by Holly Jacobs
My mother and father were the first guests to arrive. They’d supported Amanda’s Pantry since its inception. Mom was a school district superintendent and Dad was an English professor at a local college. The doctors George, I jokingly called them. I thought Great-grandmother Rose would have been impressed.
My mother, whose once-red hair had faded to a steely gray, was indeed dressed to impress and pointed at her name tag, which read Dr. George. “Really, Piper, Tricia would have been fine.”
I laughed. “I say if you’ve got it, flaunt it.” I led them to the head table. “You two are up front.”
Mom’s table included a few of the principals from her schools. They’d done a district-wide fund-raiser for Amanda’s Pantry. We had hundreds of gently worn coats, hats, and gloves to distribute from the food pantry for the coming winter. We called the offshoot Amanda’s Closet.
“Thanks, honey,” Mom said.
“Thank you. I—”
I didn’t have a chance to say more than that because people started to arrive. I positioned myself at the door and greeted everyone. The first year I instituted the name tag rule and in retrospect it was a godsend. Most of the people who came out for our annual dinner were people I saw once a year.
Let’s face it; writers who spend most of their time in holey jeans aren’t the type to mingle with the city’s elite. But my parents ran in educational circles, and slowly local businesses and the political hierarchy had become involved with Amanda’s Pantry.
Some of the people were easy to identify and put a name to the face, some not so much. The mayor had been coming to our events since before he was mayor, along with city council members, the chief of police, his deputy chief, and captains. There were representatives from the fire department and water authority, too.
We’d been so lucky that each year there were more and more people who supported us and came out to the event.
This year, Ned’s law firm had come as well.
I smiled at the thought, knowing full well that the attorneys Ned worked for certainly didn’t think of themselves as working at Ned Chesterfield’s law firm, but in my mind, the firm was his. It was all about perspective.
I stood next to the door for a half hour, thanking people for coming, pointing to the bar. Helping direct them to the appropriate tables.
Ned came in with Mela on his arm. He looked great in his suit, and Mela looked gorgeous . . . and knew it.
Ned shot me a grin that said he was already teasing me in his mind. “You tamed it.”
I shook my head, and I swear that strands of my hair popped out of my bun just to mock me as I said, “I tried.”
Ned laughed and kissed my cheek.
Mela smiled at me, but beneath her upturned lips, I saw something else. It was a look that said she was staking her claim. She wanted to be sure I understood Ned was hers. We’d made a truce of sorts. She tolerated my friendship with Ned but sent me little reminders that he was hers.
If she’d asked me, I’d have assured her that I didn’t need her reminder.
And beyond that, I might have mentioned that I was pretty sure Ned wouldn’t want to have any claim staked on him.
But she didn’t ask and I didn’t offer.
We had a weird relationship, Mela and I. She was always very nice to my face, but beneath the smiling facade, her dislike was palpable, and I also knew there was nothing I could do to change that.
She simply couldn’t or wouldn’t believe that I didn’t have designs on Ned.
I wasn’t sure what I could do to make her feel better about it, other than ignoring him, and I wasn’t going to do that. He was a good neighbor. We were friendly, but certainly not best friends. But I’d grown accustomed to, and looked forward to, our talks and our occasional X-Files nights. Visiting and teasing Ned had become a welcome part of my daily routine.
He was the kind of neighbor I could call at midnight if I heard something bumping outside . . . or worse, something bumping inside.
Ultimately, I decided that it was Mela’s problem, not mine, and simply tried to be nice.
“You look lovely tonight, Mela,” I said, meaning it.
Her smile remained in place, as if she’d glued it on and didn’t dare let it slip because if she did, her true feelings would explode from her tight grip on them.
“You look . . . uh good, too, Piper.”
She’d made sure there was the slightest hesitation as she searched for the thesaurus-worthy word good. I was sure Ned hadn’t noticed it, but I had. I knew that had been Mela’s intent.
Mela gave me a regal nod before practically dragging Ned toward the bar.
Ten minutes later, the heads of Ned’s firm—Josiah and Muriel Johnson—came in. “Piper, it’s so nice to see you again,” Muriel said. We’d met at a backyard picnic at Ned’s over the summer.
She did a group introduction to some of the other people from the firm. They didn’t say if they were other lawyers, aides, or what. I simply smiled and thanked them all for coming and went back to greeting guests.
By the time everyone arrived, I was already exhausted.
I went to a writers’ conference once and attended a workshop that talked about extroverts versus introverts. That’s when I discovered that I am absolutely an introvert who can put on an extrovert mask long enough for an event like this. But I knew tomorrow, I’d be drained.
As I had that thought, Liz, a reporter from the newspaper, asked if she could talk to me a minute. I pasted a smile on my face, hoping it wasn’t as brittle looking as Mela’s had been, and that it was extrovertish enough to cover my inner introvert and said, “Of course.”
Liz asked about Amanda’s Pantry and I recited some of our statistics. And then she asked, “Can you tell me about the Amanda you named it for?”
I nodded. “I’ll be covering that in just a minute in my very short speech.”
She laughed. “Great. If I have follow-up questions, I’ll catch you later?”
“Sure,” I told her.
Over the years I’d been asked that same question time after time. Who was Amanda?
No matter how many times I answered it, how many ways I answered it, it was still my most frequently asked question. I knew it was my own fault, but I wouldn’t have named the food pantry anything else, because it, along with so many other facets of my life, was for Amanda . . . for her.
Two television news cameras were setting up in the back and the band was set up on the stage. That was good news. Though I hated being on television, I knew that the pantry would probably receive a few more donations because of the coverage.
I was up.
I made my way to the stage, tucked another stray bunch of hair behind my ear, and adjusted the microphone.
“Hello, everyone. I think I greeted all of you as you came into the ballroom, but in case you snuck in through the kitchen,” the audience chuckled, “I’ll say welcome again. For those who don’t know, I’m Piper George. I want to thank you for coming out tonight to support Amanda’s Pantry.
“I’ve been asked countless times, Who is Amanda? As a matter of fact, someone asked me again tonight.”
I found Liz at the newspaper’s table and she smiled and gave me a nod.
“Some have accused me of dodging the question, but that’s not it at all. I’m happy to tell you all exactly who Amanda is.”
Liz couldn’t have known this would be my speech, but her question was perfectly timed. I’d answered this question to individuals since Amanda’s Pantry opened four years ago. I’d opened it the same year I’d quit working and started writing full time.
Eventually someone noticed that all my dedications since my very first Belinda Mae book was published were also dedicated to Amanda. So now, I’d tell them.
“Amanda is every child who’s going to bed hungry because there’s nothing to eat in her hou
se.
“Amanda is every child who is cold because she doesn’t have a proper coat to wear in Erie’s harsh winters.”
She was that little girl at the grocery store back when I was in college.
And she was the daughter I’d given up to another family.
I thought those parts, but didn’t say them. It’s not that my daughter was a secret, but since I’d given her up, I only had my memories of her—my hopes and dreams for her—and my love to hold on to. Those things were too precious to share with anyone else.
So I simply continued my speech, sharing Amanda’s Pantry’s announcement.
“Giving those children a name seemed to make the issue of hunger more real. I could tell you that according to Feeding America, 15.9 million children in the US live in food-insecure households. They live in homes where going to bed hungry is not only possible, but probable. That number is staggering. And it’s easy to believe that one person can’t make a difference. So spouting that number, then asking for help seems as if you’re asking people to toss pennies into a deep well that has no bottom to it.
“Or, I can tell you that Amanda will go to bed hungry tonight without your help. Helping one child seems possible.”
After that little girl in the grocery store, I became more aware of people who didn’t have enough food, and the thought that it could be Amanda in that situation haunted me. “So Amanda is every one of those 15.9 million children. She is every child who needs a winter coat. And she is every child who faces a difficult time in school because she doesn’t know how to read, or doesn’t read well.
“The name Amanda means deserving to be loved. Every child is that.
“Tonight, I’m happy to announce that Amanda’s Pantry and our annual Amanda’s Closet will now be offering books, free of charge, to all the Amandas out there.”
Every fall, the pantry gave out coats to kids who needed them, but this was a new facet of our services. “And while I’m thrilled with your generous coat and hat donations, and I’m hoping you write a big fat check for the pantry, I am not asking for any donations for the bookshelf. I have corporate donors in some of the country’s largest children’s books publishers.”
I was thrilled about that. Every child who came to the food pantry would receive a book of his or her own. Books—plural—I hoped.
“So, thank you for coming out tonight, and thank you in advance for your generous donations.” I leaned close to the mic and in a stage whisper said, “That was a not-so-subtle hint. And now, I’m going to get off the stage and turn it over to the Glenwood Hillbillies. Please, feel free to get up and dance, or just visit with your friends. And please remember to open your hearts and your wallets to Amanda.”
Mom and Dad were in a deep conversation with the people at their table, so I hurried back to Ned’s and collapsed in an empty seat. “Have I ever mentioned that I hate public speaking?” I said to no one in particular.
Ned snorted. “Yes. Every time there’s an Amanda fund-raiser.”
“Well, at least I’m predictable,” I said.
“There has to be more to the name Amanda than you said,” Mela sniped.
“Like I said, Amanda means worthy of being loved. Every child is that. If I’d called it The Food Pantry or Some Kids’ Food Pantry, it wouldn’t have the same sense of immediacy. People who donate to it have a more intimate response when they’re giving to a specific name. Amanda was the perfect name for the food pantry.”
That wasn’t a lie. I’d used the line a hundred times, but this time, it felt like one because Ned was sitting next to me listening and I knew it wasn’t the whole story.
It wouldn’t have felt as much like a lie if I were just saying the words to Mela.
Ned didn’t seem to notice my evasions. He simply asked, “Where’s Coop tonight?”
“She had a PTA meeting. Normally, she’d skip, but as a new teacher at the school she felt she had to be there.”
He nodded and asked, “Have you met everyone at the table?”
“Mr. Johnson introduced me, but it was a quick-shake-and-nod moment.”
He smiled. “That’s what I thought.” He nodded at the man on the other side of the vacant chair I’d slid into. “So as a reintroduction, this is Anthony Long. The Johnsons brought him on as a partner last month.”
Anthony was a nice-looking man who was somewhere between thirty and fifty.
Why is it that men had so many ageless sorts of years? The thing that made me lean more heavily toward the forties than the thirties was the thinning hair on the crown of his head. I respected the fact that he’d shaved it rather than try for a classic comb-over. “Congratulations on making partner, Tony.”
“Anthony,” he corrected with a smile.
I laughed. “Sorry, Anthony. I know how it feels to have people mess with your name.” I looked very pointedly at Ned.
Ned didn’t look the least bit abashed. “It’s almost as annoying as people who misrepresent your job.”
“Those people only pick at your job when you start in on their name, Fox.”
Mela always looked her most brittle when Ned and I teased each other. Her smile this time didn’t reach her eyes. Heck, it hardly reached her lips. “I don’t think Ned’s job warrants any teasing. That kind of thing is more appropriate for a school-aged relationship than for an adult one.”
Normally, I’d just let her social spanking slide, but tonight, I shot back without thinking, “I bet you’d sing a different tune if Ned shortened your name to Meh.”
This time she didn’t even attempt a smile.
Feeling contrite, I tried to move past my less-than-nice comment and asked, “Is Mela short for something?”
She shook her head.
“Do you know what your name means?” I asked.
She didn’t shake or nod her head . . . she glared.
I simply waited and finally Mela gave up and said, “Dark.”
I thought that was a fairly accurate description of her, but I knew I was being unfair. Mela and I were oil and water. No amount of shaking was ever going to make us like each other. And because Ned liked her, she had to have some good qualities. I just couldn’t see them.
Anthony shot Mela a sympathetic look. “I think my mother said Anthony meant priceless, or maybe she was just being a mom and saying I was priceless.” He chuckled and then asked, “What does Piper mean?”
“It’s actually a family name. But I guess it’s also a name that means what it says. Someone who plays—”
My mother came up behind me. “Piper’s about to say her name means someone who plays the flute, and though it’s also a family name, her father and I named her Piper because we were on our honeymoon in Scotland when she was conceived and—”
There are certain subjects that are fair conversational topics at a party and some that are not.
The meaning of a name? Fair game. A bit of social conversational frippery.
The place of my conception? Not so much.
I cut my mom off. “TMI, Mom. Really, that’s more than anyone here needed to know.”
Anthony came to my rescue as he asked, “Would you care to dance?”
I nodded. “I’d love to.”
I kissed my mom’s cheek as I got up and she whispered, “prude,” in my ear.
I whispered back, “Grandma had sex, too.”
She laughed and said, “Ew.”
Anthony and I were the first ones on the dance floor. “Thanks for saving me. Next thing you know, my mom would have been telling everyone the exact details of that magical night.” I made a delicate gagging gesture at the thought.
It made Anthony laugh. “Your mom probably would have gotten along with my mom.”
I noticed the past tense and said, “I’m sorry.”
He nodded, wordlessly accepting my thanks.
I wanted to change the subject from parental sex and his loss, so I warned him, “I believe in truth in advertising . . . I am not much of a dancer.”
“I’m not Fred Astaire, so I don’t need a Ginger.” He must have realized that the term might not have sat well because of my red hair. “Sorry.”
“No problem. Calling my hair ginger is certainly nicer than calling it Medusa, which is my description of choice.”
He chuckled again. “Just relax and let me lead.”
I did, and Anthony managed to not only lead, but also to make me look almost good in the process. The fact it was almost good and not really good was on me, not on him.
He talked about relocating to Erie from Pittsburgh. “. . . don’t get me wrong; I’m glad I did it. It was a great move for my career. But it’s hard to go from somewhere you know to a strange place. Hard to go from a place where you have lifelong friends and family to someplace where you only know your work colleagues.”
“I’ve lived in Erie all my life, but I’ve always felt a bit like someone on the outside. Not that I don’t have friends, but . . .” I shrugged. I did have friends, but I’d never been someone who required a lot of interaction with people. I had my parents, Coop, the people at Amanda’s Pantry, the kids at school, and now Ned. That was plenty of people for me.
Maybe when you live with so many characters in your head—and to me, they weren’t just fictional characters, but rather people in their own right—there wasn’t a need to populate your life with myriad real people.
Really, between all that and my fictional characters, I was good.
Maybe there was a book about a teenager who spent more time with fictional characters than real people. Maybe—
“Piper?”
I realized I’d drifted and poor Anthony was still talking to me. “Sorry. Drifting away is an occupational hazard, at least for me.”
“You had an idea for a book?”
I nodded.
“I’d love to hear more about how your process works,” he said. “Maybe you’d meet me for dinner sometime?”
