Charlotte Cuts It Out (17 page)

“Okay,” she says, but she does the same back-and-forth crap with the next customer. Now I know how Ms. Garrett feels when she has to repeat everything a thousand times.

“Stop! Watch me.” I help the next few customers so she can see what I mean. Then I say, “Got that?” She nods. “Good.” I smile as I say it—positive reinforcement.

A few minutes later, Hannah uses the same spoon for both the chicken salad and the macaroni salad. I intercept the container of macaroni salad before she gives it to the customer, telling the woman we're going to use a fresher batch. Thank God, she doesn't balk.

I take Hannah into the back, along with the bowl of macaroni salad from the case, and toss the container in the garbage. “Now dump out the rest of the macaroni, wash the bowl, and refill it,” I tell her. “It's contaminated. And redo this order without crossing spoons.” I start to tell her how to sanitize the bowl, but it'll take less time to just do it myself. “Never mind. I've got it.”

“It's not like it matters,” she says in a monotone. “They're both made with the same mayo.”

Her tone and attitude make me want to slap her. “It's not about the mayo. It's about walnuts. There are walnuts in the chicken salad. How do you know that whoever eats that macaroni isn't allergic?”

She looks suitably mortified. “Whoa! I didn't think about
that.” Then she winces. “I'm sorry. I was up all night, and my brain is a little mushy.”

It's not my problem that she was partying all night. “We owe it to our customers to give them what they order without any added bacteria or allergens. We want repeat business, and they won't be back if they're in anaphylactic shock!” Didn't anyone train her? “Next time, pay closer attention.”

When I get back to the counter, Katie is missing. “Where'd she go?” I ask no one in particular. The waiting customer shrugs. I apologize and help him.

Hannah reappears with the macaroni, and we settle into a rhythm. I keep an eye on her. After a while, I page Katie, but Tammy shows up instead. She whispers, “She's in the bathroom crying.”

I sigh. “Why?”

“I thought you'd know. When Barb tried talking to her, the only words she could make out between sobs were
Charlotte, turkey,
and
head chopped off.
”

“Oh my lanta! I was just trying to help her be more efficient.”

“Did you threaten her?” she says.

Before I can say anything, Hannah comes over with a refilled container of cranberry sauce. “Yes, she did,” she answers with a snide grin. “And if the cops need a witness, I'm available.”

Tammy laughs and pats Hannah's arm. “I knew you'd fit in here.”

Fit in?
Is she serious? This girl doesn't even know the basics—about deli, or hair.

“So what
did
happen?” Tammy asks.

Hannah's rendition makes me out to be an overbearing bitch. I try to explain and interject some truth into the story, but she keeps cutting me off. Tammy appears to be buying it. I can't believe it. She's known me a long time.

Hannah asks if Katie is all right, and Tammy says she is, but that she went home. Home? Seriously? I'd hate to see how she'd react if I really had yelled at her.

By the time Tammy turns to go back to the registers, it hits me. I call after her, “Wait! There's a pool, isn't there?”

Tammy hurries away as if she didn't hear me, but I know damn well she did. Soon I see her slip some cash to Ralph over by the sweet potatoes. “I can see you!” I yell, attracting stares from everyone shopping in produce and the deli/bakery.

I don't have time to hassle them because we get busy again, but I glare at Ralph whenever we make eye contact. He's not afraid. Why should he be? I'm really not as mad as I'm pretending; I just wish I could've gotten in on the action. I wonder what the bet was. How many minutes it takes Tammy to get the story of what happened? How many times Katie posts on social media when she should be working? I can't wait to find out.

15 days to the Winter Style Showcase

I wake up Thanksgiving morning to the smell of roasting turkey, cinnamon, and simmering cranberries. Mom's been up and cooking since the butt-crack of dawn. Part of me feels kind of guilty that I'm not down there helping her, but she didn't ask. I stretch luxuriously in bed. No school, no work—Thanksgiving is one of the few days I can sleep in and take my time with my hair and makeup.

By the time I come downstairs, Dad, Pops, Oliver, and Nina are drinking coffee and watching the parade on TV. Nina's wearing a sweater that's clearly stretched beyond its limit—I can't imagine what her skin looks like. And she still has a whole month to go!

I'm about to join them when Mom appears from the kitchen, stepping over Buffy, who is sprawled out across the doorway. “Charlotte, I need your help.” Cooking! Just what I was afraid of. She takes off her apron, tosses it onto the kitchen table, and stands in front of Dad, blocking his view of the TV. “Moose,” she says, and he's forced to look at her. “When the timer rings, pull the pie out of the top oven,
please. Mother will be here soon, so I need to get ready.”

“Gotcha,” says my dad. But as soon as she steps away, he's glued to the TV again.

I wait for my orders. Mom motions for me to follow her—upstairs, away from the kitchen. No cooking—excellent!

A print blouse and dark brown pants are hanging on the outside of Mom's bedroom closet. Every time Grandmother visits, I serve as Mom's fashion consultant. “Which would look better—this, or this?” She takes out a chocolate-brown-and-cream sweater dress. Then she pulls out a striped corduroy jumper . . . thing. “Or this?”

“Put that away and don't
ever
get it out again. Unless it's going to Goodwill.” I pick up the sweater dress. “This. You need leggings with it, though. What colors do you have?”

“Black, and black.”

I shake my head. You can't mix black and brown without something to tie them together. When I return with my brown leggings, she's in the dress, but she's tying this hideous scarf around her neck. It has cornucopias on it! I stop her mid-tie and take it away. “If you wear that, I'm getting emancipated.”

She laughs. “Fair point. But you know she'll say something if I don't.”

“So what?” I counter. “Even she knows it's ugly. Remember when she gave it to you? She said she won it at a charity auction, and that if you didn't like it, maybe
one of those girls at the store
would appreciate it.”

Mom winces; we all do when Grandmother talks about
the people at Pringle's. It's as if they're the staff of Downton Abbey, and we're the Crawleys.

Store legend—that is to say, Tammy, who's been at Pringle's since Dad was in high school—has it that Mom used to be almost as bad. She had no idea how things worked, but since she'd just gotten married to the boss's son, she tried to take charge. Needless to say, it was a disaster. One day, during a rush, Tammy couldn't take it anymore. She quit and walked out, leaving Mom with a line of customers and no backup cashiers. After she learned how to run the registers—and yes, the customers were
super
pissed—she quickly developed a new appreciation for the Pringle's staff.

She apologized to Tammy and begged her to come back. Now the two of them are dear friends.

“Charlotte, promise me you'll make an effort to get along with Oliver and Nina today. I really don't want another lecture from your grandmother.”

“I'll see what I can do,” I say lightly, as I rummage through her jewelry.

She starts pulling up the leggings. “Man, these are tight. What size are they?”

“They're medium.”

“Medium?” She stops. “I can't wear medium.”

“They're stretchy. Keep pulling.” I slip a long chain with an owl pendant around her neck, and step back. “Perfect. And pick up some brown leggings next time you're at Keehn's. I'll never understand how you can buy a dress without getting all the accessories at the same time.”

Mom tugs and wiggles and hops up and down. “There's something else I need to tell you.”

Uh-oh. I brace myself.

“Nina invited someone to dinner,” she continues.

That's it? That's normal; we always have a few extra people. Ralph has been at every Thanksgiving dinner as long as I can remember. No Pringle's friend or employee is allowed to dine alone the fourth Thursday in November. Ever.

But wait a minute. “Who?” I ask.

Mom finally gets the leggings all the way up, and adjusts the dress. She's stalling.

“Mom, who did she invite?”

She looks in the closet for a pair of boots.

“Your brown ankle boots,” I tell her. “Who is it?”

“Hannah,” she says into the closet.

Before I can react, the doorbell rings. Mom shoves her feet into the boots and runs downstairs like the house is on fire. Then I hear the smoke alarm.

It
is
on fire!

I take the stairs two at a time.

It's chaos. As Buffy circles the table and barks, Mom pulls a charred, smoking pumpkin pie from the oven, but I think she's emitting more smoke than the pie is. “Moose! You were supposed to
take the pie out
.” She glares at him, keeping her voice down; Nina and Oliver and our guests are right there in the entryway. If we can hear Grandmother quizzing Nina about her due date, the baby's gender, and name possibilities, then they can probably hear us, too.

I let Buffy out and hold the door open to let some of the smoke clear.

“Stop, drop, and roll.” Pops twists the cap off a bottle of beer and takes a swig.

“I never heard the timer go off.” Dad fans the smoke detector with a pot holder. “I swear.”

“
I
swear—” Mom starts.

“Kimberly!” Grandmother says from the kitchen doorway. Her level nine ash blonde hair is in her signature angled bob with a stacked back. She's also impeccably dressed—stylish brown pants, a cream cashmere sweater, and just the right amount of bling around her neck. You'd never know she was almost seventy.

In a split second, Mom composes herself, puts the pie down, turns, and gives her a hug and kiss. “What's that smell?” asks Grandmother.

Before Mom can reply, Dad cuts in. “It isn't a Pringle Thanksgiving without at least one disaster.” He grins and opens the window over the sink.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Mother!” Mom says with effort. “Where's Mr. Vanderpool?” Mr. Vanderpool has been married to Grandmother for over thirty years. We don't call him “Grandfather.” Mom doesn't call him “Father.” We all call him “Mr. Vanderpool.” Grandmother's rules.

I let Buffy back in and close the door. She makes a beeline for Grandmother and starts sniffing and nosing her hand for affection.

“Oh, he's in the foyer speaking to that man who handles the produce at your market.”
That man?
She
knows
his name is Ralph; she's only had Thanksgiving dinner with him for the past ten years. “Kimberly, dear, you look marvelous! How do you do it all?” All the while, she's pulling her hand away from the dog and cringing.

Mom smiles and puts her arm around my shoulders, then grabs Dad's forearm. I see her nails digging in, but he doesn't flinch. “I have a lot of help, Mother.”

“Can I offer you a cocktail, Grandmother?” I say dutifully and guide her to the living room, so Mom can regain control of the kitchen.

“What time is it?” she asks.

“Almost noon.”

“Perfect! How about a gin and tonic?”

Dad scoots past me. “I'm on it.”

Pops, Ralph, and Mr. Vanderpool are on the couch with beers, chatting it up, when the doorbell rings again. Buffy barks, but stays in the kitchen. Nina answers it and hugs Hannah, who is carrying an infant seat with a blanket over it. A baby? Hannah's a mom?

She pulls the blanket away and there he is—a sweet, sleeping little bald guy in an orange onesie with a turkey on it. He's really cute all scrunched up in there. Hannah, on the other hand, is a hot mess. No makeup, baggy jeans and a faded long-sleeved tee, box-dyed hair in a ponytail. Her roots are coming in.

“Oh! What's his name! How old is he? Can I hold him?” Nina moves in to take him like Hannah has brought her a present.

“No!” Hannah snaps. Nina steps back in shock. About time she realized that the girl's a bitch. “Um, I mean,” Hannah backpedals, “the longer Caden stays asleep, the better. Trust me.”

Nina recovers and asks Hannah what she'd like to drink. When she waddles into the kitchen to get a Sprite, Hannah and I look at each other.

“I told Nina you wouldn't want me here, but she insisted,” she says.

“Of course she did. It's Thanksgiving.” I go into the kitchen and let Mom order me around. I set the table and get out serving bowls and spoons while she finishes the gravy. Oliver fills the bowls and places them in the warming drawer.

Mom will not let the burnt pie go. She talks about the smoke smell and wonders aloud if we'll have enough dessert for everyone and complains how nobody ever listens to her. Dad says he'll go get another pie. “Having access to a closed grocery store is the best perk of owning it,” he says, and escapes out the back door.

Less than an hour later, all of us, including the baby, who is still asleep in his car seat, are sitting around the table. Mr. Vanderpool says the world's longest blessing. He not only thanks God for our food and the friends and family with whom we share it, but then launches into a litany of all our country has to be thankful for, which is a weird
mash-up of the Bill of Rights and random Facebook memes.

Then Caden starts fussing. Hannah tenses, her head still bowed, clearly unsure if it's appropriate to disrupt the blessing by getting up. When Mr. Vanderpool finally says “Amen,” there is almost an audible sigh of relief. (I'd lay bets on Ralph.)

Hannah plucks the baby from his seat. He looks around the table at all the strange faces, opens his mouth, and proceeds to wail at the top of his lungs. Not just crying—stiff-bodied, red-faced, eyes-tight screaming. We all wait for him to calm down before filling our plates, but that doesn't happen. She paces and jostles and jiggles and pats and coos, but the baby just gets louder and louder. Buffy anxiously follows her. Pops takes her out as the rest of the table quietly serve themselves and pass the dishes, bowls, and platters around.

“I'm sorry.” Hannah looks as if she's going to cry, too. “He gets like this a lot. The doctor says it's colic, but nothing I try seems to work. We should go.”

Mom stands. “Don't be ridiculous.” She holds out her arms for Caden. Hannah balks, but Mom insists. “Charlotte was colicky. I'll take him in the other room and rock him. You should get some time off. Sit, please. Relax. Enjoy.” Hannah obeys, and Mom disappears, but we can still hear Caden's muffled screams. Hannah keeps glancing toward the closed door.

“Boy, was Charlotte a screamer!” Pops recalls as he sits down at the table, takes the green beans from Dad, and spoons
some onto his plate. “That's what destroyed my hearing.”

“That, and too many rock concerts in the sixties,” says Ralph, with his mouth full of stuffing. Grandmother looks aghast. She might be appalled by his bad manners, but I'm appalled that they're bashing my infant self in front of me.

“Charlotte was colicky?” Nina pats her belly. “Is that hereditary?”

“It wasn't colic.” Dad rests his elbows on the table. “Even back then, she was vocal when something wasn't done her way.”

Hannah chokes on her pop and coughs. Oliver cracks up.

Thanks, Dad!

“So when did she stop?” Nina asks.

“She hasn't,” Ralph answers. Everyone, even Grandmother, laughs. Since when did this become Bash Charlotte Day? “No, seriously. I won the pool and everything.”

I put down my fork. “What pool?” My voice is ice.