chapter four | beef wellington

Life with Mom didn’t get any easier when she decided to get back into acting, but it also didn’t get any more difficult. It was certainly different and more work, but not difficult. Dad and I were bonding more. I was learning more things about him each day. He was really geeky throughout high school and college. Although, in a phone call to Grandma, she said he was always the one obsessing over the plaque and teeth. Well, that was just a summary. Grandma listed everything and anything related to teeth that was occupied in her vocabulary. Dad’s usual meal was a cup of ramen noodles or a package of instant macaroni and cheese. Sometimes he would splurge and buy himself a box of Frosted Flakes. So, naturally, he didn’t have the opportunity (when he was older) to teach himself how to cook. I didn’t either. The first night of making supper was a bit messy.

“Let’s make spaghetti,” I suggested, pointing to the picture on page thirty-three of Mom’s favorite cookbook. “It seems easy enough.”

“We need to make something impressive,” Dad stated, flipping through the pages for something Thanksgiving-worthy.

“All right. How about beef wellington? Your mom likes beef.”

“Okay, then.”

And then we got to work collecting and combining the ingredients. At the time, I had no idea that Dad lacked cooking skills. I wasn’t even sure if he boiled the water right. I also didn’t know that beef wellington was one of the most difficult dishes to prepare.

“You have to floss them into slices!” Dad commanded cheerfully.

“You’re not supposed to floss your teeth off, Dad. Bad comparison.”

“Don’t talk back to me. Just do it.”

He repeatedly compared cooking to his dental work.

“Brush it with the salt and then brush it with the pepper. It’s simple, Flossy.”

“If it’s so simple, then why don’t you do it?”

He snorted and a guttural sound escaped his throat. “Don’t be so disobedient, Flossy.”

The end result was a tad different from the photo in the cookbook. And by a tad, I mean a lot. The pastry that encased the beef was beginning to look soggy and extremely malleable. If the beef wasn't there, I was absolutely positive that it would cave in.

“We should’ve made spaghetti,” I said regretfully, taking in the mess we made.

The mess wasn’t the flop that we called dinner. A natural disaster looked like it had taken place in our kitchen (and in a way, it sort of did). Pots and pans sat unwashed in the sink, dishes that I didn’t even think we got out. Piles of flour and beef shavings were scattered on the linoleum floor, stuck to almost every counter surface, and there was a mysterious brown stain lingering on the ceiling. Although, in our defense, there was a chance that it made its home before we started cooking.

“We have three options,” Dad started. “We can present this to her to let her know the effort we made. We can whip something up real quick, like mac and cheese. Or we can order something.”

The last option was probably the smartest, and we probably would’ve went with it if Mom hadn’t returned home earlier than planned.

She threw herself through the door, stumbling in like a bumbling bee. She looked like she was in a rush, drunk, or maybe a combination of both. We were both too dazed to react to her intoxicated state.

“Uh…” I started, speechless of her early arrival.

“What are you doing home?” Dad asked, nervousness seeping into his voice like the pastry on our beef wellington.

“Auditions were faster than planned,” she replied, eyebrows creasing. She peered around the room, inspecting the damage we’d done. “Well, well, well. What happened here?”

“We made dinner,” I piped, hoping Dad didn’t have an excuse that would save our butts. Judging from the guilty and troubled expression on his face, he didn’t.

“I didn’t realize that such a task required painting the kitchen in leftovers,” she said coyly, stepping her way around the kitchen.

“We didn’t want them to go to waste?” I offered.

“What were you two trying to make?” A quizzical look appeared on her face. “Meatloaf?”

“Uh, no. Beef wellington…”

She stared blankly at us before letting out a heavy sigh. She threw her arms around the both of us. “You two are ridiculous. I don’t even know how to make that.”

“I guess we’ll be cleaning it up?” Dad deduced meekly.

She beamed and pointed to the closet where all the cleaning supplies was stored. “I knew you were smart.”

“He’s smart,” I said. “He just can’t cook.”

“And neither can you,” she said. “I’ll be giving cooking lessons to you two after the musical is over. That is, if I get a role.”

“You’ll get one,” Dad said confidently. “You’re a great actress.”

She smiled and kissed his cheek. I pretended to vomit. “Nice try, honey. Now clean this mess up.”

She had sidestepped her way out of the kitchen when I called out, “Aren’t you going to try some of it?” Mom looked uncertain and giggled nervously. “We worked really hard.”

“Well, I suppose I could give it a taste. It can’t be too bad.”

It wasn’t as bad as we thought it would be, but it was nowhere near mediocre. It was saturated in salt (I guess I was too happy making it “snow”), and Dad was lying when he thought turning the heat up would only make the beef cook faster. It was near burnt, chewy in the middle, and overall did not any of my taste buds happy. I so wanted, with every fiber of my being, to like it, but that was just not a possibility.

Cleaning up was less brutal. Mom, on the other hand, was barking commands left and right, up and down, and the entire circle. She was acting like a drill sergeant, but wearing an apron. Maybe once every fourth insult she’d send us a word of encouragement. That really didn’t make us go faster. If anything it made us want to smack her with the dirty wet broom. Maybe that was just me, though. Dad seemed to love her no matter how cranky and demanding she was. Except she wasn’t cranky, she was quite pleased with herself.

“Why don’t you help us?” I asked her.

“You guys made the mess. Not me.”

Sometimes she would throw us some tips. “Don’t go against the grain” or “go against the grain” were some of my personal favorite contradictions. I asked her where I could find the grain on the smooth marble, and she simply yelled, “Don’t sass me, Flossy.” Like father, like mother. Or would it be “like lover, like lover?”

We ended up going to a Chinese buffet. Cooking and cleaning was hard work. Granted we did a lot of cooking and cleaning, but you’d think it’d be a lot less energy consuming looking at someone else do it. The key words there are someone else. Or maybe I just needed to work out more. I refused to believe that the latter was true. Call it denial, but I didn’t care. My parents weren’t doctors. Unless there was such a thing as a tooth doctor. Sometimes my mother liked to claim that she was a love doctor, but she hasn’t made any lasting relationships. The longest couple she paired up lasted for about three months. She was quite pleased with herself and celebrated.

We saw Eunice when we went out to eat. Of course.

“Flossy!” Eunice screeched when she saw us coming into the restaurant. She waved her arms violently in the air. “Over here!” She patted the seat next to her, then proceeded to rub it suggestively.

My eyes widened. My parents were used to her shenanigans, but the waitress that was serving the table next to hers was not. Her arms flung around, inevitably knocking down the tray of drinks onto the people in the booth over.

Once she had realized what she had done, she was on her knees dabbing the carpet with napkins. A crazed look occupied her hazel eyes, desperately wanting the liquid to evaporate. I wished her the sun. She wouldn’t get it, but at least I had made the effort. She’d appreciate that. Maybe. Probably not, though. She’d chew me out, demanding that I should’ve came to her rescue.

“The least you could’ve done was throw napkins at me,” Eunice said, eyeing me moodily. “But you couldn’t even do that.”

“Just stop and eat your chow mein,” I said.

I let have my parents have a date night after Eunice insisted that I join her and her lovely date for the evening. He looked like a terrified cat huddling in the corner between the back of the booth and the half wall. I think his name was Jarret or Garret. All I remembered was that it sounded something like carrot.

I smiled awkwardly at Carrot. I was intruding on his first, last, and only date with Eunice, and I had no choice. If he decided to stick around after this unusual and uncomfortable experience, he was a keeper. But I doubted he would. They never did. He half smiled back. It was weak, sad, and a pathetic attempt and being nice. I just wanted to set him loose out the door, but I knew I’d never hear the end of it from Eunice if I did.

At the end of the night, I introduced myself to him. It was pointless, but it was bothering me to not know his name. I didn’t want to take the risk in asking Eunice because there was a possibility that she didn’t know either. She went out too much to even bother learning their names anymore.

His name wasn’t Garrett, and it wasn’t Jarrett.

It was Carroll.

---

“Hey, Alfie,” Fran called from her porch. She was leaning against the rail. He observed that the paint was starting to peel off. The wooden underbelly was beginning to show. Fran was wrapped in an American flag towel, trembling a bit.

Alfie looked up. “What?”
“My cousin’s coming down for a visit. She’s from up north.”

“Where?”

“Aw, you’ve probably never heard of it. Catalonia?”

Alfie shook his head. “I’ve heard of it, Fran. Anyone who hasn’t heard of it has been under a rock for their entire life.”

Fran shrugged. “I didn’t know. Want to know how swim went?”

Alfie didn’t have anything else to do, so he agreed. “I don’t see why not.”

Fran smiled toothily, and she was no longer shivering. She laid the towel down on the railing and then sat on it. She was getting into storytelling mood, which wasn’t a good sign for Alfie. He was on his way to buy his daily snack from Marty’s Candy Emporium. Sometimes he would buy enough for two days, other days a week. It depended on how lazy he thought he would be throughout the week. During the winter, he bought supplies for two weeks. It was too cold to be walking each day, even though it was only twenty minutes away.

“It was really fun,” Fran began. “There were a lot of people from school enrolled. Do you know Susan Coleman?”

That was a stupid question. Of course Alfie knew Susan Coleman. There were only approximately a hundred people in his grade, and no one moved into or out of Pinto. They all grew up with each other (some more than others).

Alfie actually had a bit of a thing for Susan Coleman in the third grade. He thought her ringlets were prettier than the stripes on a candy cane--and that was saying something because he thought whoever designed it was an artistic genius. Susan grew older and when middle school came around, she began to follow trends like straightening her hair and wearing deodorant. Alfie should’ve worn deodorant, but it seemed like such a waste because he didn’t sweat.

Up until the seventh grade, Susan wore a black-eyed susan in her hair everyday because her mom thought it was clever. Mrs. Coleman was a gardener who over-gardened. She would give some to everybody in town once there were too many to fit in her vases. In fact, some of her daffodils were sitting on the kitchen table at the very moment. While Mrs. Coleman was very sweet and the xerox of young Susan, Susan was completely different now, the polar opposite almost. She had dyed her hair a platinum blonde and straightened it every day and had tattoos on every inch of her body, and where there weren’t tattoos, there were piercings. Needless to say, the Susan today was very different than the one Alfie was deeply infatuated with.

Alfie nodded. “Yup. I know her.”

“She’s in there. Margaret Wells, Christina Anderson, and Betty Oliver are also there. Oh! And how could I forget Pamela Reeves?”

I don’t know how, Alfie thought humorously to himself.

“Our teacher, Ms. Gittleman, wanted to check to see if we could swim. We had to swim a couple of laps to prove to her. Once she was satisfied, she took us out of the water and we started learning how to dance.”

“So it’s like a swim and a dance class rolled up into one?”

“In a way, yes.”

“Why did you come home shivering?”

“I wanted to swim a little while longer. It’s not a crime, Alfie.”

“I didn’t so it was,” he answered curtly. “I should go. I wouldn’t want to keep Marty waiting.”

“See you, Alf.”

“Bye, Fran.”

Alfie made his way down to Marty’s Candy Emporium. Each step he took, the more drool was building up. He pictured the savory treats that he had built his life around. He had sacrificed being with his parents and being more cultural for another kind of happiness. It was much of a sacrifice, though. He didn't care about being culturally diverse. Candy made him happy, and he felt that that was all that mattered. His mom would agree. Maybe his Dad. But then again, they were a stickler for looks. Alfie, not so much.

The moment the door opened, even just a crack, the sweet aroma hit him like the clatter of a dead body in the horror movies Uncle Bobby and Aunt Lorraine liked to watch on Hallow's Eve. The sensation never grew old as it startlingly blinded him into a dizzy trance. Alfie loved every nanosecond of it.

As always, he was greeted by hearty Marty. He was always in a good mood, but if Alfie worked at a candy store he'd be in a good mood too. In fact, just coming here made Alfie as happy as could be. He wouldn't mind working if he was surrounded by goodness. It'd be a challenge because he'd spend his entire paycheck on the store. He might as well work for the candy and not the money. But he didn't work here, so that was all trivial.

"Well, look who we have here. My favorite customer!” Marty welcomed. There was no one in the candy store this early in the morning, so he was allowed to say it. I think he was afraid he’d lose business if he said it if there was anyone else in the room.

“Hi, Marty!” Alfie said delightedly. Marty was one of the few people Alfie looked forward to seeing. The others were just “eh” or he could’ve gone his entire life without looking at their faces.

“What can I interest you in today?” Ah, Marty. The ever so polite yet savvy businessman. Or perhaps Alfie was just biased and easily sold when it came to anything that had more than one hundred calories per serving.

Alfie marveled at the delicacies that surrounded him. It send a tingling thrill up his spine, a feeling he would always treasure. He wished he could buy Marty’s entire inventory, but alas, that was not possible. Not only would that cost him a pretty penny (“it wasn’t like the old days,” Uncle Bobby would say when Alfie told him how much he’d spent), but he’d need a wagon that was able to carry the capacity of both Uncle Bobby and a very pregnant Aunt Lorraine.

He bought the peppermint squares and the chocolate dots yesterday (he was in a geometric mood), so he would go for something less contemporary and more traditional. He had cravings for something colorful today.

“Marty, my good man, I’ll take a quart-sized bag of gumdrops, three gobstoppers--can I have the red one in the corner?--and twelve lollipops, please.”

“Great choices, great choices,” Marty chanted enthusiastically. “Will that be all?”

Alfie bit his lip. He knew that he should start saving for the new baby’s welcome home present, but he thought to himself, I can splurge just a little bit, can’t I?

Alfie nodded slowly. “I’ll take one Baby Bottle Pop, please.” It related to a baby. His new cousin would accept that.

“Would you like to pick them all out yourself or would you like to randomize it?”

Alfie smiled. “Randomize it, please.”

He trusted Marty’s judgement in candy flavors. After all, he had been in the business for quite a while. His father’s name was Marty, and it was his business before he passed it down. Yup. Marty was well educated in the confectionary business.

“Here you are,” Marty said, handing Alfie a plastic bag filled with smaller plastic bags.

Alfie grabbed it quickly. “Thank you, Marty,” he almost-giggled joyfully, pushing the glass door open.

“No problem. Thank you.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“Yup. See you tomorrow, Alfie.”

Alfie walked briskly down the sidewalk, urgently shoving as many gumdrops into his mouth as fast as humanly possible. It was a good day, Alfie decided. There were fluffy culumlous clouds--his favorite--floating around in the sky. The sun was shining, yet it wasn’t too hot or too cold. There was enough breeze to lightly rustle the leaves, but it wasn’t strong enough to significantly impact Alfie’s comfort. Happiness in hand, he huaghtily marched straight home.