Night of Miracles

by Elizabeth Berg

  For the first time in her life, Monica is glad her mother is gone. Because she is giving up. She is trading love for money.

  She goes back to the kitchen and says, “Dish me up some chili, would you, Roberto?”

  “No chili today. Vegetable soup and chicken dumpling soup only.”

  “But I want chili.”

  “There is no chili.”

  She moves closer and crosses her arms. “Make some. I am the captain now.”

  Roberto laughs, salutes, and starts making chili. Monica goes out to make sure everyone at her station is taken care of. There’s a man sitting at the end of the counter studying the menu, and Monica goes over to him.

  “Good afternoon!” she says, and when he looks up at her she practically faints. There are the eyes of Paul Newman, reborn. There they are. And the rest of the guy is pretty great, too: Curly black hair. A cleft chin. Heavens!

  “Do you know what you’d like?” she asks.

  “First time here,” he says. “Are you still serving breakfast?”

  See? Monica thinks. People want breakfast all the time.

  “We are,” she says. For you.

  “Okay. So would you recommend the Maple Sausage Sandwich or the Eggs Fiesta?”

  “They’re both good,” Monica says.

  “Come on now, you have a favorite.”

  “I do. But it’s neither of those.”

  “What is it?”

  “The Flapjack Kerfuffle. It’s pancakes with bacon and maple syrup already mixed in. That’s my favorite.”

  “Well, then, that’s what I’ll have. And coffee. And orange juice. And your phone number.”

  Monica smiles at him and goes back to the kitchen to place the order.

  “It’s lunchtime now,” Roberto says, and Monica says, “Make it anyway. Hey, Roberto, what do you think about making breakfast available all day?”

  He shrugs. “People seem to like it.”

  Monica goes into the corner of the kitchen to sit on a stool and wait, and when the order is ready, she rushes out to deliver it. Across the room, she sees Janelle standing frozen, looking at the man Monica has just served like, Uff da! which she says all the time because her grandmother was Norwegian. Monica would bet Janelle is wishing she had her usual station right about now. She raises her eyebrows at Janelle, and Janelle blows air out of her cheeks and lifts her uniform up and down from her chest.

  By the time the man has finished eating, they’ve had a pleasant conversation. He’s a truck driver, passes through this way quite often, though he’s never been here before. But he’ll be back now that he knows what a good place it is. He’ll be back in two days, in fact, will Monica be here then?

  “Yes, I will,” she says.

  He squints at her name tag. “And your name is…Monica?”

  “Right.”

  He stands to take his wallet out.

  Oh. He’s short.

  Well, that’s all right. What difference does it make? Okay, it makes a little difference at first, but you could get used to it. Monica’s not that much taller, maybe a few inches.

  “I’m Phil,” he says. “Phil Porter.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Monica says faintly. A double P!!!

  Phil pulls a card out of his wallet. “I know you don’t want to give me your number, at least not yet. But here’s mine. In case you get bored tonight and want to have a conversation.”

  Monica can’t wait to get bored. She might take a bath tonight and put on her pretty blue nightie and pour herself a glass of wine and get bored as can be.

  Soft Ball

  “WHERE’S LUCILLE?” MONICA ASKS, WHEN she shows up for her caramel cake class. Here in Lucille’s kitchen is an awful sight: Iris Winters.

  “Lucille woke up a little under the weather,” Iris says. “So I’ll be teaching the class today.”

  The two of them stand there looking at each other, but then the doorbell rings—a group of four women arriving. Already they’re giggling and carrying on, excited to be here. But that’s because of Lucille, who is so funny, sometimes without knowing it. And she’s sweet to her students—strict, yes, even gruff, but kind. Monica guesses everyone will be disappointed to see Miss Uptight substituting. She’d heard that Lucille had hired an assistant, but, good Lord, couldn’t she have found someone else? Monica knows Iris tries to be friendly, but it’s just an act. Women as beautiful as Iris is never have to be really friendly; everything is just given to them. Also: they take whatever they want. Such as another woman’s man.

  But after a little moment of confusion, everyone but Monica seems to be okay with Iris teaching. Iris tells them Lucille is right upstairs, resting, and she expects to be fully recovered by tomorrow. She said she would check in at the end of the class to see if there were any questions, and to thank them for coming. “But for now,” Iris says, “it’s just me. As most of you know, I’m Lucille’s assistant, Iris Winters. And today we’re going to make a fantastic caramel cake. After we taste one.”

  From the counter behind her, she pulls out a picture-perfect caramel cake on a crystal cake pedestal, one slice missing, as always. Lucille not only tastes her demo cakes, she likes to show off how pretty the insides are. The perfect crumb. The evenness of the layers.

  Each woman gets a little sample slice of cake on a pretty green depression-glass cake plate along with a cup of coffee, and every one of them proclaims the cake delicious, including Monica. Now let’s just see if Iris can teach them how to make it.

  Iris clears her throat. “Okay, so first, why don’t you all pick out aprons?”

  “We wear aprons?” asks Molly, the only woman who hasn’t taken a class from Lucille before. To another woman, she says, in a low voice, “Who wears aprons anymore?”

  “I’ve laid some out for you to choose from,” Iris says, pointing to the five bib aprons she has put in the corner of the kitchen. One has cherries on it. One red-and-white one has the cutest sweetheart neckline. One is festooned with yellow cabbage roses. One has three wide multicolored ruffles at the bottom and a big bow tied at the hip. One has flower pots for pockets, with embroidered flowers coming out of them. Iris herself is wearing an apron that features a map of Florida, lots of little figures wearing bikinis, eating oranges, swimming in the ocean.

  There’s an awkward moment when two of the women both want the cabbage rose apron but they work it out—they decide to switch aprons halfway through the class.

  “Next,” Iris says, “we’ll assemble our ingredients.”

  She sounds more confident now, and Monica is disappointed. She does not wish Iris well.

  Iris stresses the importance of beating the already-mixed butter and sugar for another five minutes after the four eggs have been added—one at a time, so that they mix better.

  Monica raises her hand, feeling as if little devil horns have sprouted at the top of her head. “Why do the eggs mix better that way?”

  “Why?” Iris asks. Stalling, obviously.

  A few moments go by, and Iris looks panicked.

  Finally, one of the other women turns around to look at Monica. “It’s so they can emulsify with the fats,” she says. “Which you know, Monica, because you were in class with me when Lucille told us that.”

  “Well, I forgot,” Monica says, though she did not.

  “I have a question,” says Molly, the new woman. The look on Iris’s face is deer-in-the-headlights.

  “Why do you have to alternate adding the milk and the flour?”

  “Oh, that’s just to prevent overmixing,” Iris says, grateful that she remembers Lucille recently answering this same question.

  Then Monica raises her hand again. “I know this sounds kind of funny, but what does milk do in cakes?”

  “What does it do?” Iris asks. Silence, and Monica crosses her arms and s
its back in her chair.

  The devil came a-calling and sure enough found you home! her mother would have said about Monica’s behavior right now. And she’s right. Worse than that, Monica is enjoying herself.

  There is the sound of a toilet flushing upstairs, and then they hear Lucille calling down, “Milk has protein that creates a strong batter. It has to be strong so it can withstand the rigors of baking. The sugar and fat in milk help tenderize and moisten, and they also add flavor. Sugar also helps create a golden-brown crust. Any other questions, Monica?”

  “No, ma’am,” Monica says.

  “What’s that?”

  “No, ma’am,” she says, louder.

  Clomp, clomp, clomp, the women hear. Bang! goes a door. Apparently, Lucille has gone back to bed.

  When the cake is in the oven, Iris says, “Now we’ll make the frosting, and what we will learn here is how to determine if you have reached the soft-ball stage. If you have a candy thermometer, it’s easy enough, you just check to see when the temperature has reached two hundred thirty-five, two hundred forty degrees. How many of you have a candy thermometer?”

  Only one hand goes up.

  “No worries, I don’t have one, either,” Iris says. “So I’ll show you another way to tell. We’ll use the cold-water test. You just drop a bit of the frosting into a cup of cold water, and if it’s at the soft-ball stage, it will form a flexible ball. And then if you put it in your hand for just a few seconds, it will flatten out. I’ll show you, you’ll each get a chance to do it.”

  Monica doesn’t want to do it. She wants to go home. She’s ashamed of being called out for being a jerk, she’s ashamed that she’s trying to punish Iris for taking Tiny. When it’s her turn, she drops her frosting in the cold water, then holds it in her hand, watching it flatten, all the while never making eye contact with Little Miss Brahmin. That’s what Polly called her, Little Miss Brahmin. “What’s Brahmin?” Monica asked, and Polly told her it was someone from the upper class in New England, and she also said that Brahmins had sticks up their you-know-whats, and Monica said, “Right,” though of course she had no idea if that was so.

  The cake Iris makes is absolutely delicious. Monica sighs hugely when she eats her full-size piece. Sally Finder, the woman next to her and a regular at the Henhouse (chicken croquettes, extra gravy for lunch every time she comes), says to Monica, “Isn’t it divine?”

  “Yup,” Monica says, though that is not why she was sighing. She was sighing because she was thinking about Iris making this cake for Tiny.

  Sally says, “You should sell these cakes at the Henhouse. I’ll bet Lucille would make them for you.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Monica says, and so at least one good thing has come from taking the class. She’ll suggest it to Polly. Or, given the fact that she’s in charge now, she’ll ask Lucille herself. Might be good to wait a day or so, though.

  When the class is over, Lucille makes a brief appearance to thank the women for coming. Her hair is sticking out all over her head and she looks half asleep, so when she asks if there are questions, no one asks her any.

  But on the way out, Molly, the new woman, asks Iris, “Where did the aprons come from?”

  “Lucille buys them at antiques stores,” Iris says. “But this one I’m wearing I found on eBay. Do you like it?”

  “I love it!” the woman says. “I just never wore aprons, but now I want to.”

  Iris unties the apron and gives it to the woman.

  “Oh, no,” she says. “I can’t take that.”

  “Sure you can,” Iris says. “I’ve got tons more. Lucille got me going on them.”

  Monica is the last one to leave. She has to do it. “Sorry I was so bitchy,” she says.

  “It’s okay,” Iris says. “It’s good for me to get asked questions.”

  In her car, Monica thinks: I have to move on. I have to get a life.

  Heating Up in the Kitchen

  AT NINE-THIRTY IN THE MORNING, Iris rings Lucille’s doorbell.

  “Use your key!” she hears Lucille call out.

  She finds Lucille at the kitchen table, still in her nightgown.

  “I’m still feeling a little punk,” Lucille says. “But I’m better. Show me what you’ve got.”

  Iris reaches into her leather tote and pulls out a couple of folders. She has learned that Lucille will tolerate looking at a computer screen if she must, but she prefers a hands-on approach.

  From one folder, Iris pulls out recipes she’s found here and there: online, in newspapers, in her own cookbooks or in those at the library. The one she shows Lucille now came from a book in the library and is for a monkey cake. It’s just the animal’s head, but it’s darling.

  Lucille peers at the photo. “Huh. Isn’t that cute! I wonder how they got the head so perfect.”

  Iris knows full well that Lucille knows the answer to that question, but she wants Iris to feel important. And so Iris says, “You bake it in a bowl.”

  “I see,” Lucille says. “Well, add it to the kids’ class curriculum, and we’ll teach them how to make banana pudding with toasted coconut that day, too. I think we still have some jungle plates. What else do you have? Did you find some more ideas for men’s classes?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Iris says, and pulls out a recipe she just found in the newspaper. “Beer and bacon muffins.”

  Lucille wrinkles her nose. “Do you think they’d be good?”

  “I tried them. They’re sensational.”

  “With bacon jam?”

  “Perfect. And we’ll add a cheese omelet? And virgin Bloody Marys?”

  “I’m glad I hired you, Iris.”

  “I’m glad you did, too. Now give me your list. I’ll order you whatever you need online, and then I’ll go over to the fabric store to get the ribbon you want for the Thanksgiving class.”

  “See if there are any more good aprons at Time’s Treasures, too. We might could use a couple more for men. Things are heating up with them.”

  Abby and Lincoln

  ABBY ASKS LINCOLN TO WAIT in the lounge by the nurses’ station for just a minute. She wants to talk to Dad alone.

  “Why?” he asks.

  “It’s private,” she says. And then, seeing the fear in his face, “It’s about your birthday. Only two weeks away! And that’s all I’m saying.”

  He stands there, and she has the feeling he wants to say he doesn’t care about his birthday, but thinks maybe it would hurt her feelings if he did. He offers a quick smile and heads out to the lounge. He’ll do his homework there, and no doubt one of the nurses will bring him ice cream or some other treat that they keep on hand for the patients.

  “The nurses really like him,” Abby says, after Lincoln leaves the room.

  Jason smiles. “Everybody likes him. He’s Lincoln.”

  She leans back against her pillow. “Can you lower me a bit, sweetheart?”

  He presses the button to get her to the forty-five degree angle she prefers. “Okay?”

  She nods.

  “Jason, will you make a party for him?”

  “Sure, but I don’t think he wants one. I think he wants to wait until you come home.”

  “I know….” She shrugs. “Okay, I don’t want to say this, but…” She reaches out to cover his hand with her own and whispers. “I don’t think I’m coming home.”

  “Yes you are,” Jason says. “You’re just having a bad day. You’ve had this happen before, and then the next day you’re fine.”

  “Well. Not fine.”

  “Better, then.”

  “You think that’s what’s happening? You don’t think I’m dying?” She’ll trust whatever he says. He knows her better than the cadre of doctors who surround her every morning. He knows her better than the hospitalist, who keeps saying, “I wish I had be
tter news.”

  Jason leans in close to her. “I think you’ll go into remission and you’ll get to come home.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you beat, sweetheart? You want me to go?”

  “Maybe. But will you read to me first? Will you read me to sleep? What are you reading?”

  “Oh, it’s interesting. It’s a book about time. About the relativity of time. And the writing is so…poetic. It talks about how we’re not so very good at understanding time, it’s far more complex than we thought. It turns out that physical time really does run at different speeds.”

  “Huh!” Abby says, and for one moment, she is herself again, lifted away from everything else by the ideas that a book can suggest. But these concepts are too difficult for her right now. They slip away from her when she tries to think about them. “That is interesting,” she tells Jason, and she is disappointed to feel that she is falling asleep again. This is what she does. She sleeps or hurts. Or she stares at things with a level of incomprehension or confusion that frightens her. Yesterday she studied a rose in the bouquet by her bed for the longest time, trying to understand what red was. When the nurse came in, Abby pointed and said, “What is that color on that flower?” The nurse said, “I guess I would call it cardinal red.” And Abby seemed to come to, then, seemed to jump back into her brain. “That’s a good word for it,” she said.

  “Maybe read to me next time, okay?” she tells Jason now, and closes her eyes. Merciful. Merciful. Her lids seem to sink down into her eye sockets.

  He bends to kiss her forehead, her mouth. “I love you so much.”

  “Me, too, you,” she says. And then, opening her eyes, “Don’t forget. Ask Linky if he wants a party.”