The Big Chili

by Julia Buckley

  “Okay, Pet.” She opened my back hatch and I spoke to her over my shoulder. “It’s the big Crock-Pot there. Ignore the box in the corner—that’s for someone else.”

  “Fine, fine. Thank you, Lilah. I’m sure it will be delicious, as always.” She hauled it out of the car, grunting slightly, and placed it on her dolly. Then, loudly, for whatever sprites might be listening, she said, “Thank you so much for driving this from my house! It’s a real time-saver!”

  I rolled my eyes at Mick, and he nodded. Mick totally gets it.

  I waved to Pet, who ignored me, and drove away while she was still wheeling her prize back to the church hall. My mother played bingo there sometimes and probably would tonight. We were church members, but we were neither as devout nor as involved as was Pet. My mother called us “lapsed Catholics,” and said we would probably have to wait at the back of the line on our way to heaven, at which point my father would snort and say that he could name five perfect Catholics who were having affairs.

  Then they would launch into one of their marital spats and I would tune them out or escape to my own home, which was where I headed now.

  My parents are Realtors, and I work for them during the day. I mostly either answer phones at the office or sit at showings, dreaming of recipes while answering questions about hardwood floors, modernized baths, and stainless steel kitchens. It isn’t a difficult task, but I do lust after those kitchens more than is healthy. I have visions of starting my own catering business, experimenting with spices at one of those amazing marble islands while a tall blue-eyed man occasionally wanders in to taste my concoctions.

  Mick was staring at the side of my face with his intense look. I slapped my forehead. “Oh, buddy! I never gave you your treat, and you had to sit and smell that chili all through the ride!”

  Mick nodded.

  We pulled into the long driveway that led to our little house, which was actually an old caretaker’s cottage behind a much larger residence. My parents had found it for me and gotten me a crazy deal on rent because they had sold the main house to Terry Randall, a rich eccentric who had taken a liking to my parents during the negotiations. Taking advantage of that, my parents had mentioned that their daughter would love to rent a cottage like the one behind his house, and Terry had agreed. My rent, which Terry didn’t need but which my parents had insisted upon, was a steal. I’d been in the cottage for more than two years, and Terry and I had become good friends. I was often invited into the big house for the lavish parties that Terry and his girlfriend liked to throw on a regular basis.

  I pulled a Tupperware container out of my tote bag—Mick’s reward whenever he accompanied me on trips. “Who’s my special boy?” I asked him as I popped off the lid.

  Mick started munching, his expression forgiving. He made quick work of the chili inside; I laughed and snapped his picture on my phone. “That’s going on the refrigerator, boy,” I said. It was true, I doted on Mick as if he were my child, but in my defense, Mick was a spectacular dog.

  I belted out a few lines of “Jolly Holiday” before turning off the sound system and retrieving Mick’s now-clean container. I checked my phone and found two text messages: one from my friend Jenny, who wanted me to come for dinner soon, and one from my brother, who wanted me to meet his girlfriend. I’d met lots of Cam’s girlfriends over time, but this one was special to him, I could tell, because she was Italian. My brother and I, thanks to a wonderfully enthusiastic junior high Italian teacher, had developed a mutual love of Italian culture before we even got to high school. We immersed ourselves in Italian art, music, sports, and film. We both took Italian in high school, and Cam went on to get his PhD in Italian, which he now taught at Loyola, my alma mater. We were Italophiles from way back, but Cam had never met an Italian woman. It was I who had won the distinction of dating an Italian first, and that hadn’t ended well. But sometimes, even now, when I found myself humming “Danza, danza fanciulla gentile,” I could hear Miss Abbandonato saying, “Ciao, Lilah, splendido!”

  She had told us, in the early days of our classes, that her family name meant “forsaken,” and I had remembered it when I, too, was betrayed. Abbandonato. How forsaken I had felt back then.

  I turned off my phone and smiled at Mick, who was still licking his chops. We climbed out of the car and made our way to the cozy little cottage with its green wood door and berry wreath. Home sweet home.

  I grabbed my mail out of the tin box and unlocked the door, letting Mick and me into our kingdom. We had hardwood floors, too, at least a few feet of them in our little foyer. The living room was carpeted in an unfortunate brown shag, but it was clean, and there was a fireplace that made the whole first floor snug and welcoming.

  My kitchen was tiny and clean, and between my little dining area and the living room was a spiral staircase that led up to a loft bedroom. Every night I thanked God for Terry Randall and his generous heart (and for my savvy parents, who had talked him into renting me my dollhouse cottage).

  As I set my things down, my phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, honey.” It was my mother. I could hear her doing something in the background—probably putting away groceries. “Are you going to bingo with me tonight?”

  “Mom. Bingo is so loud and annoying, and those crazy women with their multiple cards and highlighters . . .”

  “Are what? Our good friends and fellow parishioners?”

  I groaned. “Don’t judge me, Mom. Just because I get tired of Trixie Frith and Theresa Scardini and their braying voices—”

  “Lilah Veronica! What has gotten into you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sweetie, you have to get out. Dad thinks you have agoraphobia.”

  “I don’t have agoraphobia. I just happen to like my house and my dog.”

  “What song is in your head right now?”

  My mother knew this odd little fact: I always had a song in my head. There was one in there when I woke up each morning—often something really obscure, like a commercial jingle from the nineties, when I was a kid—and one in my head when I went to bed at night. It was not always a conscious thing, but it was always there, like a sound track to my life. My mother had used it as a way to gauge my mood when I was little. If I was happy it was always something like “I Could Have Danced All Night” (I loved musicals) or some fun Raffi song. If she heard me humming “It’s Not Easy Being Green,” she knew I needed cheering up. Nowadays my musical moods could swing from Adele to Abba in a matter of hours. “I don’t know. I think I was humming Simon and Garfunkel a minute ago.”

  “Hmm—that could go either way.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Mom.”

  “You haven’t spent much time with young people lately. You need to get out on the town with Jenny, like in the old days when you two were in college.”

  “I’m planning just that next week. We’ve been texting about it. But, Mom, I’m not in college anymore. And neither is Jenny. She’s busy with her job, I’m busy with my jobs—plural. And if you are subtly implying that you want me to meet men, I am not ready for that, either.”

  My mother sighed dramatically in my ear. “One bad relationship doesn’t mean you can’t find something good.”

  “No. It just means I’m not interested in finding a man right now. I think I’m a loner. I like being alone.”

  “I think you’re hiding.”

  “Mom, stop the pop psychology. I have a great life: a growing business, a nice house, a loving family, and a devoted dog. People who saw my life would wish they were me.”

  “Except no one sees your life, because you hide away from the world in your little house behind a house.”

  “Right. With my agoraphobia,” I said, choosing to find my mother’s words amusing instead of annoying. She had found me this house, after all.

  “Come with me tonight. I heard that Pet w
ill be making her chili. It’s my favorite,” said my mother, who was one of only three people who knew my secret.

  “I guess I’ll go,” I said. “But only because I’m hoping your crazy luck will rub off on me and I’ll win the jackpot.”

  My mother had won two thousand dollars at bingo six months earlier. She came home beaming, and my father groused about the fact that she went at all. Then she pulled out twenty hundred-dollar bills and set them in his lap. Now he didn’t say much about bingo, especially since they’d used the money to buy him a state-of-the-art recliner.

  What I could do with two thousand dollars. . . . I gazed around the kitchen and indulged a brief lust for gourmet tools, an updated countertop, or even a new stainless steel refrigerator—the wide kind that accommodated large pans.

  “Great!” said my mother. “Do you want to come over now and we’ll hang out together before we go? I have a couple of Netflix movies. One is a Doris Day. Remember how we used to watch her when you were little, and have our tea parties?”

  I laughed. “I do remember. And as I recall, you developed quite a crush on Cary Grant after watching That Touch of Mink.”

  “Oh yes,” my mother said. “My secret crush.”

  “It’s not secret. Dad knows about it and hates it.”

  She giggled. “Your father is attractive when he’s jealous.”

  “Anyway. I have to pass on the movies—I need to walk Mick. I have one last delivery, and then I’ll be there for our bingo date.”

  “Okay.” Her voice had brightened since I’d agreed to go. My mother was an innately cheerful person.

  I grabbed a water bottle from my fridge and hooked Mick’s leash to his collar. We went outside, through Terry’s amazing backyard, with its plush furniture and giant stone birdbath, down his driveway, and out onto Dickens Street, where we walked at a leisurely pace and admired the Halloween decorations. The evening was cold and dark, yet somehow cozy because of all the glowing yellow and orange lights, and the occasional jack-o’-lantern lighting up a storefront window. The air smelled like woodsmoke and winter, and Mick kept pausing to sniff it. My brain was playing a song that my dad had once sung to me when I was little—something by Don Henley with the name Lilah in it. The melody was a pretty blend of love song and lullaby, and my father said he had started singing it to me almost the moment I was born. So I walked along hearing the refrain of my own name, which was both comforting and disconcerting. We went around the block and returned home, where Mick ambled to his basket beside the fireplace for a little evening nap.

  “Okay, buddy. I’m going out for a while, but I’ll see you after bingo, okay?”

  Mick gave a half nod because he was already dozing.

  I went out and locked my door behind me. I returned to the car, where I had a Mexican casserole waiting, keeping chilled in the October air. This one was for Danielle Prentiss, who hosted poker parties at her house on Saturday nights. I drove to the outskirts of town, to Jamison Woods, a little forest preserve where Mick and I would sometimes go on a weekend morning to watch wildlife and enjoy nature. In Mick’s case this often meant chasing things, and once it had even involved pursuing a young deer. He stayed on its tail as far as the tree line, and then they both paused, looking at each other. Mick finally peered back at me, confused. He wasn’t sure what in the world he was supposed to do with this animal. I laughed and took pictures on my phone; eventually the deer ambled off, no longer afraid of my big soft-hearted puppy.

  I pulled into the empty parking lot; no hikers were visible on this particular day. Dani showed up in her station wagon with the wood-look sides, seeming as always like a throwback from the seventies. She climbed out of her car and met me at the back of mine. “Hey, Lilah. Thanks for meeting me at our little rendezvous point.” She grinned at me and blew out some smoke; only then did I notice the cigarette in her hand, although I shouldn’t have been surprised—Dani was a two-pack-a-day smoker, and her raspy voice told the tale.

  “Sure. I made this one with some extra onion and cheese, as your patrons requested,” I said, pulling out the box that contained the glass baking pan. “I think you’ll like it even better than last time. I put in a new and wonderful spice.”

  “What?”

  “Just a little cumin. Not enough to change anything—just to enhance it.”

  She looked at me, dubious. “I really liked it the old way.”

  “You’ll love it. Have I ever given you anything bad?”

  She shook her head. “No. I love your cooking.” She grinned at me. “And my poker pals love mine!”

  “That’s right. And when they ask you why it’s so extra delicious, say it’s cumin.”

  I set the box in her arms and slammed my door.

  “Money’s in my jacket, hon,” said Dani, sniffing the box.

  A little white envelope jutted out of her pocket. I took it out; it smelled like smoke.

  “Thanks, Dani. Just e-mail me when you need another dish.”

  “You got it, hon. Hey, your hair looks pretty. I like it in a braid like that. It’s so thick.” She sighed. “I always wanted blonde hair, like a Disney princess. Instead I got boring brown, and then it turned gray. What’re you gonna do?” she asked, and laughed.

  I laughed, too. “Thanks, Dani. For the job and the compliment. See you soon!”

  I climbed into my car and sighed deeply. My day’s work was done, and now I could relax. With my mother. At St. Bart’s bingo.

  Some Saturday nights were more exciting than others.

  CHAPTER TWO

  When my mother and I got to St. Bart’s, the parking lot was already full. People loved bingo; these were serious gamblers who figured the odds were much better here than in the lottery, and they meant business. Sure, there was some socializing, but when Father Schmidt called those numbers, people who were smart knew to sit down and shut up. I told my mom about the Lilah song, and we started singing it together as we walked toward the entrance. Then she laughed one of those nostalgic laughs. “Ah, I can still see Daddy rocking you in your little carrier and singing that song. And you would look at him so solemnly, with your big wide eyes, as if you didn’t want to go to sleep and miss part of the melody.”

  I laughed, too, and we walked through the entrance. Things hadn’t started yet, but the room was bustling with activity. Mom and I purchased our cards (a modest three each) and found a table. Barb Hadley and her husband, Mel, whom we knew only slightly, had already taped down their thirty cards and were lining up their big pink daubers. They were no-nonsense about winning, and they barely spared us a glance. Mel was telling his wife that when the buffet line opened, she should grab him a bowl of chili before it ran out. My face warmed with the unexpected compliment.

  In the kitchen on the north side of the hall, we could hear chatter and laughter as various cooks prepared their dishes. Pet’s chili pot already sat on a side table, the one labeled “may contain nut products.” I had never revealed my secret ingredients to Pet, but there was a nut-based ingredient in the chili, so it had to be separated from the non-nut food in these days of terrible allergies. The “nut products” table was quite full, with all sorts of other appetizers and main dishes. Across from it was an equally long table of nut-free dishes. The food smelled good, and I realized that I was hungry.

  I waved at some people I knew: the three Grandy sisters, Pet, Angelica, and Harmonia; Trixie and Theresa, the inseparable “church ladies”; Shelby Jansen, a teenager from the parish and a family friend; Father Schmidt and Mary Breen, the housekeeper at the rectory. Bert Spielman, our town librarian and a bingo lover mostly because he enjoyed socializing with the St. Bart’s crowd, many of whom were his patrons, stared down at his two cards with an intelligent gaze, as though he were finding significance in the random numbers.

  “Isn’t this fun?” my mother asked. “Mother and daughter on the town.”

  “I co
uld think of other ways to be on the town,” I murmured.

  My mother waited until I locked eyes with her. She looked pretty; her brown eyes were wide and bright, and she wore a lavender dress that brought out their color. “What I mean is that it’s nice to spend time with you. We haven’t done anything lately, just you and me. What takes up all your time?”

  “Nothing,” I said glumly. “Just Mick and my jobs. You know the drill. And I read a lot of books and listen to music and stuff.”

  Clearly she wasn’t finished with her agoraphobia theme. “You should get out more,” she said brightly. “And not just with me. Terry’s having another party next week. Are you going?”

  “He invited me, yeah.”

  “You should bring a boy with you.”

  “A boy? Like a six-year-old?”

  My mother sighed. “A man, then. Are you seeing anyone?”

  “Not since Angelo.” We both shuddered. Angelo, true to his name, had once seemed sent from heaven; that had proved to be an illusion. My brother Cameron said that men named for angels probably felt compelled to be bad.

  “I see Pet is in her element,” my mother said, leaning closer and lowering her voice. “I’ll bet she’s jealous that Alice Dixon is the one who gets to start off the festivities and do her little tasting ritual. So weird, really.”

  Alice was the president of St. Bart’s Altar and Rosary Guild, which helped to run bingo nights. While Pet tended to slave away on the setup for events, Alice was the face—and the voice—of authority. Generally on bingo nights she would signal that the buffet was open by tasting a main dish—usually Pet’s chili, because Pet had earned this honor with all her labor—and telling everyone how delicious it was, and that they should join her in the buffet line.

  Alice was a tall woman with dark hair, artfully graying at the temples. She had dark eyes and wore elegant clothing, and generally she was considered a trendsetter among the St. Bart’s congregation. I imagined her age to be anywhere between forty and fifty—it was hard to tell with people like Alice, who probably used expensive products that preserved a certain youthfulness in her appearance. She seldom smiled, and I had always suspected it was her way of trying to minimize mouth wrinkles.