The Goddesses of Kitchen Avenue: A Novel

by Barbara O'Neal

  This morning, a thick layer of agreeable clouds have raised the temperature, and there is a threat of snow in the pinkish light, and I find I’m in the mood for cooking. There’s a Celtic program on NPR, and I turn it on loud in the living room so it will lilt all through the house. I’ve decided I need zucchini bread and have grated squash into a big, wet pile in a stainless-steel bowl. It’s my own recipe, adapted over the years into a food that is truly one of my favorites in the world—half white flour and half wheat flour, for nutrition and heft. As I stir the ingredients together, I think with a little shock that it’s been years since I made it. I soak the raisins in vanilla and egg, a trick my mother taught me, and the walnuts are many sizes, for the pleasure of getting a big chunk once in a while—the zucchini with the skins still on, for that rich color. The music floats through the house, the Celtic drum and the delicate sopranos, and I think with pleasure of going to Denver to see the Lord of the Dance, and how it had stirred my heart that day.

  My wild Celtic heart.

  The whatever it is keeps growing inside of me. It’s a taste, a glimpse of something just out of the corner of my eye, and when the bread is in the oven, I think a quiche would be the perfect accompaniment, so I grate cheese, taking some pleasure in the fact that I have all my favorite kinds in the fridge—some Havarti and hard Dubliner and fresh Parmesan. They won’t suit one another particularly in the quiche, so I stick with the hard Irish cheese and mix it with a leftover piece of ham steak in the freezer, and roll out the piecrust.

  Sometimes the drum makes me tap my feet, and I think of the Celtic war drum I saw in a shop in Manitou Springs and wonder if I might love having something like that. It makes me feel silly, but why not? I know women who spend two hundred dollars on earrings without a blink. Jewels have never captured my attention, but a drum or a flute, something simple to learn to play—why not? I am allowed a hobby that does nothing but amuse me.

  The lunch is going to be too good to eat alone, so I call Jade to see if she wants to come share it with me. She’s going to the gym for her boxing lesson, but promises to come by after. Roberta is on a shopping trip to Colorado Springs. I call Shannelle, but she has found a babysitter for the afternoon and wants to work on her writing, which is wonderful. I think about going to get Angel, but things are too tense between me and Rick as it is. He’s not called me since that night he found the photos, and I’m determined I will not call him.

  But I don’t want to cause any more trouble, either.

  And for a moment, a little of the sheen goes off my pleasure. The cinnamon smell of the bread, and the mingling cheesy scent of the quiche fill the house, weave around the music, making the atmosphere rich and warm.

  I suddenly think that it’s all for me.

  Me cooking for me. Giving myself what I want.

  So I set the table with my favorite plate, the black and fuchsia, and brew a huge mug of spicy tea, and find my latest Oprah magazine, which came in the mail and I haven’t read, and put out a napkin. The cats, drawn by the scents, arrange themselves in spots where they can be seen, in case I have an urge to share my leftovers.

  Through it all, the sometimes melancholy, sometimes joyous music lilts through the cloudy day. I don’t even need the magazine for company when it comes down to it. The view through the window, toward the fields and Angel’s house, are enough to accompany my thoughts. I’m pondering an advanced natural-healing class in Taos, one I saw on the Web. Next summer, four weeks long.

  Or I could go to Ireland. After Spain. That money, Lucille’s gift.

  When I’m finished with my delectable lunch, I realize that I have not baked a quiche in years, either. No muffins, no whole-wheat bread kneaded with my own hands, no baked-cheese casseroles or cheesecakes or—

  God! How could that have happened?

  In a sudden burst of energy, I throw open the greenhouse door and grab Brigid—how appropriate that it is she on the altar this cloudy, Celtic afternoon—and carry her into the living room. There is a small table by the door that ordinarily collects keys and odd mail, and I put Brigid down carefully on the floor, and sweep all the junk into a pile, return to the greenhouse, and bring out the altar cloth and materials.

  And as if Brigid herself is approving, a pounding, celebrating piece comes on the radio, and in my own house, my belly warm with food, I begin to dance. Spin in circles, my hair flying around me, my feet tapping and leaping, my heart taking flight, and the emotion in my heart coalesces.

  Joy.

  The recognition brings a wild sense of freedom with it. I can’t remember how long it’s been since I felt this, felt myself all around me, my heart and soul inside of me, leaping as it did when I was a girl, once upon a time, a girl filled with dreams and hopes.

  As the woman is now.

  When I spin one last time, sweating and breathing hard, I nearly screech, because there is Lucille, dancing with me. She’s wearing a white peasant blouse with full sleeves, and three silver bracelets on both tanned wrists, and she dances close, and takes my hand. I laugh and start to dance with her, the two of us alone in my living room. Her hand is not ghostly or cold. It’s solid and warm, and I’d forgotten the suppleness of her fingers, and how the first joint of her first finger has a knot from an old injury. I laugh as she spins me around.

  I smell her perfume, mixing with the cinnamon of my bread, and the taste of possibility, and think I must remember to grow some poppies, and—

  “Mom!”

  The mood shatters, and I whirl, feeling as guilty as if she’d caught me dancing naked. There is an ashen color around her mouth, and I’m about to tell her she doesn’t need to be afraid of the ghost, that it’s only Lucille, but Annie says, “Dad’s been in an accident.”

  My hand flies to my throat. “What? What kind of accident? Is he hurt?”

  “Carolyn called me. He was on his motorcycle. He lost control and ran off the road.” She says it by rote, the words drained of color. “He’s at Parkview, in the ER. She said she’ll leave as soon as we get there.”

  “Annie,” I say harshly. “How bad is it?”

  She shakes her head. “Not dead, conscious, that’s what she said. Not hurt too bad.”

  My body softens, warms after it was flash-frozen in terror that he might have died. “Okay.” I grab my purse. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  When we get to the ER waiting room, Carolyn stands up. She looks like the morning after. Her hair is ragged and too dry. Her jeans are a little grimy. She’s not wearing a bra and the look is not flattering. I don’t think she has a drop of makeup on.

  “He’s okay,” she says in a hoarse voice. I can tell when we get up close that she’s been crying hard. “His leg is broken, that’s all.” She pauses, looks at me. “The bike is totaled.”

  “Ah, damn. Poor Rick.” But suddenly this doesn’t make sense. “How did you avoid getting hurt?”

  “I wasn’t on the bike. I wasn’t even there.” She brushes a lock of hair out of her eyes and I see she’s still wearing the earrings he gave her. “They, um, just called me as an emergency number. He had a card with my name. I’m sorry.” She hikes her purse on her shoulder.

  Annie rushes forward, eyes narrowed. “You fucked up my life, you slut.”

  “Annie!” I grab her arm.

  She flings it off. “You want a man, try finding one that doesn’t have a wife.”

  Carolyn’s eyes are full of misery. “I’m sorry for any pain I caused you. I won’t bother you anymore.”

  She heads toward the door, and I shove my daughter in a chair. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

  And it’s weird, I know it is, but this woman has lived in my head so much the past six months that she’s almost a sister. I run after her. In the parking lot, she’s taking out her keys with her long-fingernailed hands, and I see her wipe away a tear. “Carolyn!”

  She turns, waits for me to catch up.

  “I just wanted,” I say, “to tell you I don’t have any b
ad feelings toward you. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  She swallows. “I was looking for Joe,” she says. “He really loved me, you know, Joe did. I made him laugh. I didn’t take all his bullshit. And I just missed him so much after he died, and so did Rick, and one thing just led to another.”

  Broken hearts, I think, and for the first time I see how Joe might really have loved this one. Her tough facade and soft insides. “I’m sure he did love you.”

  “Rick never did, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m really sorry. It’s been over for more than a month. It wasn’t that great before, to tell you the truth.”

  “Thank you.” I hold out my hand, but she just shakes her head.

  I let it go.

  * * *

  The leg is broken badly enough that he can’t walk on it for six weeks. Crutches only. And although it makes me feel oddly trapped by circumstance, he really can’t be alone for a couple of days, and we bring him back to the house. After Annie has gone to work, I wander into the television room, where I’ve settled him, and bring a new pain pill. “How are you?”

  “Lousy. Thanks for coming to get me.”

  “No problem. How’s the leg?” I smile, raise my wrist. “I’ve had recent experience, you know.”

  He manages a choppy laugh. “Then you know how it feels.” He takes my hand, kisses the wrist. “I wish I’d been there to take care of you that night.”

  “Lucille visited me instead.”

  “Lucille?”

  “Yeah. She was a ghost. Kept me company.” I tuck the afghan around him more securely, kiss his forehead. “Maybe Joe will do the same for you.”

  * * *

  I’m up and down through the night, worried about Rick, who does suffer quite a bit, unfortunately. So it’s late when I finally get up. He’s sleeping hard in the dark room, and I start some coffee, then go outside to get the newspaper.

  Sitting by the door is a backpack. It’s Angel’s. I know from the times I’ve seen it on his shoulder. Battered, but strong. I pick it up and it smells of him. Pinned to the outside is a note in his Continental handwriting: “Fly, my friend.”

  Inside are some notes. A page of contact information for Spain. “They know you are coming. You must not be shy.”

  There is also a photocopy of a letter in Spanish from a gallery in Barcelona. I can’t make out every word, but I get the gist of it—they’re accepting a showing of his work for the gallery. My heart jumps a little—and I’m glad the showing won’t be in the United States, or in Seville before I go there. I think I can handle being a mysterious nude. Much more alarming to be one with a face people would recognize.

  Finally, there is just a phone number. Maybe it’s the next place he will be. I don’t know, but I carefully tuck it into my Rolodex.

  As I’m pouring my coffee, a knock comes at the front door, and I hurry to answer so Rick won’t be disturbed. It’s Shannelle and her two boys, everyone dressed and shiny. There’s a wild look in her eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, seeing me in my robe. “I’ll come back. I just didn’t realize—”

  “No, no, no. Come in. What is it?”

  She starts to laugh, puts her hands over her mouth, blinks. “I just got a phone call,” she says. “It was from an editor who read my ghost story.” Tears fill her eyes, and she has to stop to blink.

  I take her hands. “What?”

  “I sold it, Trudy. They bought it. They liked it and they want to publish it, and—” Tears are streaming down her face, and she’s laughing at the same time, and I start to laugh with her, grab her into a giant hug, and whoop, forgetting for a minute that Rick is asleep. “I can’t believe it!”

  “Oh, God, Shannelle! I’m so proud of you. Sit down, and tell me all about it. Every single word.”

  “I want to call Tony so much. I know he never really believed it would happen. He thought I was crazy.” She sniffs. “I miss him, Trudy. So much.”

  I pick up the phone, hand it to her. “He needs to know.”

  “Is it okay if I tell him to come here?”

  “Sure.”

  “I just want to see his face.”

  I grin. “I can understand that.” To the boys, I say, “Want some breakfast?”

  “We had breakfast a long time ago.”

  “Of course you did. I’m the only lazy one around here. C’mon, I’ll get you a snack. Let’s give your mom some privacy.”

  SHANNELLE’S WRITING WALL

  You must keep sending work out; you must never let a manuscript do nothing but eat its head off in a drawer. You send that work out again and again, while you’re working on another one. If you have talent, you will receive some measure of success—but only if you persist.

  ISAAC ASIMOV

  44

  SHANNELLE

  TO: naomiredding@rtsv.org

  FROM: chanelpacheco@hotmail.com

  SUBJECT: Tony

  Dear Naomi,

  I’m still as giddy as can be, can’t believe it, am afraid I will wake up in the morning and find out I dreamed all this—the contract and the reunion. As long as I live, I will never forget this day.

  Tony was the best part, though. I called him from my friend Trudy’s house and he came over and we went out on the front porch. He looked tired, and almost weepy when he saw me, and he said, “Baby, I’m sorry, I don’t—”

  But I held up my hand. “Me first.” And by then, I was smiling so much that I know there had to be sparks flying out of my eyes. I told him the story, that an editor had called, that she liked my book, and then I said, “And they’re going to give me $5,000 for this book, and $5,000 for the next one, which means I don’t have to work at the bowling alley, at least for a while.”

  He didn’t get it. He said, “What do you mean?”

  I said, “Someone bought my book, Tony. And they gave me a contract for two books, this one and another one, and they’re going to send me money.”

  And it’s so completely impossible to him that it could actually have happened, he says, “So you’re going to have a book at, like, Kmart?”

  I started to laugh. “Yes. Kmart and Wal-Mart and Barnes and Noble. Next year, right about this time. With my name on it.”

  “Wow,” he said, and then he did start to cry. And he hugged me and told me he was proud of me and that he would do whatever he could to make my life easier with the boys so I could do my work. Which are words I never, ever thought he would say.

  Later, after he moved his things back from his mother’s house (And, oh, my goodness, the whooping there was so much fun! I feel bruised from all the hugs!) we cuddled on the couch again after all these days apart, and I felt so perfectly fulfilled. My man and my children and my work and my house, all of it, all those corners have to be there for me to totally love my life. He said, “Just don’t leave me behind, okay?” And I told him the truth, that without him believing in me, without his love, I would never have had the courage to try.

  I’m running on and on. Thank you for listening. I’m going to float off to bed now. (Oh—my father said, “Guess you’ll be one of those snotty bitches now, huh?” Typical.)

  Love, Shannelle

  TO: chanelpacheco@hotmail.com

  FROM: naomiredding@rtsv.org

  SUBJECT: savor it

  dear shannelle,

  although i gave you my most heartfelt scream over the phone, i am still thinking about you this evening, vibrating in my pleasure for you.

  there is no other day in your life when you will feel just this way. mark it well, remember the date, and revisit it in your imagination every year. you have done what so many dream of and never accomplish—you have sold your first novel. you’ve leapt the river and forevermore, you will be a published writer.

  Your life is going to change now, in ways you cannot imagine, and most of them will be for the better. don’t let anyone take that sheen of accomplishment from you, shannelle, and there will be those who will try. they
will tell you that your struggles are only beginning, that the life of a writer is not an easy one, that there will be things that happen to your books that will break your heart. cynics who thought to make the writing serve them, make them rich, or make them famous and were disappointed will tell you with a roll of their eyes that it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.

  i’m writing to you tonight to tell you that not only is it everything you imagine, but it’s more. It’s not about riches, but the payment from publishers means you get to keep working on the thing you love.

  you began the journey with your writing the day you first committed a story to paper, and your heart flamed with the joy and curiosity of it. it will continue now through your life, your constant companion, your joy, and your outlet. it will be a source of frustration and despair, but not because of things that happen outside, as often happens, but because you will sometimes need to go to the marrow of your bones for the truth of a story, and it is not easy.

  i chose you as my student out of the hundreds who ask me—and you did not even ask—because i saw in you the fire, shannelle. not your talent, which is vast and mature for one so young. the fire i speak of is the passion and courage you have. the joy in the process. the willingness to serve the work.

  you will have a million questions over the next few weeks and months. i am here to answer whatever i can, and if i don’t know the answer, i’ll see what i can find out. i hope we can still work together on the new work, the one you are resisting, but of course your editor will now have some say in what she’d like to see next from you.

  welcome, my sister, to a new life. i am so proud of you.

  love,

  naomi

  p.s. i am so glad tony finally came around. i’ve never doubted that he loved you.

  “I done wrestled with an alligator, I’ve tussled with a whale. I done unhandcuffed lightning, thrown thunder in jail. Only last week I murdered a rock, injured a stone, hospitalized a brick. I’m so mean I make medicine sick.”