Chronicles of a Radical Hag (with Recipes)

by Lorna Landvik

  “There are many of us who believe in the sacredness of life and don’t believe a teacher should be brainwashing her students to think otherwise!”

  “I’m not brainwashing my students, but I hope I’m encouraging them to think.”

  “We don’t believe in abortion in our family!”

  “I’m not asking anyone to change their beliefs,” says Liz, her hands splaying outward. “I’m only offering one woman’s opinions on all sorts of subjects.”

  “Well believe me, I’d transfer Blake out of your class if he didn’t like it so much!”

  March 27, 1989

  The Lutheran church in our town was at the end of the block. Pastor M lived next door, in its old white parsonage, along with his wife. Mrs. M was an avid gardener, who planted everything from snap peas to snapdragons, pumpkins to pansies, zucchini to zinnias. Mrs. M welcomed us kids into the parsonage yard, understanding that its towering oak tree practically begged children to climb its leafy, expansive arms, and in the spring and summer, we were happy to help her in the gardens, as she often rewarded us with her homemade caramels wrapped in wax paper.

  Mrs. M was lighthearted and fun, and my friend Richard, who always saw more than the rest of us, wondered what she saw in Pastor M.

  “I mean, it’s not like he’s a barrel of laughs,” he said to me once as we walked home after a morning helping Mrs. M pull weeds and lay mulch. I had to agree there; when it came to his sermons, he was more a droner than an orator, and my mother’s elbows, warning us to stay awake, were kept busy poking both me and my father. “Plus he’s so much older than she is!”

  “He is?” I asked. My own dad was my mother’s senior by many years, but I never was aware of it as a kid. Unless someone had old-age giveaways, like gray or white hair, stooped posture, or a shambling gait, my young mind categorized all adults as in the same vague age.

  “By at least ten years,” said Richard. “Which wouldn’t really matter, but he acts like he’s a hundred and ten years older.”

  Apparently the young-hearted Mrs. M shared similar opinions, boarding a train west and never coming back.

  It was quite the scandal in town; Pastor J came out of retirement to stand in for Pastor M while the latter went off to retrieve his wife. Three weeks later, he came back. Alone.

  The next Sunday he preached a sermon about the sin of temptation and not living up to one’s vows. I don’t know if he felt any regret or remorse—certainly none was expressed, and I honestly don’t think he was a thoughtful-enough man to consider any point of view other than his own, certain as he was that it was guided by God.

  Several years later, after retrieving the sweater I’d left behind in confirmation class, I pushed open the church door and saw Pastor M in the backyard, staring at the tumble of weeds that had replaced Mrs. M’s flower garden.

  Not wanting to disturb him or talk to him (I’d just spent an hour in the plodding tedium that was his lecture on the Nicene Creed), I tried to make myself invisible, crouching a little as I passed the lilac hedge, but my stealth proved not so stealthy.

  “Hazel?”

  (Even teachers called me by my nickname, but true authority figures, like Pastor M and the school principal, still insisted on this address.)

  Pulling at the hem of my cardigan, I said, “I left behind my sweater,” and planned to offer a wave and keep walking, but the expression on the minister’s face was a rope that pulled me toward him.

  “Pastor M? Are you all right?”

  It was a rhetorical question—obviously he wasn’t—but the only one I could think of asking.

  He didn’t answer for a long time but stared at the garden of horseweed and bull thistle and witchgrass.

  “I should have cared enough to have kept this up,” he said, his voice so soft I felt I was eavesdropping. “The circle ladies volunteered to help out, but I told them no. I said they could keep up all plants on church property, but the parsonage gardens had been planted by . . . by Mrs. M. Planted and tended to with great devotion.” His voice broke a little, and I forced myself not to obey my instinct, which was to run, especially after he’d lifted his eyeglasses to wipe away tears.

  “Maybe if I had paid attention to her the way she paid attention to these flowers . . .” He cleared his throat. “She said she always planted annuals because she liked a new garden every year, but I think it’s because she knew one day she’d be gone. And it was easier to leave something that wasn’t going to bloom again.”

  When I got home, I wrote down in my journal what Pastor M had said; it was the only time I’d heard him speak with any sort of emotion.

  The pictures on the news of the Exxon Valdez oil spill, that massive blackness spreading out over the waters and shoreline of the Gulf of Alaska like a malignant liquid tumor, are shocking and sickening. How did that tanker run aground? Who’s responsible? I thought this column was going to be about this devastating environmental catastrophe, but the words that came out on the old Selectric were about Pastor M. Same theme, I guess. Carelessness. So easy to excuse, but really, isn’t carelessness the beginning of all disasters?

  After reading the column on Radical Hag Wednesday, Kyle says, “I don’t really get that last line.”

  Liz raises her eyebrows and purses her mouth, an expression that asks if anyone cares to comment.

  Grace does.

  “I think it means that we don’t really take carelessness seriously, ’cause it’s so easy to be careless about simple stuff, like not brushing your teeth good or writing a book report on a book you didn’t really read.” She glances quickly at Mrs. Garnet. “I’m not talking about myself.”

  Liz smiles. “Go on.”

  “There are different degrees of carelessness is what I mean, and they can lead to different degrees of disasters—if you’re careless about brushing your teeth, they might rot or abscess or whatever, and—”

  “Okay, I get it,” says Kyle, nodding. “That preacher dude was careless in how he treated his wife, so she finally left—”

  “But was it carelessness that caused that oil spill?” asks Stacy. “Something the captain did wrong?”

  “Maybe not. Maybe it was a mechanical error or something,” says Dylan. “You know, something wrong with the ship.”

  “Then wouldn’t it be carelessness of like the maintenance crew?” asks Jacob.

  “All good points,” says Liz. “But we’ve got to move onto the next column.”

  April 20, 1995

  My friend Lois, Bruce Schneeman, and I stood watching a bank of TVs, our arms folded tight across our chests, protecting us.

  “My wife’s family’s from Oklahoma City,” Bruce said (note: I spoke this morning to Anita Schneeman, and all her family members are thankfully fine), as we tried to make sense of not just the carnage but how the carnage came to be.

  Lois and I had been browsing at Schneeman’s Furniture. I need a new couch (and have for about a decade), and Lois was looking at an accent rug, as she had finally had her molting seventies shag carpet pulled up to reveal the pretty blond wood floors underneath.

  We were more distracted shoppers than serious ones and were testing out two side-by-side recliners, pulling their levers like we were race car drivers and they were our stick shifts, whooping as we were sent in varying degrees backward.

  When Bruce rushed into the showroom and called, “Ladies!” we thought for a moment we were being scolded for our rambunctious recliner test-drive, but as he navigated the maze of sectionals and ottomans and chairs, he said, “There’s been a bombing in Oklahoma City!”

  We followed him into the small-electronics room and watched the news on a half-dozen television screens.

  I didn’t go into the office, where I knew I could get all the latest incoming news. I didn’t want all the latest incoming news. I didn’t know what I wanted. I was just so discombobulated that in this world I live in, also live people who can plan and execute such barbarity.

  The perpetrators are unknown right now,
but when they’re caught (and they will be caught), I’m sure we’ll hear the heinous drivel that they believe explains their motives. But that’s all it is: the same heinous drivel that’s always espoused by those sick enough to commit acts of terror, those evil ideologues who believe that causing death and destruction somehow glorifies their cause.

  “I had to ask my mom about the Oklahoma City bombing,” says Claire. “I’d never even heard about it before.”

  “My dad said when he heard it was an American who did it, he couldn’t believe it,” says Patrick. “Especially an American who’d been in the army, like he was.”

  “Your dad was in the army?” asks Dylan.

  Patrick nods. “In the Persian Gulf War. Same one as the guy that did it, that McVeigh.”

  There is a silence in the classroom, and Liz watches emotions flit across her students’ faces.

  “I like how Haze writes about the little things in her own life,” says Elise, “and then about big things in the world.”

  A weird warmth radiates in Sam’s chest. He could listen to Elise all day.

  “I think that’s the gift of any good writer,” says Liz. “By bringing us into their own world, they bring us into the whole world.”

  “My grandma tells me stories,” says Stacy, “and I’ve started writing them down. Plus I write down things that people say, like Haze did, if they impress me.”

  “Is it full of things I’ve said?” asks Dylan.

  The classroom laughs, and even as Stacy reddens, she says, “Uh, that page is pretty blank.”

  Liz has been complaining to her husband how stupid testing regulations are taking the fun out of teaching, but on Radical Hag Wednesday she’s reminded what makes her profession the best in the world. Her kids are engaged, thoughtful, willing to offer their opinions and listen to others; they’re excited about learning. She’s had numerous e-mails from parents about the discussions the “Haze homework” has sparked around the dinner table, in the car, while doing dishes.

  Pride rises in her as Blake, a boy whose florid acne has exacerbated his natural shyness, raises his hand and says, “I’ve started reading some other columnists online. Have you ever heard of a guy named Dave Barry? Or Carl Hiaasen? They’re pretty funny.”

  23

  Countless times, Susan has said (and meant), “What would I do without you?”

  Caroline believes in herself, but her belief isn’t as constant as she’d like, often giving way, like a rotted pier, to the crashing wave of doubt whose cry, as it batters to shore, is “You’re a fraud!”

  The first time she confided this to Tina, her girlfriend laughed and said, “Chica. All women—probably most men too, if they’re really honest—feel that way.”

  “You don’t! You’re the most unfraudulent person I know!”

  Wrapping her arm around her and drawing Caroline close, Tina said, “My first operation? On Doobie, a big old retriever who’d eaten a sock? Ay. After I’d scrubbed up and was putting on my gloves, I thought, What am I doing? Whose beloved dog am I about to kill?”

  “Those were just nerves,” said Caroline, kissing the velvety lobe of Christina’s ear. “Deserved nerves—I mean, my God, you’re dealing with life and death. Me, I’m only dealing with schedules and appointments and correspondence, and I still feel sometimes like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  Propping herself up in the bed, hand supporting head, Tina said, “Caroline, it’s the easiest thing in the world for us to feel like we’re never good enough at what we do. And it doesn’t matter that I’m a vet or you’re a journalist—”

  “Ha! An assistant!”

  Tina frowned, more with her eyebrows than her mouth.

  “An assistant who thought she wanted to write for a newspaper but is finding out she might like the administrative side even better. How many times have you told me that yourself?”

  Caroline can’t help a small smile. “About a million, probably.”

  “And let me tell you, whether you wind up writing for a paper or running a paper, you might still feel like a fraud, because that’s how women are raised to feel.”

  “Even you, with your mom and dad believing in you?”

  “Of course. Because they were ‘just my parents.’” Rolling her eyes, Tina shook her head. “It was the rest of the world that I thought really mattered! And the rest of the world thought I was just a little Hispanic girl who’d gotten lucky with affirmative action scholarships!”

  The silence fell on the air like a cloud bank and pressed on them for a while.

  “That’s what we have to fight,” Tina said finally. “All those ‘no, no, nos’ that we’ve heard since we were little girls. All those nos that tell us we’re wrong to think what we think, to do what we do, to be who we are.”

  WHEN CAROLINE WALKS into the reception area, she asks, “Is Sam here yet?”

  He’s off from school because of teacher conferences, and to Susan’s delight, he announced that he wanted to spend his vacation at work.

  Shelly, who’s angry that she used a pen on today’s especially hard Sudoku puzzle, nods.

  If she wonders about Caroline’s strange, hunched-over posture, she says nothing but directs her attention back to the bedeviling puzzle.

  As Caroline heads down the hallway, arms cupped low around her squirming stomach, she giggles, both from nerves and giddiness. She passes the conference room but hearing her name, backs up and looks in.

  “Oh, hi, Susan. I’m looking for Sam.”

  “Look no further, he’s in here.”

  He is, along with a small group of people gathered around the table, all of whom stare at her.

  “Why am I reminded of the movie Alien?” asks Aaron Pimsler, the news editor.

  Unzipping her jacket, Caroline laughs, as the bundle of fur she’s corralled inside scrambles up her chest.

  “Oh, it’s a puppy!” says Susan, and a chorus of words tumble after hers: “He’s adorable!” “What’s his name?” “Can I hold it?”

  Sam has asked the last question, and Caroline obliges his request by placing the wriggling pup into his hands.

  “Dude!” says Sam, laughing as the dog attacks his face with his tongue.

  “Is he yours?” asks Susan, and as she reaches out to pet the puppy’s head, she laughs too when the animal decides her hand is as delectable as Sam’s face and licks her fingers.

  “No, he’s the last puppy from Lovey’s litter. The stray dog that broke her leg? That Tina fixed up?”

  Caroline swallows hard.

  “That my girlfriend Tina, the woman I love, fixed up?”

  Her voice cracks, and in the short silence that follows Susan thinks, Finally, it’s about time. Dale, the sports editor, and Mitch, the managing editor, both think, whoa. Aaron, the news editor, who was working up his courage to ask Caroline out, thinks, Damn. Ellie Barnes, the features editor, thinks, I wish I were more interesting. Sam thinks, Is she saying what I think she’s saying?

  She is. Caroline had made a very specific plan to come into the office and admit to Susan and Sam—and whoever else was around—her real self. It was her Coming-Out Party, only she wasn’t dressed in strapless tulle, announcing that she was ready to take her place in high society; she was in her office-appropriate black slacks and a turquoise cowl-neck sweater, telling the people in her world that she was gay.

  “Well,” says Susan, seeing the tears sparkle in Caroline’s eyes, “I think we’ve covered everything. Ellie, yes, I’d love an interview with that dance company head. Pat, I’d like at least one more source on that financial advisor scandal. The rest of you, we’ll talk further over lunch. Thank you.”

  Susan closes the door after most everyone shuffles out. Remaining are herself, Sam and the puppy in his arms, and Caroline, who is sitting with her head in her hands.

  “It’s all right,” says Susan, putting her hands on the young woman’s shoulders. “It’s all right.”

  Sam’s emotional circuit board is so lit up it w
ould be hard to identify one prevailing feeling—he can’t stop giggling at the puppy’s persistent kisses—and yet his mother’s assistant, who’s appeared in more than one of his jerking-off fantasies—has just declared herself not just out-of-bounds but on the wrong team!

  From her slightly shaking shoulders, Sam can tell Caroline’s crying, and he’s surprised at the thickness in his own throat.

  “Mom, can I keep him?” he says, as the puppy confuses his earlobe for a chew toy.

  “I . . . I brought him for you,” says Caroline, looking up, her pretty face streaked with tears. She turns to Susan. “I know I should have asked you, but I just thought Cesar would love Sam and vice versa.”

  “Cesar?” says Sam. “Is that his name?”

  “That’s what we’ve been calling him. But if you . . . if you keep him, you can call him whatever you like.”

  “Come on, Cesar,” says Sam, as he walks across the room. “Let’s go see what’s happening outside.”

  His hands aren’t free to text/not send to Elise, but if they were, he would have typed, “CAROLINE’S GAY, BUT THE BIG NEWS IS: I GOT A DOG!”

  After Sam leaves, Susan sits down and asks, “Was the puppy to distract from what you were saying or vice versa?”

  Caroline shrugs, and her expression looks as if she’s trying to hold in a laugh or a sob.

  “A little bit of both, I guess. You’re not mad at me, are you?”

  Susan cups her hand over her assistant’s. “For what? The puppy? Ten percent mad to ninety percent glad. I mean, Sam’s been wanting a dog for a long time. Thanks for providing the kick in the pants.”

  Caroline breaks their long stare by looking at their hands.

  “And you’re not,” she whispers, “you’re not mad that I didn’t tell you I was gay?”

  Now Susan’s face looks as if she’s trying to hold in dual emotions: surprise and exasperation.

  “Zero percent mad. Fifty percent sad that you’d think I was mad. And fifty percent glad that you finally told me.”

  “It’s funny that all your emotions rhyme,” says Caroline.