potatoes, quartered onions. Kosher salt and pepper, rosemary, red wine.
Oma slapped her hand on the counter once, as if to try the gesture on for size. She did it again, harder. She straightened, placed her hands over her face, and did not move.
Kate set her mixing bowl carefully on the counter and looked steadily into it, licking batter off the wooden spoon in small catlike licks.
Now he was definitely dead.
Now the arrangements were made, and the funeral would be on Friday, and tomorrow the casseroles and pies and bars and salads would begin to arrive, because due time had passed. Tomorrow the women would descend, and say very little, and not mention death, and tape notes to the plastic wrap and aluminum foil that would read, in perfect, identical handwriting, “Heat 20 min. at 325. Freezes well 4 wks.” Now Oma would have to reheat everything, and serve it on Friday, at the reception, so the women would see that it didn’t go to waste, like her son, and that she appreciated, even in her grief, a kindess done, and Oma would have to bake all day as soon as they arrived, to make something to return in the handmade towels in which the women would wrap and knot their pies and cakes and casseroles and bars, the hand-stitched heirloom towels passed down through generations, given at weddings for brides to use when they went to another woman’s house, whether for a meal or for a death, fragile towels that never broke with the weight of what they carried, no matter how heavy the gift.
Kate dipped into the bowl again and ate a whole spoonful of batter.
Opa’s chair broke the silence as he stood and led Oma down the hall.
Kate looked at me. “Can we still have cake?”
“Did you butter the pan?”
She nodded and held it up.
“Is the oven on?”
She pointed at it. We poured the batter into two pans and put them in. I got her a glass of milk. The roast sat exposed on the counter. I stood, covered it, and put it in the fridge.
I loved watching Kate drink milk.
She set down her glass and gasped. “I miss Esau,” she said, milk at the corners of her mouth.
“Me too.”
“Can we go on Sunday?”
I nodded, wondering how I would tell my son that his father was dead.
Kate stared at the oven with amazing concentration, as if willing the cake to be done. I studied the side of her face. She looked horrible. She started counting down the minutes. “Seven.” Pause. “Six.” Pause. She sat down cross-legged in front of the oven and stared in at the cake. “Five. It’s rising.”
The buzzer went off and I jumped, choked on my drink. She looked at me, got up, and turned the buzzer off. “It’s done,” she said.
She stood there, head level with the stove top.
I realized that now it was time to stand, to check the cake with a clean knife, to blow on it because she wanted it to cool down faster, to turn it, to frost it, to give her a piece on a small plate, with ice cream so the cake wouldn’t be lonely, and a small spoon, and get some for myself so she wouldn’t be lonely, and some milk because you give children milk at least three times a day, with every meal and whenever else possible. She stood there, near my legs, turning as I turned, waiting to lift up her open hands as children are always doing.
So I did that.
And she lifted her hands, and while we ate she made me list all the animals with teeth I knew.
“Is there a shark in the lake?”
“No. Definitely no sharks. Only in the ocean.”
“Are we going to the ocean?”
“It’s a long ways away.”
“Can we go?”
“Sometime.”
“Can I see a shark?”
“In a zoo.”
“Will it eat me?”
“No.”
“You’ll make sure it doesn’t eat me?”
“I’ll make absolutely sure.”
“Can I have more cake?”
Opa came in, opened his mouth to talk to me.
“Want some cake?” Kate asked. Opa looked at her as if startled to find her there. “No thanks, Little Bit.”
“Too bad for you,” she said affably.
“Claire, could you give
Oma slapped her hand on the counter once, as if to try the gesture on for size. She did it again, harder. She straightened, placed her hands over her face, and did not move.
Kate set her mixing bowl carefully on the counter and looked steadily into it, licking batter off the wooden spoon in small catlike licks.
Now he was definitely dead.
Now the arrangements were made, and the funeral would be on Friday, and tomorrow the casseroles and pies and bars and salads would begin to arrive, because due time had passed. Tomorrow the women would descend, and say very little, and not mention death, and tape notes to the plastic wrap and aluminum foil that would read, in perfect, identical handwriting, “Heat 20 min. at 325. Freezes well 4 wks.” Now Oma would have to reheat everything, and serve it on Friday, at the reception, so the women would see that it didn’t go to waste, like her son, and that she appreciated, even in her grief, a kindess done, and Oma would have to bake all day as soon as they arrived, to make something to return in the handmade towels in which the women would wrap and knot their pies and cakes and casseroles and bars, the hand-stitched heirloom towels passed down through generations, given at weddings for brides to use when they went to another woman’s house, whether for a meal or for a death, fragile towels that never broke with the weight of what they carried, no matter how heavy the gift.
Kate dipped into the bowl again and ate a whole spoonful of batter.
Opa’s chair broke the silence as he stood and led Oma down the hall.
Kate looked at me. “Can we still have cake?”
“Did you butter the pan?”
She nodded and held it up.
“Is the oven on?”
She pointed at it. We poured the batter into two pans and put them in. I got her a glass of milk. The roast sat exposed on the counter. I stood, covered it, and put it in the fridge.
I loved watching Kate drink milk.
She set down her glass and gasped. “I miss Esau,” she said, milk at the corners of her mouth.
“Me too.”
“Can we go on Sunday?”
I nodded, wondering how I would tell my son that his father was dead.
Kate stared at the oven with amazing concentration, as if willing the cake to be done. I studied the side of her face. She looked horrible. She started counting down the minutes. “Seven.” Pause. “Six.” Pause. She sat down cross-legged in front of the oven and stared in at the cake. “Five. It’s rising.”
The buzzer went off and I jumped, choked on my drink. She looked at me, got up, and turned the buzzer off. “It’s done,” she said.
She stood there, head level with the stove top.
I realized that now it was time to stand, to check the cake with a clean knife, to blow on it because she wanted it to cool down faster, to turn it, to frost it, to give her a piece on a small plate, with ice cream so the cake wouldn’t be lonely, and a small spoon, and get some for myself so she wouldn’t be lonely, and some milk because you give children milk at least three times a day, with every meal and whenever else possible. She stood there, near my legs, turning as I turned, waiting to lift up her open hands as children are always doing.
So I did that.
And she lifted her hands, and while we ate she made me list all the animals with teeth I knew.
“Is there a shark in the lake?”
“No. Definitely no sharks. Only in the ocean.”
“Are we going to the ocean?”
“It’s a long ways away.”
“Can we go?”
“Sometime.”
“Can I see a shark?”
“In a zoo.”
“Will it eat me?”
“No.”
“You’ll make sure it doesn’t eat me?”
“I’ll make absolutely sure.”
“Can I have more cake?”
Opa came in, opened his mouth to talk to me.
“Want some cake?” Kate asked. Opa looked at her as if startled to find her there. “No thanks, Little Bit.”
“Too bad for you,” she said affably.
“Claire, could you give
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