Once I’m too big for yoga pants, I’m out of options. I’ll be naked.
“Are you going to count the peanuts?” Bertha asks, in a voice that grates on my already hormonal nerves.
“I’ll just dump them in the blender, and see what happens.” Chase scoops them off the counter, adds them to the blender. Starts it.
I should mention that we’ve ordered five peanut-butter-making machines from a sustainable living company that can make thirty to thirty-five kilograms of peanut butter per hour. That’s roughly sixty to eighty pounds. I’m thinking that’s enough for now.
But while we wait, Chase is itching to get a working recipe. Hence cooking class in my kitchen.
“My recipe says two and a half cups of peanuts with two tablespoons of butter,” I offer. “Just blend until smooth.”
Chase pours in the ingredients and pushes the blender on high. As though we might be in high school chemistry, Chase, Bertha and I lean forward, watching.
The peanuts are chopped into chunks, then a powder begins to form, and finally, a sort of paste. Chase stops the machine and pushes the goo down, rechurns.
Soon, we have a pastelike substance that, if I squint, reminds me somewhat of the Skippy I left behind. Chase turns off the blender, opens the top and hands me a spoon. “You do the honors, G.I.”
When we were about twelve, he morphed my nickname to Gastro-Intestinal—as in I gave him stomach pains. But I’m not necessarily known for my adventurous taste buds. “Uh, no, go ahead, Chase.”
“I’ll try it,” Bertha says, giving me a look. We really enjoy spending time together, she and I.
She digs in. Smiles at Chase. Takes a bite.
Her face morphs into something I’ve only seen on cartoons. I’m waiting for it to turn red. She glances at me, and I can see it written on her face. What have you gotten us into?
“That bad, huh?” Chase says. She grabs a glass of milk and drinks it down. Breathes heavily, as if she might have been choking. Oh brother.
“Let me try it,” I say. I reach for a spoon and take a big taster. Put it in my mouth.
Even if it had tasted like one of those smoked prunes the Russians sell in tiny bags—the ones that smell like they’ve been saturated in kerosene, I would have found a smile and sung its praises. But, hello, other than being a little less sweet, it tasted like…peanuts.
Imagine that.
I swallow it down. “It’s good. Maybe it needs some sugar.”
“It needs a lot more than sugar, Chase.” Bertha says, throwing her spoon into the sink. “It needs someone who knows what they’re doing.”
For some reason I think that’s a slap at me.
“This is going to be the biggest fiasco in WorldMar history,” Bertha says, and my poor husband’s face goes white.
Oh, please. “It’s not that bad, Ber—”
She rounds on me. “Did you know that some kids are allergic to peanut butter?” She raises her excellently groomed eyebrows. “My sister’s kid is. Nearly died when he was about eighteen months old when his idiot father fed him a peanut butter sandwich.”
“Most people aren’t allergic to peanuts,” I start.
“Chase is wasting his time. Russians won’t have the first clue how to eat this, even if they do like it.” She glances at Chase, who I can see isn’t sure whether or not to step in. “And, to top it off, you’re probably going to kill people.”
Oh, you caught me, Bertha. My evil plan to take over the world.
G.I. also stood for Good Imagination, and at the moment, I’m thinking that Bertha should add arachbutyrophobia to her vocabulary. I clamp my hands where my hips should be. “Listen, no one is going to die from peanut butter and the Russians are going to love it.” Please, please God, make this a prophecy.
“You’re in over your head.” She pointedly glances at my stomach, then at Chase, and I’d have to be blind not to read that message.
“Bertha, that’s not fair—” but he doesn’t get the words out before Bertha brushes past me, grabs up her bag and storms out the door.
And Chase stands there with a look on his face I’ve never seen before.
Fear? Panic?
“Chase—” I say, reaching for him. But he turns away, spooning out the peanut butter into the trash.
Chapter Fifteen
Run Daphne Run
I am the Proverbs 31 Woman. The Wife of Noble Character.
I am worth far more than an entire crate of caviar.
And I’m not even showing my brain cell loss. Much.
I select woolen socks at the market. And type with eager hands. Helping H plan her wedding from overseas is a daunting—and time-consuming—task, but that’s what we matrons do.
I am as big as a merchant ship, and bring home food from afar. Like the International Food Store, which is located two hours away—three subway lines and a bus ride from my house, but which has…Oreo cookies! Life is good.
I get up while it’s still dark—to go to the bathroom. Again, and again, and again, and then sleep until 11:00 a.m.
I provide portions…er, rations for my servant girl. I figure if she cooks for me, she can bring home half for herself, right?
I consider a field—or at least home plans which will be built on the field, including color schemes for Junior’s room, and where to put the furniture—and buy it. Did you know you can apply for an IKEA credit card online? And just because I’m not there doesn’t mean I can’t ship it home to my parents’ basement.
I set about my work vigorously. Well, maybe not quite vigorously…okay, yes, I have a few power naps in my day, but all that online shopping wears a girl out!
My arms are strong for the task. And getting stronger. Or maybe just larger.
When it snows I have no fear of staying home for a week in front of the heater. And a stack of Russian-dubbed movies.
I am clothed with strength and dignity and can laugh—hysterically, the kind that just might get me committed.
I speak with wisdom, like, “Chase, maybe I should accompany you to dinner tonight with Bertha,” or “Would you like me to bring you supper?”
Most of all, I do noble things, like bringing a plate of peanut-butter brownies—thanks to a premixed box Jasmine sent me in my pregnancy survival care package—to the Mayor of Moscow, in an about-time apology for flooding his apartment. Or hijacking Sveta from work and bringing her out to the orphanage with me for some sweet time with Ryslan.
In short, I surpass.
Thankfully, someone has noticed. Sadly, not Chase, yet. In fact, we haven’t spoken about Bertha’s words of doom, although Chase has hired a consultant from America to develop a recipe. And we continue to concoct samples in the kitchen. My favorite is made with dark honey and a smidgen of salt.
But Daphne remarked last week as we visited Luka, again, this time with fluffy white slippers and a hundred-dollar terry-cloth robe, that she was “amazed at all I do, and she didn’t think she’d ever be able to be like me.”
Well, you know. Few people can.
Especially since today is February fourteenth…and I’ve decided to surprise Chase with a home-cooked meal.
Yes, I know, fire and smoke. But really, I have this all handled. Might I say…turkey? That’s right. That’s me. Turkey Cook.
I can handle pancakes.
When Chase was eight years old, we found him one Saturday morning sitting on our back stoop. I remember seeing him, shivering slightly in the early-morning frost, in his flimsy jean jacket and baseball hat. I wondered why he was over so early. After all, we’d agreed to go biking after lunch, but I had to clean my room first. And we both knew I hadn’t a prayer of finishing my side anytime soon. Whereas Jasmine, of course, lived in a pristine state of cleanliness. I threw laundry on her side just to see her go apoplectic. Isn’t that what siblings are for?
“Why are you here?” I barked as I wrenched open the door.
But when he turned, my words vanished. He had been crying, I saw that much. He
gave a sort of sad grin.
I opened the door. “We’re having pancakes.”
He stuck his hands in his pockets at he brushed by me into the kitchen. “I love pancakes,” he said. Later, in my teen years, I wondered if he might have meant more by that statement. Especially since my parents took Chase in like a second son.
But his so-called love of panckakes is why I’m standing at the stove, trying to translate the various baking goods I picked up at the market. Thankfully, I was able to download a recipe, but everything is in metric. I need 100 ml of oil. Which is…? Yeah, see, not so easy, is it?
And, to top off my surpass-ity, I found…maple syrup! I can’t wait to give Chase a touch of Gull Lake.
Probably, he’ll bring home roses, because he knows what Valentine’s Day means to me. Two years ago, he sent me a package on Valentine’s Day all the way from Gull Lake, and then surprised me by showing up at my doorstep a few weeks later. But Chase has a history of surprising romantic moments. Like the time he drove five hundred miles to show up for my graduation from college. Or the time he sent me a DVD of The Princess Bride—because I became fluent in Bride-speak and for a long time required that anyone who spoke to me had to allow me to answer in dialogue—for my birthday.
Chase has thrown himself into the peanut butter idea, diving into the marketing and production and training of peanut butter manufacturers. Yes, he’s been gone most nights. And spent a few in the village.
But he’s working.
Hard.
Really.
I measure in the flour, the salt, the eggs, the oil, and what I assume is the baking powder. But remember, I don’t have the Berglund genes, so as I whip it up, I notice small bubbles aren’t appearing the way they do in Jasmine’s pancakes.
Maybe I need more powder? I add more. Sufficiently frothy, I heat the pan with oil and pour in the batter.
A perfectly cooked pancake is a thing of joy and beauty. I flip and stack and soon I have entire plateful of pancakes. Glancing at the clock, I see it’s nearly six-thirty, but Chase is normally late.
It’s just a phase. After he found out about the baby, he came home early every night for two weeks. And just because it’s getting more difficult to see my toes has nothing to do with his sixty-hour weeks.
The sunset over the far-off buildings is glorious tonight. Purple, with streaks of deep blue and red. I stop for a moment, my hand on Junior. He’s taken to moving toward my hand, kicking me as if telling me that he knows I’m out here. And I’ve taken to talking to him. Because, you know, he can’t argue with me.
I’m setting the table when the doorbell rings. I have to laugh—the man forgot his key, again.
But it’s Caleb. And, from the scowl on his face, I’m sensing all is not well.
“What have you done?” he asks as he brushes by me.
Excuse me? I’m scrounging up an answer—made pancakes, done the dishes? Yes, I know! when he rounds on me.
“Daphne broke up with me!”
And this is my fault, how?
Caleb is wearing black hiking boots, cargo pants and a black parka. Sorta suave for grunge-boy. Although, he’s been keeping his hair short and frankly looks more like New York boy these days. Especially when he paces and runs his hands through said short hair as he’s doing now.
“She broke up with you?” I close the door behind him. “Why? And how’s that pacing going for you, because you’re making me seasick.”
He gives me a look and plops down on the sofa, shaking his head. “She says she can’t be like you.”
Huh? I stare at him, and it’s one of those rare times when the words are sucked completely out of my mouth. I know Chase longs for these moments. Again I glance at the clock—6:45 p.m.
“What does she mean, she can’t be like me?” I say finally and sit down opposite Caleb.
Caleb shakes his head. “When I told her you were amazing, I didn’t mean for her to take it to heart.”
Hey! Why not?
“I mean, you are, but she’s completely freaked out.” He gets up, paces to the window. “She says that if I expect her to be like you, I’ll be sorely disappointed and that she can’t do that to her, or me. So she broke up with me.”
Wait. Let me get this straight. Daphne broke up with Caleb because I’m so awesome? Because I surpass?
Wow. I can’t help the slightest grin that emerges from me. I know, I should be feeling Caleb’s pain, but really, I knew I liked that Daphne. I recover quickly and put on my compassionate side. Because, you know, I surpass.
“I’m so sorry, Caleb,” I say, coming up behind him and patting his shoulder. “I am sure she’s just overwhelmed with…well, whatever she thinks you might be thinking.”
He turns to me. “I want to marry her. I was going to propose tonight. Valentine’s Day.” His expression is so wounded I want to give him a little hug.
“Would you like me to talk to her?” I say. I’m such a good mentor. We’ll talk, I’ll tell her how wonderful marriage is, how incredible it is to be pregnant, what a great future Chase and I have, and she’ll sprint back to Caleb’s arms.
“Please, Josey, that would be great.”
He glances at the phone, and I’m suddenly thinking that he wants me to do this right now. I give him a smile. Look pointedly at my stack of pancakes and the two candles.
“Oh,” he says. “You’re waiting for Chase.”
I nod, in a sort of maternal way. Because I’m practicing. “He’ll be home any moment.”
Caleb gives me the most forlorn expression I’ve ever seen on him. My heart suddenly turns for him. “I’ll call her as soon as I can.”
“Thanks, Josey,” he says. He heads for the door.
The flat is quiet after he leaves. I sit on the sofa and watch the clock. The sun has now set beyond the apartment buildings, and the room is darkening. I lie down, put my hands over Junior. Sometimes I get so tired.
It’s nine when I open my eyes again. The flat is dark, lights from other apartment buildings twinkle like stars. I sit up, my heart thumping in my chest.
And realize the truth. Chase has forgotten Valentine’s Day. I rub my fingers into my eyes, trying to dispel the sleep. Getting up, I sit at the dark table, taking a cold pancake, rolling it and dipping it in the cold maple syrup.
I nearly gag. It’s so salty, I have to run to the fridge and grab a glass of cold water. Whatever I added, it wasn’t baking powder.
I slump against the fridge, fighting tears as the phone rings. I pick it up on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Hi, honey,” Chase says. “I’m sorry I’m not home yet. Bertha and I had to work late on the marketing campaign.”
Of course you did. I can see him sitting at his desk, his shirt rumpled, his hair mussed. And in my pregnancy-induced thoughts, Bertha is perched at the corner of his desk. Listening. Smirking.
“I’ll be home in an hour,” he says.
Don’t bother, is on my lips. But the thought right before it is…if he doesn’t spend the night here, where exactly will he sleep?
“I’ll be here,” I say, hating myself. When did I turn into a doormat? He hangs up and I cradle the phone to my chest.
I know I should call Daphne. But right now, all I would say is…run.
The ride to the Gorkovich orphanage is long. And quiet. Igor in the front seat has more cheer than Daphne.
She won’t talk to me. At least not about Caleb. She’s been avoiding me for weeks, and if it weren’t for the fact that I made Igor drive me to her flat to force her to go to the orphanage, I think she might simply barricade herself in her apartment eating popcorn.
Now who would do something like that?
I’ve tried calling. Especially when I’m in a magnanimous mood. She simply refuses to talk to me about him, or her, or even me. Especially about me. And how Proverbs 31 I am. A wife of Noble character.
I could use some talk about me right now. Because I feel sorta like the weather. Gray. Overcast.
March.
Like march right back home to Gull Lake.
I sit back against the backseat in Igor’s car. He has a little crown air freshener on his dash—very New York cabbie, and it fills the car with a cologne that smells exotic and rich. Igor seems different lately…dressing better, clean shaven. It’s not like he’s skipping or anything, but I’ve seen a certain…dare I say jauntiness in his demeanor.
Sorta makes me wonder if my Thug might have a Thugette.
At least someone has some romance in their life.
I put my hand on my ever-increasing belly and try not to let it bother me that Chase treats me as if I have the Ebola virus that can be contracted by kisses that last longer than two-point-three seconds. The other night I grabbed his hand to put it over Junior, and he yanked it away as if I might burn him.
Watch me.
Worse, Chase seems even more distant. Yes, he calls me every day, usually before he’s heading home, but it feels as if we’re suddenly roommates.
It’s not because I’m fat. Or that I can barely tie my shoes. Or that my only two pair of yoga pants that still fit me cut off the blood supply to my legs. Since January I’ve ballooned as though I might have an entire platoon of little soldiers inside me, and sometimes it feels that way. Marching here and there, over my bladder, up my spine, jockeying for space. And just shoot me, I have over three months left!
Maybe Daphne is onto something with the hiding and popcorn and even the no-men rule.
I glance at her.
“Daph, please, can’t we talk about Caleb? He’s so heartbroken.”
She folds her arms over her chest and looks the other way out the window. “How’s the peanut butter thing going?”
Oh, she thinks she’s so good. Because I’m bound by my Minnesota niceness to answer her. “We’re having the kickoff unveiling in a couple weeks. Chase is planning a big party. I’ll invite you.” I take a breath and dive in again. “Caleb told me why you broke up with him.”
She glances at me, her shoulders slumping. “He shouldn’t have. He had no right.”
Chill Out, Josey! Page 16
