by Kelly Harms
* * *
But two hours later, when it’s just me and Aunt Midge in her little house, and she’s racing around putting things she doesn’t want to take with her to Maine into a box for the Good Samaritans, I realize I’m not getting out of this as easily as I thought.
“You’re coming with me, and that’s final,” Aunt Midge says imperiously. I know she uses this tone of voice on me because it works, but I still hate it. I also hate the way she puts her hands on her tiny hips and squares herself toward me, like she’ll take me by force if she has to. It is exactly what it would look like if the Golden Girls got into professional wrestling.
“I’m not going to move to Maine,” I tell her, taking my mother’s wedding veil out of her toss pile. “You go. Enjoy the place. It sounds lovely. I’ll visit on every holiday and you’ll make tons of friends right away—you won’t even have time to miss me.”
Aunt Midge sneers at me. “Of course I’ll make friends. Please. I have no problem making friends.” As if to illustrate her popularity, she pulls down a stack of high school yearbooks from a closet and dumps them into a recycling bin. “You, on the other hand, will sit in that dinky apartment with the plastic countertops and painted-shut windows, cooking for an army every night, and wasting all that food, and before you know it you’ll be a little old lady who hasn’t gotten laid in forty years.”
She is my great-aunt, and I love her, but sometimes I wonder why she is still alive.
“Thank you for your concern, but I am just fine. I like it here. I like my job.” I sound whiney and defensive, like someone on a reality cooking show who’s just been cut.
“You are just fine? Please. You don’t answer your phone, you don’t eat your own cooking, you’re about to be fired from your job, and you get hives just from talking to strangers.”
I’ve heard this all before and I ignore her just like always. “I don’t get hives,” I say, thankful that I’m wearing long sleeves so she can’t see the red welts that have popped up all along my arms and shoulders since talking to that producer.
“Fine, then stay here,” Aunt Midge says.
“Fine, I will,” I say, like the petulant brat I know I’m being.
“Good.” Aunt Midge grabs a weighty stack of piano music and drops it with a thud into the keep pile. “I’ll just get one of those life-alert bracelets like those old ladies on TV who are all alone with no one to love them or tell them how bad their hair looks. That way when I fall and break my hip someone might come to help me, after a few hours at least, assuming I keep up with the payments. I’m sure it won’t be too painful, lying there on the new ecologically sound bamboo flooring, unable to do anything but moan in agony…”
I growl and sit down on the forty-year-old Barcalounger. Be strong, I tell myself.
Aunt Midge sighs dramatically. “I always imagined it would be your mother taking care of me into my dotage. She would never have abandoned me alone on some windy cliff in the middle of Maine. It’s just not what she would have wanted.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” I am annoyed, yes, but my defenses are crumbling.
“Of course, if you were there with me, I’d be so much safer…”
I drop my head into my hands and moan. Aunt Midge sees this as a chance to go for the jugular.
“I wonder what cooking in that fancy kitchen would be like.”
I look up.
“They said something about it last week on the preview show…” she scratches her head, pretends to think back a week, “Oh yes. Granite countertops. Does that mean anything to you?”
I can live without granite countertops. They’d be nice for making fudge, sure. But mostly they’re just for show. I turn away.
“And what was the name of those fancy appliances? Sub-Zero?”
I turn back. Now I am mildly interested.
“Sub-Zero was just the fridge, though,” she pushes on. “I think the ovens had a different name.”
Ovens? Plural?
“Wolf. Is that the name of an oven maker?”
I stand up. “What else did they say about the kitchen?”
Aunt Midge is coy. “Hm … it’s hard to remember. Let’s see. Two great big ovens, six-burner gas range, a fancy fridge with French doors, a chest freezer in the garage, raised-bed kitchen garden out the side door, a baker’s island, farmhouse sink…” She turns to face me, hands on hips. “Jeez, it’s just such a shame that such a lovely kitchen will be going to waste. I can barely make toast. It’ll just sit there unused all day long. Probably get really dusty.”
I scream. “You are evil.”
“Oh, calm down. Your kitchen is just fine. You’ve got a fridge and an oven and two lovely burners. What more could you want? Counter space is overrated, that’s what you always say. You’ve got a lovely life here in Iowa and I wouldn’t want you to give that up.”
That’s it. My dander is officially up. “I’m outta here,” I announce, and start pulling on my shoes. “You know you are making me crazy. I don’t understand why you would want to take something good—after all, you’re getting the house of your dreams, aren’t you?—and make it into a huge mess for me.” I grab my jacket and pull it around my shoulders dramatically. No time for sleeves or buttons—I’m in a huff. “You just love to see how far you can push me, don’t you? I don’t want to move to Maine. You do. You should be jumping for joy, not needling me until I snap.” I throw open the front door and see that there are still some bright red balloons lingering on Aunt Midge’s porch. Just the reminder of all that hoopla makes my arms grow itchy and hot.
“Wait!” Aunt Midge cries before I can slam the door behind me. I see her tottering toward the door as fast as she can move. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
The sound of her shaky old-lady voice softens me. I need to get a grip. I take a deep breath and stick my head back in the door. “What is it?” I ask, as gently as I can in my state.
“The refrigerator has a TV built right in. So you can watch your cooking shows right there, on the fridge while you cook!”
ARGH. “I. Am. Not. Going.” I shout out, and then whip around and slam the door behind me, knowing I might as well go home and pack for Maine.
NEAN
“The first thing to do, if you have absolutely no money, is to borrow some. Fifty cents will be enough, and should last you from three days to a week, depending on how luxurious are your tastes.”
—M. F. K. FISHER, How to Cook a Wolf
Here is the thing about winning a free dream house on TV: You’ve got to get there somehow.
I took the bus. The ride took four days, nonstop, and my ass hurt like hell by the time I got to the last stop on the Greyhound—Damariscotta, Maine. I had to sleep overnight in the bus station in Chicago, and in Boston too. Boston was significantly dodgier, let me tell you. There’s just something about East Coast bums. Not big fans of the bathroom.
But the Boston bus station did have one thing going for it: a twenty-four-hour Internet kiosk. Which, by day three of my journey, I realized I sorely needed.
You see, after they announced my name on TV, I was too damn excited to wait for instructions. I just wrapped my bloody hand up in a paper towel, grabbed my duffel bag and filled it as full as I could with underwear and wool socks and an extra-large box of Cheerios—rats can live for weeks on just Cheerios—and threw everything into Geoff’s car and took off. Well, I did make sure he was still breathing first—he was, phew—and I took the time to leave a note telling him I’d borrowed his car and was leaving it in the Waterloo bus station with the keys above the wheel well, and sorry about the gaping head wound. I didn’t want to totally screw up my karma. At the station, I cashed my last paycheck to buy the bus ticket and used a pay phone to let Hardee’s know I was not coming back. Ricky, the manager, picked up. She was happy for me.
But I didn’t leave a forwarding address. Didn’t figure Geoff would want to write. So the contest people probably have been wondering how to reach me. I’m guessing
they went to the house or called my cell phone—which was turned off for nonpayment weeks ago. That would only leave one method of contact: e-mail.
And sure enough, when I log on, here’s what I find:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Congrats!
Dear Ms. Brown,
Pursuant to our conversation, here is a map to your new home (!) and the lawyer’s office where your paperwork will be finalized. You are confirmed to meet at Caselwit, Stanson, and Moss at 10:00 am on the 9th of June.
If anything comes up during your trip east or upon arrival, just call my assistant Lavender at (323) 400-1449.
Again, congratulations!
Meghan Mukoywski
Executive Producer, Home Sweet Home Network
I have no idea what “pursuant to our conversation” is supposed to mean, but there’s a map attached with the address of my new house: 1516 Shipwreck Lane. There’s no way for me to print the map but at least I know what I’m supposed to be looking for. Besides, you know, the giant house and the sailboats and the heated pool.
* * *
After four days of bus travel, sunny, quaint, charming-as-hell Damariscotta is quite a refreshing change. They drop me off in a Walgreen’s back parking lot, but it’s more like Ye Olde Walgreen’s, with its gray-stained shutters and green shingles. The whole town makes me a little barfy. It’s pottery store this and bead store that, and of course an expanse of jewelry stores stretching block after block for all the rich tourists all over the place.
They have novelty maps of the area available for free at every storefront, and I pick one up to try to get some vague idea of where I am and where I am going. Alas, the maps have no viable scale, and were drawn giving extreme height to buildings where sponsors are located and absolutely zip detail to areas without any retailers, such as the neighborhood where my new house would be. I know I look like a drifter, with my greasy four-day-old hair and stuffed-to-the-gills duffel bag, so I don’t ask for directions until I find a rundown tobacco shop on the edge of the main drag. Inside is a weathered old man smoking a pipe carved in the shape of a grizzly bear. Bingo, I think.
“Hey,” I say, holding my body in my best, “I’m not here to shoplift anything” posture, arms open wide. “I’m looking for Shipwreck Lane. Do you have any idea how I’d get there?”
The old man scratches his thick gray beard. Seriously. I pray my immune system will be strong enough to survive the quaintness poisoning I am surely getting a hefty dose of.
“Well,” he says at last, in a voice that sounds like this isn’t his first grizzly-bear pipeful. “You can’t get there from here.”
“Very funny,” I say, eyebrows raised. “Is it far?”
The man straightens up, smiles, and holds out his pipe to me. “Not far. Here, smell this.”
I take a deep whiff of the burnt leaves in his pipe. Weed. How classy. I cross my arms in front of me and shake my head.
“Good stuff, though, right?” he replies, even though I have said nothing. “I’ve got a fisherman buddy who’s bringing it in from the seaport in Boston. None of this Vermont-grown organic bullshit.”
“Nice,” I say, just hoping the guy still has the brain cells left to get me to Shipwreck Lane. “But seriously, how do I get there?”
“Get where?”
Oh for God’s sake. “To Shipwreck Lane? I know it’s close to a lighthouse,” I say, thinking back to the preview show.
“Oh yeah. Shipwreck Lane.… That’s gotta be on Pemaquid Point. Just take Main Street and follow it until it’s not a main street anymore but just a long winding road—that’s Highway 130. When you get to the yarn store, turn right on Mariner’s Way. Shipwreck Lane is off there somewhere.” He jabs at the cartoon map and shows me exactly where I’m going. I’m thrilled.
“Can I walk there?”
“Why would you want to do a thing like that?” he asks, resuming work on his pipe.
I shrug. “Maybe because I don’t have a car?”
“Ah. Then my sister will drive you. Any excuse to get to the yarn store, that knitting maniac. Lemme call her. Are you in a hurry?”
Not even slightly. “Sort of,” I say, trying not to sound too demanding, but still rushed.
“No problem. Hang on.”
The salty old stoner turns his back on me and finds a cell phone. A few moments later he turns to me and says, “She’s on her way down,” and points at the ceiling. “Don’t tell her about the pot. She’s particular about that sort of thing.”
“Sure. I’ll just wait outside. Thanks for all your help. Oh—and hey, can I get a pack of matches while I’m in here?”
“No problem,” he says, sliding a box across the counter to me. Bud’s Tobacky and Gifts, the case reads. “Nice meeting you.”
“You too.” I open the shop door and push my way back into the fresh air and sunshine. My pockets are now full of a novelty pipe of my own, two packs of American Spirits, and four cigars of unknown quality. I can’t wait to get to the house and check them out. I didn’t think to steal a cigar cutter, but the kitchen should have a good strong knife that will do the job.
Thirty minutes later I am standing in the shared parking lot of a small cluster of dilapidated buildings. One houses the yarn store, into which Bud’s sister has obligingly disappeared after giving me a friendly smile and taking the five dollars of gas money I offered. One is clearly a corner store, with windows full of beer signage and toilet paper displays. Good. That means I won’t need a car anytime soon, if we really are within a decent walk of the house. The third building is, near as I can tell, some sort of garden supply center. Really, it’s a bit of a mystery, with nothing on its sign but a cartoon mushroom surrounded by hovering fairies. Maybe this is where the town gnome lives. Who knows. Maine is weird.
I set off in the direction Bud advised and after an easy ten-minute walk I find Shipwreck Lane, and when I do, I get a feeling in my chest—sort of a tight, breathless feeling, the same one I felt right after they called my name on the winner’s show. A lucky feeling. Sure, I knew I was going to win, but even so, hearing it confirmed was pretty freaking exciting. I feel that excitement again the closer I get to my new address. It builds in my chest cavity and on the back of my neck and right behind my eyes, where it burns like uncried tears.
When I get to 1514, one house away, I have to start telling myself to breathe—my automatic bodily functions seem to be shutting down. Then I see a big boat-shaped mailbox marked 1516 Shipwreck Lane and I break out into a gasping run—let’s face it, I’m not exactly a fitness buff—and hurtle my way up the driveway, up the garden path, up three little porch steps, and across the porch, thinking “home, home, home” on every hard exhale. I press my body flat up against the red front door, a one-way hug, and pant like a lost puppy. For a few minutes I just stand there and hug the shit out of my new house while I try to catch my breath.
Then I realize I don’t have a key.
JANEY
“For most cooks, recipes served primarily as aids to prompt the memory.”
—TERESA LUST, Pass the Polenta
I lost my deposit when I broke my lease, but the super was all too happy to see me go—too many cooking smells coming from my apartment, he said. Truth be told, the reaction was similar at Wedding Belles Too, although there was no mention of smells, at least. But they did get me a little cake on my last day, and there was a cute frosted zipper on the top of it. I was always really good at moving zippers, everyone said. It was nice.
As for Aunt Midge, there’s a FOR SALE sign in front of her house. The listing price is a stunningly cheap sixty-five thousand dollars, though Aunt Midge reminds me that she bought the place for two hundred bucks and a big smile about a thousand years ago when she was just eighteen. Still, I didn’t know you could even buy a house for less than a hundred thousand dollars anymore. The Realtor tells us it’s a “scrape,” which means that somebody is going to come along and buy Aunt
Midge’s house just for the privilege of knocking the whole thing down and building something bigger and more fabulous on the property. She’s lived there for seventy years, and soon it will be like the house never existed. The concept makes me a little sad, but Aunt Midge is not at all upset by this. “Take the money and run,” she says. “That’s what I say!”
And running is exactly what we’re doing. It’s a race against time to make the twenty-three-hour drive from Cedar Falls to the house on the southernmost coast of Maine by June 9, and I’m the only legal driver in our U-Haul, not that it stops Aunt Midge from trying to talk me into letting her drive. We’ve got three days to make the trek before we’re due at the lawyer’s office in Maine for the last piles of paperwork. Or so I assume, because the confirmation of that meeting that was supposed to come via e-mail from the producer never arrived. But then again, she did read my e-mail address back to me wrong about eight times. How hard is Janine dot Brown at gmail dot com, I ask you?
I suppose my stuttering didn’t help.
The first day’s drive is a breeze; we make it as far as Sandusky, Ohio, and find a Super 8 with plentiful vacancies for the night. But the next morning I wake up feeling significantly less enthusiastic about driving and have to make frequent stops for candy and coffee and to get out of the car and do some of those full-body shivers every now and then. We make it only to Scranton before I go stark raving mad and demand a hotel with a TV that carries the Food Network.
That night, we stay in a luxurious Holiday Inn, and I watch three straight hours of Iron Chef before conking out and dreaming about yellow lines and construction zones. When we get into the truck the next day I pass the hours by thinking of the most outrageous things I could cook with one of last night’s secret ingredients: sturgeon. Sturgeon ice cream, that’s the obvious one. But what about sturgeon flan? What would that taste like? Or sturgeon cheesecake? That could actually be good, in the right hands. I ask Aunt Midge if she’d ever eat sturgeon cheesecake as we make our way through the winding roads of Maine.
