Saturday Morning

by Lauraine Snelling

  To think that she’d left what she thought of as the fog capital of the world only to get socked in in San Francisco. Delayed flights in and out of Medford, however, did not make a difference in worldwide traffic—like SFO. She thought back to the conversation with her daughter.

  “We can drive all night, taking turns sleeping and driving,” Bria had offered.

  “The news says it is all up and down the coast. I’d rather know you are safe and alive than think of you driving in fog for twenty hours or more.”

  Morgan took over the phone. “But, Mom, I want to. I need to see you and Daddy. He needs us.”

  “Thanks, sweetheart, but we need you safe even more.” They’d never know what it had cost her to say those words.

  “God, right now I am having a real hard time being grateful.” She heard the toilet flush and knew Martin was up. Time to make the coffee and see what he wanted for breakfast. He was moving about a bit more, had even taken Fluffy outside to look for the parrots, but his appetite was still poor. She’d cooked all manner of things to try to entice him, only to have him take a couple of bites and push his plate away. She felt like a short-order cook, a waitress, and a busboy all in one. Andrea Mane Taylor, you have to do something with all this anger you’re carrying. She waved away the Bible verse that floated through her mind. So what if Paul had been in jail in Rome when he wrote, “I have learned in whatever state I am, to be content.”

  The coffee fragrance followed her downstairs to find Martin sound asleep again. She glanced at the clock. Nine. “Martin, I’m starting breakfast. What would you like?”

  “Huh?” He blinked and glanced over at the clock. “What did you say?”

  “Breakfast. You have to eat so you can take your meds.”

  “Oh. I—all right.”

  “You want help with a sponge bath?”

  “I’d give my left arm for a shower.”

  “Better keep that arm, you might need it. After you eat, I’ll wash your back and give you a rub if you want.” Keeping the incisions dry was still necessary.

  Back upstairs, Andy set water boiling and coffee dripping, fed the cat, and stepped outside to cut lavender stems off the potted plant she’d bought at the grocery store. She cut several and held them to her nose. The scent reminded her of home so much that tears threatened to swamp her.

  By now she would have had the twenty-pound turkey on the Weber kettle outside on the patio. The pies would be all baked and the green bean casserole ready for the oven. Her mother would bring candied yams and a salad and some new recipes that she always tried out on them. Some had become classics, like the cranberry salad; others, like the oyster stuffing, had been discreetly set aside after being sampled. Oyster stuffing had turned into a family joke.

  This house felt resoundingly jokeless. She wished she could have invited Mrs. Getz to dinner or taken Hope up on her invitation to join them at J House. But the doctor had made it clear that Martin wasn’t to be with other people other than the children. In his present weakened condition, there was too big a risk of his catching something or picking up an infection.

  She cracked the eggs one at a time into a saucer and slid them into the softly bubbling water. Plunking the toast down, she set the tray with a fall napkin for decoration, next to the bud vase. It would sure be easier if Martin came upstairs like two nights ago.

  With the eggs cooked just the way he liked them, she made her way carefully down the stairs. All she needed to do was fall and break something. All right, woman, this is the time to think some positive thoughts, or you’ll be as depressed as Martin.

  He pushed his pillows up behind him and smoothed the comforter to make way for the tray she set across his knees. “Thanks.”

  She slid her plate out from under his and transferred one of the eggs and a piece of toast to her plate. “You need anything else?”

  “No, this is fine.” He rubbed his chest.

  “Hurt?”

  “No, itches.”

  She watched as he ate a couple of bites and then moved the rest of the eggs around on the plate. “You have to eat.”

  “If you knew how I feel … ” He focused on his buttered toast and drank from the cup. The orange juice sat untouched.

  “Taking those stupid pain pills makes me constipated.” He rubbed his abdomen.

  The phone rang, and he looked toward her to answer it.

  “Martin, it is right by your hand.” At his look of beaten supplication, she set her plate and silver on the end of the bed and huffed her way to the phone. This was getting ridiculous. “You don’t have a broken arm. Hello?”

  “Happy Thanksgiving.” Both Bria and Morgan spoke together.

  “Happy Thanksgiving to you, too. Did you have a good dinner?”

  “Bria sure knows how to order in.”

  “Don’t give away my secrets.”

  Andy laughed at their antics. They sounded like her children of a few years ago.

  “Mom, are you all right?” Bria’s voice clicked into concern.

  “Of course.” Andy forced herself to sound cheerful. “How’s Seattle? It’s clear here.”

  “No flights yet, although it isn’t as bad as yesterday. So did you get groceries to make dinner?”

  “Frozen turkey breast and Stove Top Stuffing.”

  “Mom, you didn’t.” Morgan burst into laughter.

  “It was better than frozen TV dinners.” Andy laughed again with her girls.

  “Is Daddy near the phone?”

  “He’s right here. I’ll talk with you later. I love you, and have a fun weekend together.” She handed the phone to Martin, then picked up his tray, added her things to it, and headed up the stairs.

  How do I keep from comparing this Thanksgiving to the years before? Pretty soon I’ll feel as depressed as Martin does. Lord, this isn’t fair, You know that?

  “Roger, I have a favor to ask.” Clarice was placing turkey-shaped cookies on the serving tray.

  “Sure, what’s up?” He turned to smile at her, continuing to peel potatoes, as he and Alphi had been doing since early morning.

  “I would like to go find Angel Annie and invite her here for dinner. Would you drive me? Julia would, but she has no idea where AA hangs out.”

  “She’s usually over on Market. Sure, but don’t be too disappointed if she refuses. She’s not known for her sociability.”

  “You keep saying that, but she saved my life. She didn’t have to take care of me like that.”

  “True. You know that Angel isn’t her first name?”

  “To me she is. And if she won’t come, then I’ll take dinner back to her.”

  “The irresistible object has met the immovable force. We’ll see who wins. When do you want to go?”

  “Well, I thought we could offer her a shower and maybe clean clothes, if she’ll let us.”

  “We can offer. Let me get these potatoes soaking, and then we’ll go.”

  “Roger Benson, you get my vote for sainthood.” Clarice leaned over and kissed the top of his head.

  “You messed his hair.” Alphi slapped his knees and nearly fell off his stool laughing.

  Roger smoothed a hand across his spreading dome. “Knock it off, kid, or you peel by yourself.” He pointed to the forty-pound bag still to be opened. Several of the women working at the counters around the room joined Alphi’s giggles.

  “Not much to mess with, is there?” Celia didn’t even try to stem her taunting laughter.

  “There’s too much jollity going on in here.” Hope paused in the doorway. “And Roger, it sounds like they are picking on you.”

  He nodded, trying to look pathetic, which set Alphi off again.

  “Roger, the can opener is stuck again,” Tasha called from across the room.

  “You got to admit, you one popular dude.” Celia nudged him on her way back to the stove.

  Roger heaved himself to his feet, giving the stool a slight kick so that it banged against Alphi.

  “Hey, Dude.�
� He strung the short word into three syllables.

  Clarice rapped Alphi on top of his head. “What’s seven times nine.”

  “Not math on Thanksgiving. Dis a holiday.”

  “Come on.”

  “Sixty-three.”

  “Yes, you, boy, are the winner.” Clarice handed him the tail part of a turkey-shaped ginger cookie.

  “How come I don’t get one?” one of the girls wailed.

  “This was broken, so it needed to be eaten before it dried out.”

  “Gee, and since it was broken, all the calories ran out.”

  “You like him better’n me, that’s all.”

  “My kind of cookie.” The banter kept up, bouncing around the room like a wayward SuperBall.

  Clarice checked the yeast dough she’d set to raise at five thirty this morning. “Someone want to form the rolls?”

  Two hands went up, so she beckoned the two girls over. “You ever made rolls before?”

  Both girls shook their heads.

  “Okay, I’ll show you a quick way.” Clarice sprinkled flour on the steel table surface, cut off two pieces of dough, set them on the flour, cupped her hands over them and rolled each bit of dough on the counter into a ball, then plopped them in the pan.

  “Hey, cool.” One girl tried it, but her dough didn’t look anything like the smooth balls Clarice had made.

  She showed them again and began cutting pieces of dough, while they practiced until they were both laughing at their success.

  “You teach me that?” Fawna, their chef-in-training, came over to admire the smooth balls of dough lining the pans.

  “Watch them.” Clarice nodded to the girls, who were racing to see who filled a pan first.

  “Homemade rolls for Thanksgiving at J House. This gets out, and we’ll have to lock the doors on the hordes of guests.” Hope snitched a bit of the dough and headed back out the door laughing. “We’re near to setup out here.” She led the team that set and decorated all the tables.

  “Okay, Clarice, let’s go. I found another sucker to finish the potatoes.” Roger announced a few minutes later.

  She nodded to her two helpers. “You can finish?”

  “Go on, he waitin’.”

  She stopped at Fawna’s side. “The rolls need to rise double in size, then bake for fifteen to twenty minutes at 350 degrees. I used to take a cube of cold butter and use it like a crayon to butter the tops of the baked rolls while still hot.”

  “Okay, and they need to cool on racks like cookies?” the chef-intraining smiled.

  “That’s right. And you might threaten anyone who snatches one with no dinner.” She leaned closer to whisper. “There are two more bags of rolls in the closet in the office. I baked them the other day.”

  Fawna snorted. “I wondered where they went.”

  Roger and Clarice found Annie right in her normal spot, her trash bags of belongings surrounding her.

  Clarice, wearing her fur coat against the cold wind, got out of the car and crossed the sidewalk. “Annie?”

  “Yeah, who’s askin’?”

  “You probably don’t remember me, but one night you told me to flag down a cop … ”

  “Yeah, I remember. You so dumb you wearing that same coat?”

  “Only one I have.”

  “Someone gonna knife you for that coat.”

  “No, they won’t. I live and work at J House. I’m not living on the streets, thanks to you.”

  “Ah.”

  “We are serving Thanksgiving dinner, and I want to invite you to come with Roger”—she motioned to the car with the door open—“and me to have dinner at J House. I can offer you a shower and clean clothes too, if you’d like.”

  “I leave and someone steal my spot.”

  “Come on, Annie, no one would dare to steal your spot,” Roger called from the car.

  “No, no.” She shook her head and shrank back into her heap of ragged blankets and canvas. “You can’t make me.”

  “I’m not trying to force you. I just want to repay you for saving my life.”

  “No, no, go’ way.” Her voice rose as if someone were beating her.

  “Easy.” Clarice stepped back and shot Roger a pleading look.

  He shrugged. He had warned her.

  Clarice nodded. “All right, then I’ll be back later with food for you and perhaps some of your friends.”

  The man on the next spot of sidewalk guffawed. “A-Annie don’t got no friends.”

  Clarice drew herself up a good three inches. “Her name is Angel Annie, and she does have friends.” She pointed to the car. “Roger and me and lots of others. I’ll be back.”

  “Bring a bottle with you, honey.” The man pulled a piece of plastic tarp closer around him.

  Clarice sighed. At least she’d tried. But this wasn’t the end of it. If there was a way to get through to Annie, she’d find it.

  And if not, she’d done her best. Maybe Annie didn’t realize she was an angel. She’d been called by that other obscenity for so long, she probably believed it.

  When Roger and Clarice got back, the aromas of roasting turkey and baking rolls, all overlaid with laughter and the hum of busy people, floated out from J House like a welcome beacon. A line had already begun to form outside the front door.

  “Let me check and see if you can wait inside,” Roger told the gathering.

  The crowd had tripled or more by the time the serving lines were set up, those serving the food wearing hair nets and clear plastic gloves, per the health department regulations.

  “Okay, everyone. Can I have your attention?” Roger raised his voice and said it all again, waving his arms to get their attention.

  Celia shook her head, put two fingers in her mouth, and whistled loud enough to dim a police whistle. Instant silence. She nodded toward Roger, her grin daring him to beat that.

  “Thank you, Miss Celia. Let’s bow our heads and thank our heavenly Father for all the good He has given us.” He waited a moment. “Father God, we thank You for this warm place, all the food You have provided, and those who have come to serve. Thank You for our guests and those who live here, as we all learn of You and Your love. Thank You for Your Word and for Your Son, in whose precious name of Jesus we pray. Amen.”

  “Dinner is served.” Hope stood at the beginning of the serving line. “Line starts here. There’s plenty of food, so no rush.”

  Two hours later the food was gone, but for what Clarice set aside for Annie and friends. While some people had left, others were sitting around the tables visiting—street people, residents, former residents, family, friends, volunteers, it didn’t matter. Raving about the dinner, complaining about the government, catching up on old news. Children played in the play area; several checkerboards came out; two old men played dominoes and taught some younger folks the intricacies of the game.

  “This is what J House is all about.” Roger slipped his arms around his wife’s waist.

  “If only we could keep it this way.” Hope leaned back into the protection of his arms.

  “I know.” He kissed the back of her neck. “I’m taking Julia and Clarice down to feed Annie et al.”

  “They’re not ‘et al.’” She dug an elbow into his ribs with only enough force to make her point.

  They listened to the phone ring, started toward it, and knew someone had already picked up the receiver. A few moments later a shocked-looking Julia came out of the office.

  “That was Cyndy. She said she almost came to the dinner, but then something scared her.” Tears trickled down Julia’s face. “I talked with my granddaughter. On Thanksgiving. She said not to worry. Ha. But at least I heard her voice.” She stepped into the circle of arms, and the three of them hugged.

  In a bit she blew out one breath and then another, shaking her head in wonderment. “Well, let’s go feed Angel Annie.”

  “You know what her real street name is?”

  “I do, but I’m not going to push that one on Clarice. If she t
hinks Annie is an angel, so do I.”

  “You came back.” Annie took the foam containers Clarice handed her.

  “I told you I would.” Clarice returned to the car for a carton of hot coffee.

  “Dint you bring nothin’ stronger?” The man next to her took his package with a gruff “Thanks.”

  “Sorry, strongest we have.” Roger passed out two more boxes. “You ever decide you want off the streets, you can find me at J House, and I’ll see how I can help.”

  “That’s for women.”

  “On the inside, but you never know where help will come from anyway, or for whom.”

  Clarice knelt in front of Annie. “I’ll see you again.”

  “Don’t need to.” But even in the shadows, Clarice recognized the grimace for what it was—a smile.

  “What a day.” Clarice leaned against the car seat as the three of them drove back to J House.

  “Amen to that.”

  “Did you call Andy?” Julia asked from the backseat.

  “No, but we can do that when we get back.”

  True to their decision, as soon as they got back to J House, Julia and Clarice grabbed Hope’s arm and pulled her into the office to use the speakerphone so they could all talk. “Happy Thanksgiving. We missed you,” they chorused when Andy answered the phone.

  “Me too.” Her laugh wore a patina of tears.

  “So what did you do to celebrate?”

  “I read a book. That’s what I did most of the day. The fog kept my parents and the kids from coming, and Martin wanted to stay in bed and watch football on TV, so I turned on the fireplace and read. What a treat.”

  “Did you have turkey and the trimmings?”

  “Yep. How was it there?” Andy squealed when Julia said she’d talked with Cyndy. And laughed at some of their other stories. “Wish I could have come.”

  “Next year.”

  “Perhaps. And if the kids are here, they can come help too.”

  “Tell Martin we’re praying for him.” They said their good-byes, and Clarice pressed the Disconnect button.