate that I was an integral part of the family? “Well . . .” I paused as I tried toanswer the question without betraying the family. “Before I started cooking for them, they picked up a lot of prepared foodfrom Eddie’s. And sometimes they ordered Chinese or went to Little Tavern.”

My mother looked at me like I’d told her they ate dog poop off the sidewalk. “That poor, poor child.” She turned back to thesandwiches. “There’s something wrong with that mother.”

I opened the cupboard and took down three plates and put them on the counter near the frying pan. “What do you think is wrong with her?” My curiosity was sincere.

“The way she was dressed. That she doesn’t feed her child.”

“But she loves Izzy so much. I think she just doesn’t want to be a housewife.”

“Use paper napkins and fold them in thirds.” My mother nodded quickly toward the yellow plastic napkin holder that alwayssat on the kitchen table. “If she didn’t want to be a housewife, then she shouldn’t have had a child. And she definitely shouldn’thave put that child in danger with those people in the house.”

“I was in charge of Izzy.” How could my mother not know that? What did she think I’d been doing all summer? “She was neverin danger.”

“You shouldn’t have been in charge. You’re a child. You should have been a helper.” My mother used a spatula to turn the sandwiches over. “I never should have allowed you to take that job.”

“Mom.” I felt strangely choked up. I wanted to tell her that I was pretty sure that I’d done a really great job being in chargeof Izzy and taking care of the house, too. And I also wanted to tell her how much I loved cooking for the Cones. How cookingfor people you love feels less like a chore and more like a way of saying I love you. And, really, I got that from her, the cooking, the child-rearing, and the housekeeping. My mother had been such a good motherto me in so many ways. She’d taught me so much. And she’d been excellent company. Until she wasn’t.

“Mom,” I said again.

My mother didn’t respond. I pulled out a napkin, folded it in thirds, and put it under the first spoon. Then I folded the second and third napkins. Once they’d been placed, I picked up the soup bowls and took them to the counter near the stove. I was trying to anticipate my mother’s directions before they left her mouth.

“Mom,” I said.

“Spit it out, Mary Jane.” My mother banged the soupspoon on the side of the pot and then placed it in the holder.

“You did a really good job teaching me how to keep house and how to cook. Everyone was amazed by my cooking and I learnedall that from you.” I blinked rapidly to keep my eyes from filling with tears.

My mother started ladling soup into bowls, then handed the bowls to me without ever looking up at my face. We were both silentas I walked back and forth, placing the soup bowls on the table, one by one.

“I don’t understand why Sheba’s with that drug addict,” she said at last.

“He’s recovered.”

“The tattoos look so dirty. I wanted to take a Brillo pad and scrub them off.”

The urge to cry vanished and I actually laughed. “It’s weird how quickly you get used to that stuff. I don’t even see themanymore. It’s like Karen Stiltson at school. When she first showed up at Roland Park, she had this lisp, like she said shoe lay-shesh instead of shoelaces.” I took two plates with grilled cheese back to the table.

“Don’t be mean.”

“No, I’m not being mean. I’m just saying that I noticed that lisp when she first came to school. But by the end of the yearI didn’t hear it. My ears just stopped registering it.”

My mother brought the third plate to the table. “I hope you never said anything to her about it.” She was half scolding me, but her tone was lighter. Maybe I was being forgiven.

“No, Mom.” I went to the cupboard, took down three drinking glasses, and placed them on the table. “But it was the same forJimmy’s tattoos.”

“I wish you didn’t call those people by their first names!”

“Okay. Well, it was the same with the tattoos. I didn’t see them after a while. And I didn’t see Sheba—Mom, she legally droppedher last name; she doesn’t even have one. . . .”

My mother shook her head. She put the frying pan in the sink to be washed after we’d eaten.

“So with Sheba, I forgot she was a big star. She became just a lady. She’s super kind and caring, Mom. She doesn’t hate anyone,not even drug addicts and not pastors or politicians. She loves singing and she loves the church.”

My mother pointed at the table. “Milk for me. You can have orange soda today, if you’d like.” Now I knew forgiveness was coming.

I took the orange soda from the fridge and poured two glasses, one for me and one for my father. Then I got out the milk andfilled my mother’s glass. It was so thick,