The party had not been a success. The guests had nibbled at the appetizers, praising the food to the heavens—“You’re so creative!” “You have to give me the recipe for this!”—but the only thing they’d eaten with any enthusiasm were the hot dogs. Her smoked salmon was ignored; her fancy dip, barely sampled; and the burgers had come back untouched. “Because not everyone likes blue cheese!” Hal said. He wasn’t yelling, but his voice was clipped in a way that suggested he wanted to yell. “I told you, Daisy. I told you, just get regular burgers, and regular hot dogs, and make regular onion dip from the Lipton soup mix, like everyone else does…”
“I don’t want to be like everyone else!” Daisy hated her warbling voice; hated that she was practically crying. Her party had been a failure, and she suspected that all the couples were talking about it on their way home—how desperately hard she’d tried, how pathetically eager to please she’d been. “This is what I do, Hal. I cook. I’m not a lawyer, or a psychologist, or an art therapist, I don’t do global outreach for Penn. I don’t even have a college degree!” The other women had been polite about it; nobody had gone out of their way to make her feel bad. Daisy had been perfectly capable of doing that all on her own.
“It’s fine,” Hal had said, his voice remote. “You’ll learn.”
She had. “They’re stupid white people,” Hannah would tell her, usually through a mouthful of whatever dish Daisy was cooking.
“You’re a white person,” Daisy would tell her, and Hannah would say, “But, hopefully, not a stupid one.” Hannah, like Hal, had grown up in a household where salt and pepper were the only seasonings, but she loved all kinds of food, the spicier, the better. “Fuck ’em if they can’t appreciate you.”
Daisy looked around her kitchen, at Beatrice, gobbling peanut butter, and the sunlight, streaming through the window over the sink. She’d gotten the kitchen of her dreams: a six-burner stove, imported from England, with navy-blue trim and gold-toned hardware. A deep, expansive farmhouse sink; new cherrywood cabinets, a new backsplash, tiled in shades of cream and gold and celery green. She’d ripped up the old granite counters and replaced them with limestone, with an inset made of butcher block, for chopping, and another made of marble, which stayed cool when she was rolling out pastry. In one corner was a dining nook, with built-in benches on two sides, and in the middle of the room was Daisy’s very favorite thing: an enormous fieldstone fireplace that opened to the kitchen on one side and the den on the other.
Hal had been away a lot the year of renovations, overseeing a trial in Virginia and another in Florida. Daisy sometimes suspected that the kitchen was a kind of apology–cum–consolation prize, a way for Hal to say sorry for his absence, and how she’d been the only one at school concerts and parent-teacher conferences and at Bea’s soccer games, where the girls would run up and down the field in a cluster, kicking each other more often than the ball and hardly ever scoring. Sometimes, she suspected that maybe there was something else Hal was apologizing for—something that might have happened when he’d been out of town. But she’d never asked, and he’d never volunteered. On such silences are marriages built, she’d told herself at the time. Certainly she’d never seen her own mother evince any interest in her dad’s business trips. And the kitchen was undeniably gorgeous. She kept her eyes on the skylight and tried not to sigh as Beatrice clomped over to the freezer and started rummaging around.
“Have you seen my mice?” she asked.
Daisy was certain she’d misheard. “What?”
“My mice,” Beatrice said impatiently. “They were right here, on the top shelf, behind the pie crust.”
Daisy looked at her daughter, who stared back at her calmly, as if she’d asked her mom for a glass of milk or a ride to the mall. “Beatrice,” Daisy said, her voice faint. “Please tell me you haven’t been keeping dead mice in the freezer.”
“Why not?” Beatrice asked, shrugging. “They’re, like, double-bagged. They’re not touching anything.”
“I don’t care!” Daisy said. Or, rather, screamed. “I don’t want dead rodents in my freezer, near food that you and I and your father are eating! Food that I’m feeding other people, who are paying me to learn how to cook! Jesus, Beatrice, what if someone got sick?”
“How are dead mice any different than dead chickens? Or dead lambs, or dead cow?” Beatrice yelled back. “You’re a hypocrite.”
“Well, I’m also the adult. This is my house.”
“Like you paid for it,” Beatrice sneered. “Like either one of you did.”
Daisy made herself ignore the jab, choosing instead to be grateful that Beatrice said it to her. God knows how Hal would have reacted to the idea that there was something in his life he hadn’t earned—and, even if he had given his brother money amounting to what Jeremy might have realized from the sale, paying for half of this house had been significantly easier than paying for all of it. “When I tell you that you cannot keep your mice in my freezer, I expect you to have the courtesy to respect my wishes.”
“So where am I supposed to keep them?” Beatrice asked, eyebrows lifted. “Do you want me to buy a completely separate freezer for a few mice?”
“Well, ideally,” Daisy snapped, “I would like for you to have a hobby that doesn’t involve dead rodents. But seeing as how you’re not going to do something normal, like join the school paper or the choir, I would like for you to find somewhere other than my freezer for your mice.”
Beatrice’s lower lip trembled, her eyes welled with tears. “Well, jeez. I’m sorry that I’m not the normal daughter you wanted,” she said.
Instantly, Daisy went from feeling furious to feeling sad, and deeply ashamed for making her daughter doubt herself, for making her cry. Beatrice turned and stormed out of the kitchen. “Wait,” Daisy called. “Wait, Bea, you know that’s not what I meant!”
“Yes, it is,” said Beatrice. “I’m not the kind of daughter you ever wanted.”
Daisy swallowed down the bitter taste of guilt, because hadn’t she said something very close to that, in New York, when she’d been with Diana? “Trixie…”
“Don’t call me that!” Beatrice shouted. Before Daisy could apologize, she said, “I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment,” and ran up the stairs to her room.
Daisy’s shoulders slumped, and the pleasant anticipation she’d been feeling in advance of preparing dinner disappeared. She plodded to the freezer, emptying the shelves one after another, removing pie crusts, the containers of chili and lentil soup and chicken and dumplings that she’d made and frozen, the pints of ice cream and the bags of frozen peas and corn and cranberries and the chicken fingers she’d kept as a kind of break-glass-in-case-of-emergency dinner for her daughter. Wedged into a corner of the top shelf, she found a plastic Ziploc bag containing six tiny gray frost-stiffened mouse corpses. She considered them a minute, her breath condensing on the icy plastic. How had Beatrice turned into a girl who played with dead mice and despised her mother? What had Daisy done to cause this, and how would the world treat Beatrice when she was an adult?
Slowly, Daisy put the mice back and surveyed Beatrice’s leavings: the uncapped jar of peanut butter, the unwrapped loaf of bread, the open jar of honey, the sticky knife and the crumbs all over the counter. She refilled the freezer, cleaned up the mess, and finally got started on dinner. Cooking always soothed her, and she thought that it would help. She seasoned the pork roast that she’d thawed before her trip. She peeled russet potatoes, sliced them thin, and fanned them out around a buttered baking dish, layering in pats of cold butter and sprigs of thyme, sprinkling Parmesan cheese on top. The pork and potatoes were both in the oven, the table was set, and she was whisking vinaigrette when Hal came home.
“Birdie!” Hal usually sounded cheerful at the end of the workday, although Daisy was never sure whether it was because she’d turned their home into such a cozy and welcoming respite, or if it was just that the law firm was so awful. “How was your trip?”
“It
was fine.” She thought her tone and slumped shoulders would give him a hint that something was wrong, but Hal just set his briefcase down and started flipping through the mail.
“How was the funeral?”
Hal’s lips pressed tightly together. “Sad,” he said. His tone did not invite additional questions. Hal opened his arms to deliver a perfunctory hug, but she pushed herself against him, resting her head on his chest, feeling his shirt under her cheek. He was down to his last three white ones. She reminded herself to stop by the dry cleaner’s in the morning.
Hal gave her arms a quick squeeze, and took a sniff. “Dinner smells great.”
“Hal, do you think…” She waited until he was looking at her, then she said, all in a rush, “Do you think Bea needs a psychologist?”
“What now?” Hal asked It was the right question, but he asked it in that clipped, I-don’t-really-want-to-hear-about-it tone.
Daisy shook her head, imagining what would happen if she told Hal about the mice in the freezer. “Just the usual awfulness.”
He looked down at her, and, when he spoke, his voice was indulgent. “She’s a teenager. You know what I say—kids get a pass on stuff they do before they turn twenty-one.” Which was, Daisy thought, a version of his boys will be boys speech. He stepped away from her, loosening his tie, turning to the refrigerator and pulling out a can of seltzer.
“That’s what Diana said.”
“Who?”
Daisy opened the freezer, handed him a chilled mug, and went back to the counter and the salad dressing. Sometimes, she thought he saw her as just another fixture in the kitchen, another useful appliance, like the toaster oven that reheated his pizza or the blender that whipped up his smoothies. “Diana. The woman I met in New York last night. The one with my email address?”
“Oh, right, right. How was she?”
“She was nice,” said Daisy. She didn’t want to talk too much; didn’t want to jinx what she hoped might blossom into a real friendship.
“Good for you.” Hal hung his suit jacket on the back of his chair at the kitchen table and picked up the Wall Street Journal. Daisy pulled a block of tofu from the refrigerator and set it beneath a can of beans to drain, in case tonight was one of the nights Beatrice decided that she was a vegetarian and got offended if no one remembered. She whisked soy sauce and rice wine vinegar and maple syrup together, to make a sauce for the tofu, and had just added sesame oil to her cast-iron pan when her phone buzzed. It was an email from Diana. “INCOMING,” read the subject line. Daisy clicked it open and read, “Guess who’s coming to Philadelphia!!! I’ve got a contract with Quaker Pharmaceuticals. Moving to Philly for the next three months! Any chance you can give me cooking lessons?” She’d added a smiling emoji, and one for a loaf of bread.
Daisy felt her cheeks stretch in a smile. Instead of writing back, she hit the CALL NUMBER button. A moment later, Diana’s voice was in her ear.
“Can you believe it? What a crazy coincidence!”
“I’m so glad,” Daisy said. And it was true. She might have a difficult daughter, but now, at least, she had a potential ally. “Where are you staying?”
“Um… hang on. Rittenhouse Square? Does that mean anything to you? The company’s got an apartment there.”
“Yes. It’s a great neighborhood. Lots of good restaurants.”
“Which brings me to my next question. I wanted to ask…” Diana sounded almost shy. “After we met, I got to thinking. And it’s kind of ridiculous that I’m almost fifty years old and I can’t even make grilled cheese. I don’t know how busy you are…”
“I’ll make time,” Daisy promised. “When do you get here?”
“Next week.”
“So soon?”
“Yeah, they keep me moving. No rest for the wicked. I’m like a shark. I’ve got to swim or die.”
“Well, just tell me when you want me.”
“I’ll text you as soon as I’m settled.”
Daisy felt light as a balloon as she moved through the kitchen. The potatoes came out perfectly, crisped and golden on top, soft and buttery-tender in the middle. When Beatrice came down the stairs, dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt illustrated with a raccoon and the legend TRASH PANDA, Daisy made herself smile pleasantly.
“I made you tofu.”
“Why?” Beatrice glared at the caramelized squares as if they had insulted her.
“Never mind,” Daisy murmured, imagining she could hear her husband’s thoughts: Why do you keep making her tofu if it’s just going to end up in the trash? She served her husband and her daughter pork roast, and used the spatula to put the tofu on her plate. Bea ignored the salad, and Hal took all the crispiest bits of the potatoes. When dinner was over, Hal said, “Delicious, dear,” and drifted away to his office. Beatrice, meanwhile, just vanished, as if she’d been raptured, leaving Daisy to clear the table, wipe down the counters, put away the leftovers, do the dishes, and sweep the kitchen floor. She found herself whistling while she did it, scraping table scraps into the trash can and sweeping the floor, wondering if Hannah Magee was somewhere, looking down on her; if Hannah knew that she’d made a new friend.
13
Beatrice
C block was just getting out when a guy suddenly appeared at Beatrice’s side as she walked out into the hallway.
“Hey!” he said, with a smile that showed his teeth. “You’re new!”
“I am.” If Beatrice wasn’t mistaken, he was one of the guys who’d been snickering at her clothes the week before.
“I’m Cade Langley.”
“Ugh, why?” she said, before she could stop herself, if she’d cared to try.
At first, Cade looked confused. Then he laughed. He was wearing pressed khakis, a blue sweater, boat shoes, and that big, toothy smile, and he had the kind of skin that seemed permanently flushed, in an outdoorsy, windburned way. Beatrice herself was wearing a black lace skirt, a black jersey top, and a black lace-up faux leather bustier that she’d pulled on after her mom had dropped her off, and she thought she could feel the boy looking her over, checking her out.
“Can I help you with something?” she asked as they made the turn into the cafeteria. She could see Doff, waving from a table in the corner. For the past week, Beatrice had been sitting with Doff and her friends. There was Mina, president of the Speculative Fiction Club, in a truly spectacular pair of rainbow leg warmers. Beside her, Austen, who ran the school’s gay/straight alliance, wore a jacket covered from lapel to hem with pins that bore slogans or advertised affiliations or, in one case, said WORLD’S BEST MOM. The misfit toys, they called themselves, and Beatrice had fit right in, had known she was at home the first lunch period she’d spent with them.
Cade appeared taken aback by Beatrice’s directness. He was probably used to girls falling all over themselves if he even looked their way, she thought. “I wanted to see if you wanted to sit with us at lunch.” He nodded toward a table filled with boys dressed just like him, and girls in jeans and fancy boots and cashmere sweaters. Probably the stuff Beatrice’s mother wished that she’d wear.
Beatrice looked over at Doff, who was staring, with her mouth slightly open. When Beatrice widened her eyes, hoping her expression communicated the question, Doff gave her a big thumbs-up and a nod so enthusiastic Beatrice worried about her vertebrae.
Shrugging, Beatrice pulled out a chair at Cade’s table, where she was introduced to Donovan, Ian, Ezra, and Finn, and Lila, Lily, and Julia. Ezra was Black, and Julia was Korean, but if you only looked at clothing and attitudes, the kids at the table could have been siblings, all of them from the same rich family, the girls with the same hairstyle and makeup, the boys with the same clothes. This was the school’s top social tier, the kids who terrorized the underclassmen and could ruin their classmates with a single word on Snapchat or a lone Finstagram post.
Beatrice felt uneasy as Cade, with a flourish, pulled out a chair at the round table, then took the seat beside her. Beatrice opened her zippered lu
nch case and removed the elements of her meal: sliced peppers and carrots, water crackers, and a small container of hummus. She didn’t think much of her mom these days; she thought that she was timid and uninteresting, but still, Beatrice had to admit that her mom could tear it up in the kitchen.
The other kids eyed her lunch with interest, especially when she pulled out a wedge of banana bread. The boys were all eating pizza, the girls picked at salads, and Cade, who’d bought a cheeseburger from the hot food line.
Beatrice ate quietly, listening as Lila, or possibly Lily, described a party she’d attended the previous weekend. “It was MacKenna Kelso’s house, and she said only seniors were invited, except some idiot freshpeople must’ve snuck in through the garage.”
“No bueno,” said Ezra, uncapping an energy drink.
“So one of them, this girl named Sharzad, like, climbed on the Ping-Pong table,” Lila/Lily continued, “and it collapsed underneath her. So Sharzad goes, like, crashing to the ground, and then MacKenna sees them, and she’s like, ‘What are you assholes doing here?’ So they start running, and half the boys go racing after them. It was epic.” Lila/Lily smirked, ate a forkful of salad, and turned to Beatrice.
“You went to boarding school, right?” She waited for Beatrice’s nod, then looked Beatrice’s outfit over with a slow up and down. “Did they have a dress code there?”
“You just had to dress neatly. No crop tops, no shirts with political slogans. Other than that, you could wear what you wanted.”
“Lucky,” the other girl said with a sigh. “God, I’d give anything if I didn’t have to live with my parents.” She leaned closer to Beatrice, her blue eyes wide. “Could you like, do anything? Stay up all night? Have parties?”
“Um, we had dorm supervisors. So no, not really. I mean, kids did sneak out sometimes…”
That Summer Page 17
