Circus in a Shot Glass

by Beth Overmyer

  The new house was large enough to merit hiring housecleaning and lawn maintenance services. It was somewhat appalling knowing that someone else would be cleaning up after me. After a discussion, I at last convinced Mum that washing my own laundry wouldn’t be the end of the world. But the battle for the kitchen was yet to be fought and won, though there had been several scrimmages.

  The first morning, Louisa introduced herself as our personal chef. I held my tongue and tried to enjoy the omelet. However, the seasoning was heavy-handed, and I could tell from Mum’s face she didn’t like it either. She had a polite word with the woman, who nodded through most of it as she started on the preparations for my elevenses and lunch.

  “Mum,” I said, taking her aside. “Will you at least be home for tea?”

  She rifled through her bag for the keys to her car but paused to answer me. “Sorry, no. You don’t mind, Ardal? I need to see a land-developer about—business.”

  “Louisa doesn’t need to make lunch or tea or anything. I could manage on my own.”

  Mum gave me a look on the sly and tutted. “Ar, don’t you need to start packing for uni?”

  I knew what she was up to, trying to keep me from the kitchen, which I knew she’d always thought of as servant’s work. “I have a month yet before I’m off. And besides, cooking is a good way of releasing tension.”

  Mum froze and gave me a shrewd glance. “Please, Ardal, don’t frighten away the staff.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “I know you wouldn’t do it intentionally, but you’ve always worked too hard—you’ll make them feel guilty by comparison.”

  This wasn’t going well, not by any standard. I’d save the discussion for later. “Speaking of hard workers . . . It’s your first day here. Aren’t you going to explore?”

  She shook her head. “Can’t. And besides, I haven’t your sense of adventure. Ah, I left them in the car port. Give us a ring on the mobile if you need anything.” And like that, she was out the door and onto her passion.

  But what about my passion? Frowning, I turned back to the kitchen, whence came the odor of over-cooked rice. To my horror, Louisa was making a risotto before starting the rest of the meal.

  The pan sat over high heat, and she was on the telephone as she stirred. Spotting me, Louisa smiled and, growling, surveyed her brown mess. “I need a smoke,” she said as I hurried away.

  It was all I could do not to take over and perhaps cost the woman her dignity and her job.

  The acrid aroma followed me into my room, where I was confronted by a wall of unpacked boxes. I’d located my laptop computer in the wee hours of the morning but hadn’t been able to use it because I didn’t have a power converter. It was of no use until I found one.

  At a loss as to what to do with myself, I flopped down onto the king size bed and stared at the high ceiling. A question nagged at me: “What have I done, moving here?” But I shoved the thought aside. No use crying over spilt milk. Besides, Mum was here. She needed me, and I needed her. We were all we had in this strange new country, and it wouldn’t do thinking about what might have or should have been.

  With this thought, I sat upright and stared at the yellow-painted walls. Tuscan Sun, if I recalled correctly. Mum had waved the paint samples under my nose months earlier, asking for my approval. I’d told her I was sure whatever color she chose would be brill. Of course, I had been cooking at the time and hadn’t taken a moment to study them. “Hmm.” I hopped to my feet, pulled back the floor-length, white and frothy curtains, and opened the roller blinds.

  My view was of the swimming pool, which looked like a smaller version of a river. I had a door that led out onto a veranda with steps leading down into the water. Mum knew my enjoyment of swimming. “If only I could find my bathing trunks in this mess,” I said, staring down the mountain of boxes. For a moment I stood there, sizing up the stacks, gave out a sigh, and began sorting through it all.

  Soon, my room was ground zero for cookery books, piano music, electrical equipment—but no sign of my power converter—CDs, DVDs, audio and video cassettes. I’d no idea where to put everything, so I sorted everything into piles, which I moved to the edges of the room. I could find a place for things later.

  By the time I reached my clothing, I’d worked up quite a sweat. I grabbed a change of clothes and headed for my connected bath, but there was a rapping on my door.

  “Mr. Bishop?” said a muffled woman’s voice.

  “Yes?”

  “Your food’s ready.”

  My shoulders sank. “Thank you. I’ll be there momentarily.”

  “Would you like it in the kitchen or the dining room or the breakfast nook?”

  That brought me up short. We had a breakfast nook? What was a breakfast nook, even? “Er, the kitchen will be fine.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Hoping not to offend this American woman with my sweat, I splashed my face with cold water, toweled off, changed my shirt, and went to see what culinary horrors awaited me. I thought myself beyond surprise, but a bologna sarney and a bag of crisps waited for me at the counter, along with a waxy, red apple and a glass of milk. The air smelled of burnt food masked by a floral air freshener. I tried my best not to gag, waiting until she slipped outside for her break—aka a smoke—before I turned on the overhead fan and opened a few windows. The whole place could use a good airing, I’d say, explaining it was an English thing.

  But the woman didn’t come back. I was getting hungry, despite the smell, and the sandwich wasn’t going to do. After taking a quick search, I managed to produce little in the way of staples: some boxed pasta, a can of tomato sauce, a half-full box Arborio rice, butter, under-ripe tomatoes, and a few apples—which were long out of season and would most likely be brown and mushy from being in a storage bin for so long. I picked one up, squished it, and it became applesauce in my grip. “Brilliant.”

  Not one to be daunted by an impossible task, I brought a pot of water up to a boil and boiled one tomato for ten seconds. I saved the water for after I’d finished peeling, coring, and chopping the tomatoes into rough pieces, which I crushed. In another pot, I simmered the tomatoes with some seasoning I’d managed to scrape up along with some half cream meant for coffee. Next I added the pasta to the water, which I brought back to boiling.

  “What’s this?” Louisa asked. She’d snuck up on me, and before I could explain myself, she took the liberty of dipping her finger into the sauce, tasting it and moaning. “Whoa, kid, this stuff’s awesome.” And I didn’t get another word in, before she started asking for a cooking lesson. “Please, I’m a culinary school drop-out,” she said after I told her I was sure she could manage. “If you teach me, I can do your laundry in exchange.”

  I repressed a shudder. “No, that’s all right.”

  She gave me a shrewd look as she washed her nicotine-stained fingers. “You’re going to tell your mom I burned the rice, aren’t you?”

  That brought me up short. “Well, I don’t know.” I lifted the colander half-full of cooked spaghetti from the sink, poured most of it onto a plate and spooned on half the sauce; I could use the rest for tomorrow’s lunch. I had a feeling I’d be doing most of the cooking until this woman was let go.

  Louisa read the situation right at last. She swore. “Your mom’s going to fire me, isn’t she?”

  I sat down with my pasta. “I’m sorry?”

  “Please, I don’t want to go back to tech support. Do you know how hard it is to get a job this cushy?”

  I rolled the noodles around my fork, which I first had to wipe off for dust, and filled my mouth so my answer might be delayed. While she glared at me, I could only shrug and chew.

  “You need me here. You’ll be off to college soon, right?” she insisted. “Who’s going to cook for your mom then, huh? Good help is hard to find.”

  Mother raised me to be a gentleman, so I held the door open for her after I’d kindly told her to gather her things and l
eave. “You’ll find work better suited for you, I’m sure.”

  She puffed smoke in my face, but I didn’t cough or flinch. “You can’t fire me, kid. You’re just that: a child.”

  I didn’t budge. “Would you care to leave your keys with me? Or you could return later and talk this over with my mother.”

  Louisa laughed without humor. “You know she’ll take your side.”

  “Perhaps.”

  She called me something rude and pulled out in her purple convertible, making sure to lay down rubber on the road.

  Only then did I permit myself a dry cough before heading back into the house to clean up the mess we both had made. Mum wasn’t going to be pleased. Not at all.

  “Oh, Ardal, was she that bad?” Mum poured herself another cup of tea before passing me the pot.

  “Mum, I’m surprised she didn’t set off the smoke alarm.”

  Mum took a sip, her pinky straight up in the air. Setting her cup down, she sighed and reached for a biscuit. “You’re a kind boy, Ar.”

  “But you think I shouldn’t have fired her.”

  “You don’t have the power to do that; there is a protocol, a process, papers to be signed. Oh, don’t worry, there’s no way I’m employing someone with such—ah, nerve.” We munched on tinned biscuits, a stowaway from England I’d procured from one of my many boxes. “I feel bad for turning anyone out, but I don’t care for employees who are lazy.”

  “And lie on their resume.”

  She dipped her head in acknowledgement. “And talking to my son like that. The gall.”

  I hid a smirk. Some people brought out the mother bear in her. “What now? Are you going to allow me to cook?” Bait set, I took a sip of tea and waited for a bite.

  “Ardal, don’t you have paperwork to fill out or something?” Mum wouldn’t quite meet my eye.

  My smile faded. “What if I told you I was having second thoughts on the whole traditional uni thing?” My fingers traced over the wending and winding patterns on the wood table, and I waited to look up at her. When I did, her smile had faded as well.

  “Ardal, the money has been sent in, the papers have been signed. Please don’t be difficult.”

  Well, it had been worth a try. She’d see my side eventually, I tried telling myself. But if she didn’t, I would find a job and earn my own way into a culinary arts school . . . if they would have me. And if I worked up the nerve to defy Mum’s wishes.

  We finished our tea in silence, until I made excuses about unpacking and whatnot. “It’s ground zero in there.”

  Tutting, she collected our tea things and carried them to the kitchen. “I guess I’d best start in on my own mess as well, yes? Sally forth and tallyho.”

  “If you don’t see or hear from me by bed, send a search and rescue party.”

  I tried to suppress my resentment. But it kept bubbling to the surface as I sorted my books onto the bookcase, which had been assembled before our arrival and shoved into a corner. The cookery books went on the bottom shelf and the one above—what good would they do me, though, now that I was forbidden to touch a pot or pan? “Deep breaths, Ardal.” On the shelf above and on the one above that went the genre fiction, and at the top I put the classics: Dickens, Hemingway, Orwell, Leroux, and others, such as Dickinson and Shakespeare. The last one I looked at with resentment, fully aware I’d be studying him at university.

  I held the first volume of Will up to the light of a wall fixture. “A horse, a horse! My kingdom for—” I replaced the book and scratched the back of my neck. Maybe I’d join a theater troupe, if they had it. Mum would approve of that; she’d tread the boards herself as a young woman. But she’d never so much as whisked an egg in her life as far as I was aware. What was so horrible about working in the kitchen?

  “Servants’ work.” I rolled my eyes. Mum had always been kind to hired hands back in England, but there was a definite distinction between classes for her. I didn’t much care for her attitude. I let myself brood there in the waning light as I sorted through my collection of spices.

  And I went to bed without another word to my mother, and she without another word to me.

  Chapter Nine

  Skip

  2003

  “You get the part?” Mom asked as I set my script down on the table.

  I’d bought a copy of a play from the play publisher’s website, hoping to practice the lead role. Why did I bother? The script was now a souvenir from yet another pipe dream.

  Mom read the expression on my face correctly. “Aw, Skip. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, well, you win some, you lose some.” With five successful community theater shows under my belt, I was ready to break into the league of semi-professional actors. In short, I was tired of busing tables and was ready to get paid for my stage talent.

  “Why didn’t they cast you? You worked so hard on that audition.”

  “It’s more complicated than being good enough.” I took the seat across from Mom, helping myself to a sugar cookie off her chipped pink plate. “If you want to get paid for acting, you have to have friends in high places.”

  She set down her pencil for a moment and rubbed her arthritic hands. There was a long smudge running up her right palm, and I stared at it, my thoughts all muddled. “What is it, sweetie?” she asked. “You hungry? The help baked those cookies, but I think he’ll be back to make dinner.”

  I tore a bite out of the cookie and said through a half-full mouth, “How is Eduardo?”

  Mom sighed and looked down at her vein-riddled hands. “He says he wishes you would do your own laundry. The nerve of some of these—these—” She didn’t finish, and I didn’t try to help her. Mom had been reluctant to hire a man to do the household work, but she could no longer afford to be so picky. She rested her lead-smudged hand against her cheek. “How was work?”

  I set the cookie back down on the plate. “I quit.”

  “Oh, Skip!”

  “I know, Mom. But if I’d gotten the part, I wouldn’t have had time for the diner. I was counting on getting cast.”

  The good thing about my mother, she never stayed disappointed or mad with me for long. A slight frown formed, but she bit her tongue and went back to her crossword. “Well, you’re too good for that place, anyway. You never forget it.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “I mean it.” Her pencil hovered for a minute as she studied one of the clues and attacked the tiny white boxes as if they hadn’t offered me the role. “You’ll find something bigger. Something better.”

  It sure didn’t feel like it at that moment, but theater was all I could do. It was all I knew. And that was partially my fault but perhaps fixable. “I wonder if I should’ve gone to college.”

  For the second time, Mom set down her pencil and stared at me. “I’m sorry I didn’t push it more. But I didn’t go to college, and I turned out just fine.”

  I tried not to grimace. She hadn’t had a job for several years, living on checks from Dad. Sure, she had some savings, but those wouldn’t last forever. Still, how could I say “you need a job” to her? That’d be mean, and she was always so good at encouraging me and looking at the bright side of things. “Maybe the theater prof at the college could’ve pointed me in the right direction.”

  “You could always try going again.” There was doubt in her voice; we both knew I’d hated those few classes I’d tried before dropping out. It would be a waste of my time and everyone’s money.

  “Julianna says she has some awful professors. Says they give them way too much work for a 101 class.”

  Mom pursed her lips. My sister was always a sore subject.

  A car pulled up in the driveway, backfired, and all went still. “Speaking of the devil . . . Sounds like she just pulled up.”

  Mom muttered something and went back to her puzzle. She hadn’t gotten along with Julianna since . . . well, for the past eight or so years. Dad, on the other hand, had doted on my kid sister, supporting her financially as she went to fash
ion design school, even making a few car payments and finding her a good job with his company as a temp.

  “How’s Janette?” Mom asked.

  Yes! She’d started calling my girlfriend by the right name. “Oh, she’s doing good. Got a job at a gift shop at the zoo.”

  “Good for her. See, Skip? You can have a college education and end up doing work someone without a college education does.” She flipped her pencil and erased one of her answers. “Nowadays, education isn’t as important.”

  I nodded my appreciation for the sentiment as the front door banged open. “Sounds like someone’s in a mood,” I said for Julianna’s benefit.

  My mom grunted and rubbed the eraser so hard she tore her crossword and was forced to give up. “I hope you brought clean clothes; your father’s new girlfriend smokes like a chimney.”

  “Don’t worry, Mom,” Julianna said. Her voice sounded funny, congested like she had a cold or allergies.

  “If you’re sick, don’t touch anything. I just got over the flu, and I don’t need to . . . What’s wrong?”

  Julianna stepped into the kitchen and slouched against the doorway. Her face was paler than usual, and her mascara had run all down her face, making her look like a demented raccoon. She sniffled. “They kicked me out.”

  “Who kicked you out from where?” I asked, picking up my cookie again and taking another bite. “The school not like you?”

  Julianna’s lower lip quivered and a few tears spilled out of her eyes. “Dad’s new girlfriend. She doesn’t like me.”

  “Wait, Dad’s new girlfriend kicked you out?” I asked, pausing mid-bite.

  Julianna nodded and let out a small, choked sob. “She said I’m lazy and need to have my own place.” My kid sister, lazy? I always sorta thought of her as a workaholic.

  “And Dad agreed to kick you out?” I glanced at Mom, whose lips were pinched like she tasted something sour.