by Darien Gee
Sergeant Overby isn’t impressed. “And?”
Officer Daniels checks his notes. “Ms. Tate publicly humiliated a member of the Hill family and caused excessive damage to their front porch.”
“First of all, there’s hardly a dent on that porch,” Yvonne says. “And second of all, I needed to wipe my hands on something and it turned out the towel around his waist was all he had on.”
Ava giggles. Even Sergeant Overby gives a chuckle.
Officer Tripp reappears in the station and hands Connie back her keys. “No marks, sir,” she says.
Sergeant Overby nods. “Connie, you’re free to go,” he says. He grabs the handcuff keys from Officer Daniels and quickly removes the cuffs from Yvonne and Ava. “We still need to talk to each of you.”
“Can I go first?” Ava asks anxiously. She quickly apologizes to Yvonne. “My son is in preschool and I’m already late—really late—to pick him up. They charge a lot for after-school care and I don’t want him to be worried.”
“Do you have anyone else who can go in your place?” Sergeant Overby asks.
Ava shakes her head. “It’s just me …” she starts to say, when she remembers. When she was filling out the paperwork for the school, it was mandatory that she list an emergency contact. She didn’t have anyone, didn’t have any names or phone numbers to put down except for …
The door swings open and Isabel walks through, Max in her arms.
“Max!” Ava cries in relief, rushing forward.
“Mommy!”
“Isabel?” Yvonne breaks into a grin.
“Yvonne?” Isabel looks bewildered as she looks between Yvonne and Ava. “Ava? What the heck is going on here?”
Ava is kissing Max’s face as he squirms and giggles. “How did you know I was here?” she asks breathlessly. She holds her son tight, so grateful that she can’t help smiling at Isabel.
But Isabel doesn’t return the smile.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” she says. She thumbs in Yvonne’s direction. “I came looking for her. But I’m glad to see you because I have a question.” Her eyes are hard as she leans in. “What in the hell were you thinking by listing me as your emergency contact?”
“I tried to tell you,” Ava begins, stammering, but Isabel isn’t paying attention. She’s crouched down so that she’s eye level with Max. He’s cowering behind Ava’s legs, startled by Isabel’s harsh tone.
“I’m sorry, Max,” Isabel says, her voice tight but gentler. “I was surprised to see your mom and I got a bit carried away. But I’m happy to see she’s okay.”
Ava can’t tell if this is a lie or the truth. But Max seems to relax.
“Max, let’s go outside for some fresh air,” Madeline suggests, and looks to Ava for approval. Ava manages a nod. Connie holds out her hand and Max takes it, and the three of them leave the station.
“Again,” Isabel says. Her voice is lower but Ava can tell she’s furious. “You put me down as your emergency contact? Your backup?”
“I never thought they’d ever use it,” Ava confesses nervously, “and I didn’t know who else to put down. I wrote about it in the letters I sent you …”
“I never read those letters.”
Ava swallows. She can feel Isabel’s eyes on her and, unnerved, turns to Yvonne. “I know it was wrong to put her down without her permission, but I didn’t know what else to do. The school wouldn’t let me submit the paperwork without a name and number.” Ava bites her lip and finally turns to face Isabel. “I’m sorry, but the truth is, you’re the only person I really know. The only person I trust with Max.”
“You don’t know me,” Isabel informs her hotly. “You don’t know me at all. How do you think it makes me feel to get a call saying that I have to go and pick up a boy who’s my husband’s son? My dead husband’s son? Whatever gave you the idea that you could trust me with him?”
“Because he’s Bill’s,” Ava says in a small voice. “I know you would never hurt Max, because you loved Bill, too.”
Isabel is sputtering, unable to form whole words. Yvonne clears her throat, touches Isabel on the arm. “Let’s talk about this later.”
“And you!” Isabel turns to her friend. “Why weren’t you answering your phone?”
“Hugh’s mother called the cops on me,” Yvonne explains, a bemused look on her face. “They caught up with me a couple blocks away from the house, sirens blaring and everything. To hear her tell it, I took off with her grandmother’s silver instead of a nubby department store towel. Officer Daniels almost drew his weapon! It was quite the spectacle—I’m sorry you missed it.”
“I told you not to do anything crazy! I called Hugh to make sure he wasn’t cut up into little pieces on his front lawn and he told me what happened. He did not sound happy. I came over thinking I’d have to post bail or identify your body in the morgue!”
“Now you’re exaggerating.”
Isabel looks exasperated. “Yvonne, you don’t storm up to somebody’s house who’s threatening you. You don’t know anything about them, you could have been hurt.”
“Hugh’s a wimp and his doughnut-loving brothers are the reason people make fun of plumbers.” Yvonne says defiantly. “Anyway, it’s all over now.”
Isabel turns back to Ava. “What’s your story?”
Ava hesitates. “I dumped everything but the kitchen sink in Randall Strombauer’s Maserati.”
Isabel gives a start and Ava can tell this catches her by surprise. “Randall Strombauer? Why?”
“I won’t be able to get another job as a dental assistant because of him,” she says. “He ruined my chances of getting a job, a really good job, and he’ll do it again, I know. I went to confront him and he tried to blackmail me, told me that he’d treat me nice if I treated him nice. I went to my car and took the bag of things I was going to donate and dumped it in his car instead.”
“Randall Strombauer,” Isabel murmurs. “I never trusted him.” She looks at Ava. “I always thought you’d take up with him, but obviously I got that part wrong.”
“Bill said you weren’t happy,” Ava blurts out. She shouldn’t be saying this, not here, but she doesn’t know when she’ll get another chance. “And you didn’t seem happy whenever I saw you, even though you were always nice to me. If I’d known …”
Isabel is glaring at her again. “What? You wouldn’t have slept with him? Had his child?”
Ava pinks as Sergeant Overby clears his throat. “Okay, ladies, I think we’re good here. Ava and Yvonne, you can go.”
Officer Daniels looks up from his paperwork. “But Sergeant …”
“Go,” he tells them, and then turns to Officer Daniels. “You get another pot of coffee on. I’ll deal with the Hills and Dr. Strombauer.”
The women exit the police station. Madeline and Connie are singing “Itsy Bitsy Spider” with Max under the shade of a walnut tree.
“Isabel …” Ava begins.
“I don’t want to talk to you right now,” Isabel tells her. The anger is gone, and she sounds tired, like it’s all too much and she just wants to go home.
Ava hates to ask but she doesn’t have any other choice. She doesn’t want to go back to the dental office and risk seeing Randall Strombauer again. “I’m sorry, but I have a favor to ask.”
“You’ve got to be joking.”
Ava gives her a helpless look.
“Fine.” Isabel sighs. “What is it?”
Ava hesitates then asks, “Could you please give me and Max a ride home?”
The doorbell is ringing. Frances is in the kitchen, her hands sticky with dough. “Nick, can you get that?” she calls.
“I’m busy,” comes the reply from the living room. Noah and Brady are sitting at the kitchen table, fighting over a video game that has something to do with birds and pigs.
“Nick, come on,” Frances says.
There’s no response.
Frustrated, Frances quickly dampens a paper towel and wipes her hands as she heads t
oward the front door. Noah and Brady follow her, intrigued. They pass Nick lying on the couch, a baseball cap askew on his head.
“Don’t you have homework?” she asks, grabbing the TV remote and turning it off.
“I already did it,” he says. The baseball hat falls off his head as he gets up and follows her to the door. Frances notices that his cowlick is sticking up and attempts to smooth it with her hand.
“Mom!” he protests, batting her hand away. “Stop! It’s embarrassing!”
“Who’s looking?” she wants to know, and it takes all of her willpower not to try to smooth it down again. She’ll have to talk to Mavis at the Cut and Curl to see if there’s another way to cut it so it doesn’t stick up so much.
When she opens the door she’s surprised to find Hannah standing on her doorstep holding a platter of what looks like chocolate brownies.
“Oohhh,” all the boys say in unison. Even Frances feels her taste buds at attention.
Hannah laughs. “I’m sorry to stop by unannounced, but I wanted to share these with you and I don’t have your number.”
Frances steps aside and waves her in. “We’ll have to change that. Come on in!”
“I made a batch of gluten-free quinoa chocolate breakfast bars for my neighbor,” she tells them as Frances navigates them through the typical Latham detritus on the floor. “And I thought you might be interested in trying them after our last experiment together.”
“The kids loved them,” Frances tells her. “Suffice it to say the first classroom party of the year was a hit, thanks to you. I wanted to call you and tell you but I didn’t have your number either. I meant to look it up in the phone book, but …” Her voice trails off, embarrassed.
“Don’t worry,” Hannah assures, putting the platter on the kitchen table. “It was the same for me. One thing after another. I don’t feel like I got a break until today.”
They stand in the kitchen, grinning at each other. The boys are mobbing the table, Brady’s hands already trying to sneak under the plastic wrap.
“I know it’s close to dinnertime, but is it okay for them to have one?” Hannah asks, peeling back the wrap.
“Yes, but ladies first,” Frances says. She reaches forward to pick up the first bar. She takes a bite. “Oh, this is good!”
Hannah nods, breaking off a small piece for herself. Nick has already finished his and is reaching for another.
“Nick, manners!” Frances reprimands. “And what do you boys say to Hannah, by the way?”
“Thank you,” they dutifully reply.
Frances sighs as she wipes the crumbs from her fingers and heads back to the kitchen counter. Hannah follows.
“It looks like you’re baking, too,” she says, noticing the floury dough on the counter.
Frances shakes her head. “Not exactly,” she says. She holds up a Chinese cookbook. “I thought I’d try my hand at Chinese cooking for Mei Ling, so I’m trying to make scallion pancakes. You fry them in the frying pan. Have you ever had them before?”
“Cōng yóubǐng? Sure, my mom used to make them when I was growing up. It’s one of the things I miss most about my childhood.” Hannah studies the recipe, nodding. “I’ve never made them before, but this sounds right.”
“You’ve never made them?” The surprise in Frances’s own voice embarrasses her and she quickly adds, “I mean, not that you would have any reason to make them …”
Hannah laughs as she pages through the cookbook. “I know it seems strange. I cook poulet au porto more often than a pot of rice. I prefer tisanes over traditional black leaf teas. But this food is part of my heritage and I grew up eating it. I guess I don’t cook it because I’m so used to it. And the truth is I prefer European cuisine.” She gives a smile as she looks at the bowl of chopped scallions. “This is bringing back memories I’ve forgotten about. My mother died when I was young, and I still haven’t had a cōng yóubǐng that could match hers.”
“I’m so sorry about your mother,” Frances instantly says.
“Oh, it was a long time ago,” Hannah says reassuringly, shaking her head. “It’s a nice memory, not a sad one. I’d forgotten, that’s all. I hope you’ll save a piece for me when you’re done.”
Frances grimaces as she looks at the mess in front of her. “Well, I’m not sure I’ll end up with something edible. The instructions are so confusing. It says to roll it up, then roll it in a coil and then roll it out again. Do you think I need to do that coiling and everything?”
“It’s easier than it sounds,” Hannah says. “But you definitely need to do it. It makes it flaky and easier to tear it apart when it’s done. That was my favorite part. I used to watch my mother making it all the time, but eating it was heaven.”
“Okay, that’s it. You realize that I’m not going to let you leave this kitchen without helping me.” Frances hands her a rolling pin. “You’re too valuable a resource. In fact, there’s a good chance I’ll never let you leave this house.” She nods to the kitchen table where the younger boys are watching Nick show them how to play the video game. They each have a breakfast bar in hand and they’re leaning into each other, talking among themselves, not fighting or bickering. “Happy, quiet boys? What did you put in those bars, a sedative?”
Hannah goes to the sink to wash her hands. “My secret weapon is …”
The women look at each and say at the same time, “Chocolate!”
As they roll out the dough into small discs, sprinkling sesame oil, scallions, salt, and white pepper, Frances tells Hannah about the quilt that she’s making.
“Don’t laugh,” she warns Hannah. “I’m going to try and say it in Chinese but I’ll probably butcher it.”
“I’m ready,” Hannah says solemnly.
“Okay.” Frances takes a deep breath. “I’m making Mei Ling a băi jiā bèi.” She says each word slowly and clearly, then waits for Hannah’s response.
By the look on Hannah’s face it’s clear it doesn’t ring a bell.
“Băi jiā bèi,” Frances says again. “A One Hundred Good Wishes quilt?”
“Oh,” Hannah says nodding. Then her nose wrinkles. “Sorry. I still have no idea what that is.”
“It’s a custom in northern China to welcome a new life by inviting one hundred friends and family members to contribute a fabric square to make this quilt. It’s symbolic of blessings and good luck. I’m going to make a scrapbook with pictures of everyone who contributes to the quilt along with a sample cutting of their fabric.”
“I love that idea!” Hannah says. “I’d love to contribute a square if that’s all right.”
“Of course it’s all right,” Frances says. She frowns, perplexed. “But you really haven’t heard of it before?”
“No. But you were saying it right—băi means one hundred, and bèi or bèizi means quilt. And the middle word—jiā—means house or family. So that makes sense.” Hannah begins to roll up one edge of the dough.
Frances imitates her. She watches as Hannah carefully rolls it into a coil, then flattens the coil with the palm of her hand. She passes it to Frances, who rolls the disk into a pancake once again, noting the pretty spiral pattern in the dough.
“Maybe it’s not a real thing,” Frances says, as she puts the pancake aside and reaches for another coil. “Maybe it’s one of those customs made to sound Chinese. I mean, the only references I could find to it were at adoption sites. Maybe Chinese people don’t even do this.”
“Does it matter?” Hannah asks. “I think it’s wonderful that you’re making an effort to help Mei Ling and your family stay connected with her Chinese heritage, but the thing that matters most is that she’s surrounded by people who love her and who want the best for her. Your boys are lucky to have that. Any kids would be lucky to have that. I know Jamie feels that way about his parents. Like you, his parents are outnumbered and things are crazy but Jamie and his brothers know that their parents love them deeply.”
Frances knows Hannah is right, but she also can’t h
elp thinking that she should do more, especially for Mei Ling.
“It seems too neat,” Frances says. “An American family adopting a little Chinese girl who needs people to love her. I’ve told you that Mei Ling has a complex medical history and I feel like so much of it is out of our hands. This, however, is something I can do something about. Cultural differences do exist for us and I want to bridge that gap for her as much as possible. I don’t want her to lose touch with her heritage. But is it enough? Love is only part of the equation, you know? And I don’t want her to have an identity crisis when she’s older. I don’t want her to be confused about who she is.”
“I don’t know if there’s much you can do about that,” Hannah tells her. “I mean, I’m still trying to figure out who I am, and I’m twenty-nine. I think it’s kind of a work-in-progress thing. I’m not so sure it’s something you can do for her. Everyone has to figure it out for themselves. It’s a part of growing up.”
Frances sighs. “I’m not even sure who we’re talking about anymore, Mei Ling or my boys.”
Hannah gives her a friendly nudge. “We’re talking about your kids,” she says. “All of them.”
Frances looks at the clock. Reed will be home soon, and she’s planning to make a chicken stir fry with snow peas and mushrooms to accompany the scallion pancakes. “Any chance I could convince you to stay for dinner?” she asks. “I’d love for you to meet Reed and I promise not to make you cook anything else in this kitchen. At least not today.”
Hannah laughs as she reaches for a pinch of flour. “I’d love to.”
MISSING GOAT RECOVERED
Reported by Edith Gallagher
AVALON, ILLINOIS—Rayna Doherty of Doherty Farms was reunited with one of her goats after it was abducted from her farm in the early hours of August 3rd.
“We heard a ruckus in the middle of the night,” Doherty tells the Gazette. “We ran outside and saw the taillights of a car leaving the farm for the main road. When we checked the barn, one of our goats was missing. We were very concerned, especially since she’s pregnant.”
