The Transformation

by Terri Kraus

  “You want dinner?”

  Bridget replied with an excited, “Yes!”

  “Mac and cheese? Hot dog? Pizza?”

  The little girl screwed up her face in fierce concentration. “Macachee,” she declared. “Macachee.”

  Paula went to the cupboard, picked up a box of macaroni and cheese, and glanced at the directions. Ugh. This is the kind I actually have to cook.

  She placed it back on the shelf. She opened the freezer and rummaged a bit, moving a package of ground beef she had bought on sale and two bags of frozen corn that had been in the freezer for many months. Paula liked corn well enough, but Bridget had developed an intense dislike for it, and Paula never thought of making it just for herself. Behind all that were two boxes of premade, frozen macaroni and cheese.

  They were priced two-for-one, right? Paula said to herself, in her own defense.

  She bent back a corner of the lid and punched in the numbers on the microwave as the purple dinosaur sang and danced in the background. One of the local television stations played episodes back to back at this hour, probably at the request of thousands of harried parents preparing dinner just like Paula.

  When the dish was ready and cooled enough for her daughter to eat, Paula placed Bridget in the highchair and helped her feed herself, slowly, a spoonful at a time. Paula had tasted this brand and thought it was tinny and sharp tasting, but Bridget loved it nonetheless.

  After dinner, the two of them watched a cartoon that was aimed above Bridget’s age but was colorful and the characters jumped about and moved a lot, keeping her entertained, or at least occupied.

  When the streetlights switched on outside, Paula readied her daughter for bed. She thought she might grab the plastic bag but decided she may as well wait until Bridget was asleep.

  Twenty minutes later, Paula walked slowly out of her daughter’s room, closed the door gently, retrieved the white plastic bag, and walked into the bathroom. She put the toothpaste in the medicine cabinet and the cotton swabs on the top shelf of the bathroom closet. She took the small box out of the bag, threw the bag in the trash, and leaned against the counter to read the directions. Then she read them one more time. The kit was expensive and only contained one test strip; she couldn’t go around wasting money. And she didn’t want to return to that drugstore to purchase another kit. She had thought the cashier acted odd—condescending, almost—as she rang up her purchases.

  There was a snootiness in her eyes. Like she was looking down on me—or judging me. Like she has a right to do that. She’s just a cashier at a drugstore, for heaven’s sake.

  A terrifying thought jumped into Paula’s awareness. What if she knows me? I don’t think she does, but what if? And what if she knows Mrs. Mosco? Or Oliver’s mother? Oh my goodness.

  Her heart began to beat faster and faster, and her forehead began to sweat. Maybe people who work at drugstores aren’t allowed to say what people bought. Maybe there’s a code of ethics or law … like a privacy rule or something.

  She took a deep breath, placed the box on the counter, and followed the directions for the test. The instructions said you had to wait until the results were visible, so she waited, watching the little clock in the digital readout, wondering if the wait would be in hours or minutes. Her tension and anxiety grew with each tick of the clock.

  In three minutes, the results were finished. A smiley face popped up in the readout. Paula wasn’t sure what a smiley face meant. She grabbed at the instructions, almost frantic, holding them close to the light since the type was tiny and hard to read.

  Congratulations! the instructions cheered.

  Paula read it twice, just to make sure what Congratulations inferred, then one more time. She stared at the test kit, then threw it all in the trash. Slumping to the floor, her back to the vanity, she held her head in her hands and began to weep, silently at first, her shoulders heaving ever so slightly, her body crumpling in on itself with each sob.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  AT MIDDAY, IT was not unusual for everyone to go in different directions. Oliver, not a stickler for exactly a thirty-minute lunch, or even a forty-five- or sixty-minute break, allowed people who worked for him to make their own decisions. And with this current crew, no one had taken advantage of his permissive attitude.

  Usually one of the Pratt brothers would announce, sometime around 11:45, that he would be making a run to whatever fast-food restaurant would strike their fancy that day. Within a few blocks they had a choice of the full gamut of American fast-food enterprises, and a number of independent beef stands, pizza places, Chinese-food takeouts, and Jewish delicatessens. If anyone was interested, orders were called out, and by noon, or a little after, lunch would be served. Occasionally the Pratt brothers would bring their lunch from home, but their coolers were usually filled with drinks and snacks, rather than real food.

  Today Chinese takeout was the selected food server of choice.

  Oliver liked Asian food and ordered a large container of pork fried rice. Since it didn’t contain a lot of meat, was not deep fried, and had rice with it, Oliver imagined it was a pretty healthy alternative to burgers and fries.

  Steven bundled in with a large box filled with white paper containers. “Lunch!” he called out, and the cutting and sawing and hammering stopped, and everyone rushed to grab their orders. Oliver took his and sat on one of the pews destined to be sold or given away, pulling up a pair of sawhorses and a square of plywood to use as a table.

  Sometimes when workers dined on the job, they gathered in one spot. Today all three Pratt brothers joined Oliver, asking if it was okay before they sat down.

  And I could say no? Oliver thought.

  Oliver used chopsticks as he ate. He couldn’t remember when he’d begun using chopsticks for all Chinese food, but it must have been a long time prior, because he was adept at eating with them now. The Pratt brothers always appeared just a little amazed at Oliver’s dexterity.

  The oldest Pratt brother, Henry, often served as spokesman for the three brothers.

  “Oliver,” Henry started, chewing through one of six egg rolls he had ordered, “we’ve been thinkin’.”

  “About?” Oliver asked.

  “Well … it’s sort of personal.”

  “Personal to you?”

  “No, personal to you. I think. Well, it is. On your side. That’s why I’m not sure if this is somethin’ you want to talk about. I mean, it bein’ personal and all.”

  “Well, if it’s personal to me and I don’t know what it is, then how would I know if I mind you asking?” Oliver asked.

  Henry stopped chewing, as if considering a very weighty proposal. “That’s true. I guess I hadn’t thought of that.”

  After a long moment, and after watching Henry consume another half of an egg roll, Oliver said, “Well?”

  Henry snapped up, as if from drifting off. “Okay, sure. Here’s the question. I guess it’s a question. Sort of.”

  Oliver waited again. “Well?”

  Henry swallowed, then wiped his hands on his jeans. “You know Miss Samantha, right?”

  Oliver could tell a preamble when he heard one, and this was a preamble. “Yes, I think I am acquainted with a Miss Samantha Cohen.”

  Henry’s odd grin was admission that it was an odd question. “I knew that. We all did. But we don’t know if you’ve noticed that she is a very, very nice person. She talks to us a lot. In the mornin’. We talk after you go back to work and all that. And it sure looks like you two aren’t talkin’ as much as you used to. We think that’s a bad thing,” Henry said as he pointed at Oliver with his last egg roll.

  “A bad thing,” Steven Pratt repeated, and when Oliver looked over at him, Steven turned his eyes away and lowered his head, as if getting caught doing something improper or illegal.

  “None of
us know what or why. Miss Samantha hasn’t said anything either. But, Oliver, don’t you see?”

  “See what?” he asked. It was true: He and Samantha had cooled in their interaction. But it wasn’t anything he thought anyone would take note of. Apparently he was incorrect in that assumption.

  “See that Miss Samantha is perfect. She’s a perfect person for you. Really she is.”

  “Perfect?”

  Steven spoke up. “She is, Oliver,” he said, not hiding from Oliver’s eyes this time. “She’s a Jewish person. You knew that, right?”

  “I did. I do.”

  “Well, if it hadn’t been for you hirin’ us, and for you invitin’ Pastor Barth to come here, we might never have been forgiven, or might not have found Jesus. I mean—really found Jesus. We all knew who He was before, but there’s somethin’ about workin’ here, with you … and in this church … that made Him real. Answered prayers, or somethin’. So if you didn’t take a chance on us, we might never have really known Him. Or Pastor Barth.”

  “Okay …” Oliver replied slowly.

  “So that got us thinkin’. We found Jesus by workin’ here. And we were so far from Him and all that. Lost. You know? So that’s what’s got us worried. If you don’t talk to Miss Samantha anymore, then how will she find Jesus? Maybe she doesn’t know anyone else who knows Him.”

  Gene, the middle brother, usually the quietest, spoke up, surprising them all. “She’ll see Jesus in you, Oliver. Just like we did. I think that’s why we wanted so much to work here—and that was even before we knew. We could see somethin’ in you. An honesty we’d never seen before. And I think she can see that too. You can’t stop talkin’ to her now. It’s not right. You need to take a chance.”

  “Go out on a limb,” Henry added.

  “Yeah. You do. You have to take a chance,” Steven said. “You need to talk to her again. Maybe take her to dinner or somethin’. Could you do that for us? None of us can talk to her like you can. Okay?”

  Oliver was almost ready to agree with them, to say that she was a wonderful person, that he missed talking to her, when the front door flew open. Samantha came flowing into the room, like a gentle whirlwind in human form entering the space.

  The next day, rather than announce the fast-food establishment du jour, Steven Pratt hung up his tool belt, dusted his shirt off, and said in a loud voice, “We’re goin’ to lunch now. We’ll be back in an hour.”

  And with that, his two brothers followed him out of the door.

  The three of them waited in front of Doc’s Grill. Samantha, their invited guest, wasn’t there yet. She’d originally suggested Cappy’s Café, where they could have the delicious egg salad, but the brothers unanimously rejected that place as too fancy, too nice for them, especially with them all wearing their work clothes.

  “There she comes,” Steven said, standing at the side street, at the corner, pointing down Walnut, relieved she was there. It was obvious he, along with his brothers, thought she might have been just being nice when she agreed to this lunch and might not show.

  “Hello, Steven,” she said, almost singing, and took his hand, which made him even more anxious, and let him escort her to the entrance of the restaurant.

  “Why, this seems very nice,” she said as the four of them were seated at a table near a window. “I’ve been by here a thousand times and have never stopped in. Smells like they have wonderful hamburgers, doesn’t it?”

  All three brothers sniffed at the air in unison and nodded, murmuring their assent.

  And that’s what all of them ordered—especially since the waitress said that burgers were the specialty of the house, and that everything else on the menu wasn’t nearly as good.

  Samantha chatted on while they waited for their food, a task she was well suited for, talking about the job and the remaining details that required a few decisions and the fact that Cameron Willis was going to be there at the end to do a segment on the new restaurant, a revelation that obviously thrilled each of the brothers.

  “Will we get to meet her again? Or watch as they take the pictures?”

  “I think so. Even if you’re done, I’ll let you know so you can come back and watch. Maybe you’ll get to be on TV. They like taking shots of the people who worked on the project.”

  With that, the brothers all stopped, midthought, as they tried to grasp the reality of being on an actual television show and not just a face in the crowd at a parade or ball game, which had happened to Henry—twice, actually—and was a story he never tired of telling.

  The burgers were delivered; the waitress had been correct.

  “This is maybe the best hamburger I’ve ever had,” Samantha said, her mouth nearly full of the juicy meat and bun.

  Midway through their lunch, Henry, acting as spokesman again, cleared his throat and put his burger back on the plate. “Miss Samantha, you know Oliver, right?”

  Samantha turned her head sideways in a quizzical manner, like a dog at a high-pitched whistle, while she finished chewing. “I’m pretty sure I do, if it’s the Oliver we left back at the church with the lost expression—then yes, I do know Oliver.”

  “Yep. That’s the one,” Henry said, sealing the identity of the Oliver of which they now spoke. “You think he’s a nice fellow, don’t you?” Henry asked, almost stumbling on the word fellow, having considered gentleman and guy as alternatives, but neither worked nearly as well.

  “I do,” Samantha said. “He is a very nice fellow.”

  “Is there any reason you two aren’t talkin’ to each other very much now?” Henry asked. Then, seeing the reaction on Samantha’s face, he realized the question may have been way too blunt and tried to soften the impact. “I know it’s not my business or anything, but we really like Oliver and we really like you, and the three of us think you two are really nice. We thought … well, we thought you two should like each other. You and Oliver. You should, like … like each other. And talk to each other more, I guess. We think, anyway.”

  Samantha’s eyes gave away her new profound affection for the oldest Pratt brother and his brave attempt at being an agent of reconciliation, of romantic amplification between two thickheaded, yet not unwilling partners. “Why, Henry, that is so sweet of you to notice. And I do like Oliver. But he … well, he thinks differently about some things than I do.”

  “I know,” Henry added, with enthusiasm. “Like about Jesus and the Bible and all that. If it wasn’t for him, none of us would be goin’ to church right now. He showed us the way—by just bein’ an honest and upright guy … fellow. You know what I mean? He’s different. He knows what’s at the center of things.”

  Samantha took a deep breath.

  “Listen, Miss Samantha, we know this is none of our business. But if we didn’t do anything … well, if Oliver had decided it was none of his business to get involved with us, then maybe we wouldn’t have a job or be goin’ to church now. So it isn’t our business, but we want you to be happy. We want Oliver to be happy. We talked to Oliver about this—”

  “You did?” Samantha said, surprised in an entirely different direction.

  “Sure. You are both people we really care about.”

  “You do? And what did Oliver say?”

  “He sounded like he agreed with everything we said. Like you two are meant to be together—regardless of you bein’ a Jewish person right now and him bein’ a Christian. Like he agreed that you two are happy when you’re together.”

  “He said that? Really?”

  The three brothers nodded in unison. “He did. It’s what he wants.”

  “I’m not sure Oliver knows what he wants,” Samantha replied, quiet.

  “He does, Miss Samantha. I’m sure he does. Just give him a chance. You have to go out on a limb. Oliver is a good man.”

  Samantha let her shoulders drop. “I
know he is, Henry. But I don’t know …”

  “Give him a chance. Please. You can do that, can’t you?”

  Henry saw the shrug of her shoulders, but then it stopped.

  Samantha sat up straight. “I can do that, Henry. Yes, I can do that.”

  Samantha sat at the table, sipping her ginger ale and thinking after the Pratt brothers left.

  I can do that … because Oliver could be the one. He is very, very special indeed. And he does seem to know “what—or who—is at the center of things.” He is the only man I know who has the utmost respect for me as a woman, who is with me because of who I am, and not what he can get from me. And he’s kind and gentle. He could easily be the one. Really.

  Samantha surprised herself.

  Really.

  As the Pratt brothers walked back to the jobsite, laughing and pushing each other, offering playful punches to each other’s shoulders as brothers often do, Oliver burst out of the church with Robert hurrying behind him, tail tucked down. Oliver was rather white—not ghost-white, but pale.

  “I have to go. My mother was just taken to the hospital in an ambulance. Lock up. I’ll call later.” He let Robert in and jumped into his truck.

  When he pulled out, the Pratt brothers called out, virtually in unison, “We’ll say a prayer for her.”

  Oliver pulled out onto Aiken, spinning his tires, heading south to Fifth Avenue, hoping beyond hope that traffic would be light.

  The call had been from the store manager where his mother worked. He said she had seemed fine all morning but just after lunch, he noticed that her face had appeared ashen, and he’d asked her if she felt all right. Instead of answering him, she had simply collapsed behind the deli counter.

  “The ambulance was here in a few minutes,” the manager had said, his words tumbling out in an excited exhale. “She was awake, I’m pretty sure, when they got her on the stretcher. Marge—she works up front—was right there and said she was pretty sure Rose was awake.”