The Chicken Sisters

by Kj Dell'Antonia

  Barbara didn’t look satisfied, and Mae realized she had sounded weak, at best. “Seriously,” she said, straightening her shoulders. She forced a smile, then saw Patti, behind Barbara, holding up what was truly a beautiful pot of flowers, with Aida standing by, smiling proudly as though it was all her doing.

  The sun was shining, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and somehow Patti, a Michelangelo hidden in a big-box store, had managed to create a masterpiece out of the humblest of materials. It was a tiny thing, but Mae felt her smile becoming real. If nothing else, it was kind of fun that Barbara was so into this. They’d get Mimi’s cleaned up, and then they’d see.

  “It’s just the beginning, Mae,” called Patti. “Wait until I get started along the fence.”

  “It looks awesome,” Mae said. And it did. “We’re going to give it our best, Mom, and that’s what matters, right?”

  “What matters is winning, Mae,” Barbara said, but at least she was smiling now, too.

  “Then could you quit fidgeting around and do something?” Mae rummaged through her supplies. “Here,” she said. “Go start scraping the fence.”

  There was only so much even Mae could achieve in a day, but by the time the Mimi’s makeover team was trading high fives and heading off for well-earned showers before Food Wars—and the night’s customers—showed up, they had made a visible difference. Some projects, like the peeling paint around the entrance, Mae just abandoned for now, planning to set an alarm for the crack of dawn and tackle them before anyone else was up in the morning. As for the rest, they had come a surprisingly long way since last night, and as she made her way back to Mimi’s, ready for the night ahead, Mae felt deeply satisfied. She realized with a start that she hadn’t posted the progress anywhere—no before-and-afters, no Instagrams of the new coming in and the old going out, no selfie with a carefully soiled gardening glove and a pot of blooming flowers. How had she missed so many opportunities? She had been so deep in the work, and so sure of her every next move, that she’d never stopped to check in with the rest of the world.

  Damn, she’d meant to promote every aspect of this. She’d have to try to catch up. She went inside and arranged sharp piles of simple white plates and napkins on the freshly painted red counter—dry, thank goodness, but only just—and took a shot from the top down, then another from the side. As she was kneeling beside the counter so that she could see how the shot would look with the top of the phone level with the top of the stack of plates, Andy’s voice startled her.

  “What are you doing? Paper plate glamour shots?”

  Sheepish, but not willing to abandon the angle, which was much better than the others, Mae took her picture, then slid everything back into place under the counter. “Social media,” she said. “You know, encouraging people to come out. I should have been doing it all day.”

  Andy laughed. “Kenneth and Patrick have been blasting about this nonstop. We’re going to have more than we can handle tonight,” he said. “Hope you brought your A game.”

  He’d been getting in little digs about her long absence all day, but somehow it didn’t bother her. With a pleasant sense of confidence, Mae took her place next to him in front of the big stove, where they had agreed she would start the night. He’d been prepping for an hour, but still, she ran her own accustomed check on every burner, the knobs as familiar as her own hands. It had been a long time since she had run the kitchen at Mimi’s, but frying chicken, for her, was like riding a bicycle. She was totally at home in this kitchen, just as the women in her family had always been. Signs of them were everywhere, from the cast-iron pans seasoned from long use to Mimi’s original recipe, burned into her brain but still framed and hung on the wall behind the prep counter. She had this.

  “Oh, I’m always at the top of my game,” she said cheerfully. “Clean living, that’s what does it.”

  Andy gave her a sharp look. Mae, who had her suspicions about how an obviously smart and extremely well-trained chef had ended up at her mother’s chicken shack, met his gaze squarely. She’d been aware since she arrived that he thought she was a lightweight, and while she didn’t care much—it was always easy to manage someone who’d underestimated you—she had no intention of letting him push her around tonight. “Plus, you’ve got my back, right?” She smiled. “We both want to knock it out of the park.”

  Just as Mae finished speaking, Barbara, dressed in fresh slacks and a short-sleeve blouse and looking bare without her usual covering smock, walked in. “Knock it out of the park,” Barbara echoed, too loudly. Mae and Andy gaped at her. “What?” Barbara asked. “That’s the point, right? Whatever it takes.” Barbara took her apron down from the wall and wrapped it around herself, murmuring. “Whatever it takes,” she repeated softly.

  Andy’s eyes met Mae’s again, this time sharing their surprise at Barbara’s oddly phrased vehemence, but there wasn’t time to talk about it. Customers were arriving; Angelique was beginning to call orders into the pass-through. The night had begun.

  Mae had carefully mapped out the evening to give herself the most camera time. When Sabrina arrived, about an hour later, it was Mae who explained the kitchen, the frying process, the ways it had changed over the years. Leaving Andy at the stove, she led the camera behind the counter and then out front, talking about the pictures and the history, giving Barbara just the lead-ins she needed to contribute but helping her to keep off center stage.

  The place was packed with locals as well as out-of-towners, but Mae, who had learned something from her encounter with Kenneth, was—after half an hour on Facebook—ready.

  “Great to see you again,” she said warmly to one old classmate, not thrown off by the change in gender. Heck, Merinac’s apparent acceptance of the shift from Jeff to Julia gave her hope for humanity.

  “You look just the same,” she squealed to another, ignoring gray hair and two decades of sun damage, especially as Crystal Kennedy, who now taught the Catholic Sunday school she, Amanda, and Mae had all attended, embraced Julia enthusiastically before ordering three of the night’s special, all with chocolate cream pie. Kenneth and Patrick came by, and with Kenneth leaning on the counter, picking at the plate of drumsticks Barbara made just for him, it was as if she’d never left Merinac at all. She still belonged in this town.

  * * *

  ×

  The night was a triumph, even after Sabrina shifted her attention back to Frannie’s. Mae, freed from the need to perform, took over from Andy and started catching her mother’s orders and sliding the plates through the pass. As she watched each batch of chicken or French fries, waiting for the split-second shift in color and scent that told her when to flip them or shake the basket, she lost track of time completely, hearing only her mother’s voice as she called the orders and moving with the rhythm demanded by the craft, surrounded by the familiar sounds and the savory smells of Mimi’s kitchen in action. It only needed Amanda on the other side of the window alongside Barbara to make it complete, and as she shook the oil off the last pieces of the night, Mae realized she was happy.

  “Right back at home?” Andy asked. She hadn’t even realized he was still in the kitchen. Mae took the towel from the string of her apron and wiped her face before she answered.

  “I was doing this when you were still getting stuffed into your locker in middle school,” she said. “This was my culinary education right here.”

  “Well, I doubt you can clarify a broth, but this you can do.” He held out a full plate. “I’m the last customer of the night. Want some?” Mae grabbed her own plate, and he shook a share of chicken and fries onto it. “Your mom asked me to tell you to meet her out back. I’ll finish cleaning up.”

  Not bothering to take off her apron, Mae carried her plate across the parking lot and around to the back door of mother’s house. She tapped on the window over the sink, trying not to see the dirty dishes or anything else, and Barbara, carrying a piece of chocolat
e cream pie, opened the sliding glass door and stepped out. She lowered herself onto the step next to Mae and set down the pie, and Mae picked it up and took a quick bite, making sure to get layers of cream and chocolate and graham cracker crust all stacked on her fork, before going back to the chicken and French fries. She’d forgotten how hungry cooking made a person, and now she was going to forget everything her trainer back in Brooklyn said about empty calories. She was hungry, and she was going to eat.

  The door opened again, and Aida, who had spent the evening asking customers how they were doing in a regal tone and then ignoring their answers, especially if they wanted napkins, stuck a chair through the opening. Barbara pushed herself up to get it; then Aida herself came carefully out, carrying two more pieces of Patrick’s pie. She handed one to Barbara and then seated herself, back upright, on the chair.

  “It went magnificently,” Aida declared. “I have not enjoyed a night at Mimi’s that much since—since never, actually. I think that young woman was very pleased with me. She promised to add some scenes from some of my earlier guest appearances. I suggested Bonanza.”

  Mae, who would have much preferred her aunt highlight another moment of her career, such as the brief stint on Golden Girls, which Aida preferred not to discuss, rolled her eyes at her mom, but the night had gone so well that a little touch of corn pone was not going to turn them into Duck Dynasty.

  “It did go well,” said Barbara, sitting back down. “I really do think that was thanks to you, Mae.”

  Mae, her mouth full of French fries, nodded. There was no point in being modest. Knowing everything about both how Mimi’s worked and what Sabrina was likely to do or want next meant Mae could basically orchestrate the evening like a rock star. Almost immediately, the cameras had begun to follow Mae instead of the other way around, and knowing they were there—that she was on and making a connection that would eventually be shared with millions of viewers—felt like writing a term paper on Adderall. She had been tight, focused, on fire, and, as she’d promised Andy, at the top of her game. She’d bet anything Amanda had been a flaky mess at Frannie’s. With Mae on Team Mimi’s, maybe they had a shot.

  “It would have been very distracting, Sabrina following me around asking me questions. Because we didn’t really need you to do anything, you could just kind of be an extra person to talk to her,” Barbara said. “Maybe I should have thought of that before I dragged you all the way here. Maybe Patti could have done it.”

  “Really, Mom?” Mae was outraged. It wasn’t just being an extra person. It was everything Mae brought with her. It was being Mae. “Patti wouldn’t have known half what I know. Sabrina would not have paid any attention to her.”

  “She did work for me once, a long time ago,” Barbara said, “Before you were born.” You don’t know everything, Barbara’s smile said.

  Mae, brought down a considerable notch, put down the plate of chicken bones and took her pie. “Patrick’s pies are so good,” she said. “Not as good as yours, of course”—this in answer to Barbara’s sidelong look—“but you’re obviously a good teacher. You could do Mimi’s pie classes,” she said, getting a little excited. “That would be another reason to come out here from Kansas City. People would love it.”

  Barbara didn’t respond, and Mae took another bite. This had to be the fattiest meal she had eaten since college, and she knew other people would be thinking the same thing. Classes were a good idea, but to really build Mimi’s—assuming her mother wanted to—it was going to be tough to get people to come back again and again without addressing the health factor. “We really should add, like, just one healthy thing to the menu,” Mae said.

  “We have salad,” Barbara said, in a tone that suggested it was the end of any discussion.

  “Iceberg lettuce is not healthy, Mom. It’s basically water. I’m thinking something affirmatively good for you, like, Yeah I’m eating fried chicken but I also ate this, so I’m good. Like kale. What if we offered one version of the salad with kale in it? It would still be the same salad.”

  “No kale,” said Barbara. “That’s ridiculous. Nobody comes to Mimi’s for kale. Raw kale stops you up, too. It’s terrible stuff.”

  “My mother forced us to eat it as kids,” Aida said. “It grew so easy. It was always gritty, though. And stringy. Oh, I hated that stuff. I can’t believe people eat it now.”

  Sometimes people had to hear an idea a whole lot of times before they came around to it. Mae let their objections go for now. She was on a roll, starting to see what Mimi’s could be. People liked it; they really did. They weren’t just looking for another Olive Garden. Crystal, Julia, Morty Rountree, all the people she had recognized, and way more that she had not—it just felt like people really got how important and cool it was to eat real food. Food with a history.

  “People love the salad dressing,” she said. “And the chicken is so good. Andy says he called Caswell’s to up our usual order of fresh chicken for tomorrow—but do you know if they’re organic? Sabrina was asking, and I told her I thought it was, basically, because of course it should be. If it is, we should highlight that on the menu.” It would be cool to put up a sign or something—chickens born and raised right here in Merinac. Amanda could draw— Well, no, Amanda probably wouldn’t. But just the sign would be cool. She started to say so, then realized that her mother, beside her, had stiffened and was glaring at her.

  Barbara put down her pie on the porch beside her and spoke firmly. “I do not know if the chicken is organic, Mae, but I assume it’s not, since he isn’t charging me an extra arm and leg for smaller pieces. It’s just chicken, from Caswell’s, same as ever.”

  That was fine; it didn’t really matter. Mae nodded. “They’re at least free-range, right? People love knowing that. The Caswells have been doing this for as long as Mimi’s has been around. We can share the story behind the food, that it’s fresh and locally sourced.” She smiled reassuringly at her mother. The organic label itself really didn’t matter. “That’s all anybody in New York ever talks about right now, where the food comes from and stuff.”

  Barbara was not soothed. Everything that had been easy between Mae and her mother seemed to disappear in an instant. “People do not come to Mimi’s for organic food and kale, Mae,” said Barbara, raising her voice. “We’ve been serving Caswell’s chicken and lettuce salad since before you were born, and we will keep serving it long after you go back to Brooklyn, since you’re so set on that. You’re here to help me win this, not to turn Mimi’s into—into—some fancy New York place.”

  Barbara’s lack of an example at the end made her want to giggle, but Mae knew her mother was serious—and that her mother had seriously misunderstood. Mae just wanted to tell customers what Mimi’s already was, not make it something different, or at least, not very different. But before Mae could defend herself, she heard footsteps coming around the side of the house. She leapt to her feet, and Barbara struggled up next to her.

  “Hello?” The voice was Sabrina’s, and without any need to consult, the Moore women swung into action. Aida, leaving her chair, held the door for Barbara, who rushed inside to turn off the lights. Mae rushed toward the corner and nearly collided with Sabrina just as the lights went off, leaving her grabbing the other woman’s arm in the dark.

  “Oh, hey!” Mae tried for a casual tone. “My mom just went to bed. Um, come on, I was just about to go get my car. I’ll walk you back.” The path was uneven, but the light from Mimi’s kitchen windows was just enough to show Sabrina where she was going—and not enough, as long as her mother didn’t turn any inside lights on, to reveal anything unusual about the house.

  “Oh, I thought I would catch you guys,” said Sabrina, turning around and heading for the parking lot. She didn’t seem to have noticed anything. “That’s why I came back. You should be celebrating. That went great.”

  “I know,” said Mae, delighted. “It was fun. More fun than Sparklin
g, really.”

  “Well, you practically had this stage all to yourself,” said Sabrina, with a wicked smile that Mae took to be a dig at Lolly, her scene-stealing Sparkling co-host, until Sabrina went on. “Amanda told me you’ve always liked having the whole town’s eyes on you, and then some.”

  Mae, walking beside Sabrina in the near darkness, faltered. “What?” Sabrina’s tone had shifted from congratulatory to teasing, even a little aggressive, and Mae wasn’t sure why. But then again, she could guess. She had known some mocking of her small-town roots was coming the minute she agreed to come back to Kansas, and she tried to respond lightly, ready for the inevitable Dorothy joke or white-trash reference. “Oh, I know. So classic, small-town theater geek. I even had the lead in Our Town, did she say? I’m a walking cliché.”

  This time, Sabrina laughed. “That wasn’t exactly what she said, but that totally makes it better.” She snorted. Mae could tell she was genuinely laughing, not just playing her Food Wars host part, and suddenly Mae knew exactly what was coming, even as part of her mind was arguing that, no, it was impossible, Amanda would never have gone there.

  Sabrina, still giggling a little, went on. “No, she was talking about the stripping. In college. I almost didn’t believe her, but she convinced me.” As she spoke, they stepped into a circle of light from the only streetlight off the Mimi’s parking lot, and Mae would have sworn she’d timed it so that she could see Mae’s reaction to her words.

  But Mae was frozen. Frozen with anger and frustration and just a tiny bit of fear, because why the hell would Amanda do this to her when she knew—she must know—that even though Mae was totally cool with her past choices, this was not one she advertised, and not one she’d told Jay about, either.

  Fuck her. Fuck her sister.

  Fuck. Sabrina was still there, smiling cheerfully. Well, fuck her, too. No response was actually the perfect response. She wasn’t ashamed of what she did, not one bit. She had decided a long time ago that there was no point regretting something you’d already done. Choices only move in one direction. Anyway, she hadn’t been used by all those men; she had used them. Their worn and folded bills had added up to enough to finance her road to B-school, and she was proud of her resourcefulness—but that didn’t mean she had to make it easy to drag this out there, even if Jay probably wouldn’t care. She’d sounded him out about it, long ago, thought about telling him. It just never came up; that was all.