Getting Somewhere (9 page)

The sound of the front door screen slamming catapults Cassie up from her chair, and then Donna is racing through the house, talking before she even appears in the kitchen doorway.

“Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry I'm late. Sarah and I got talking . . . I really apologize. I hope you didn't think I forgot about you. I just lost track of the time—”

Donna is gasping a little. Cassie can tell she really is sorry, wishes Donna's lateness didn't bother Donna so much since it doesn't really bother Cassie at all. In fact, she's not really used to guiding her day by the clock, has never paid that much attention to time, though Gordon often showed up for dinner at six o'clock sharp. That's what he called it. Sharp. Cassie still thinks that's a strange way to refer to time but imagines it must be something people say since she's sure Gordon didn't think of it. Donna is still looking at her with kind of a pathetic smile, so Cassie tries to think of something soothing or reassuring to say but comes up blank. She simply says, “That's okay.”

Donna is looking at her a little strangely, and it occurs to Cassie that maybe it's her clothes. She knows they have begun to look even more ridiculous than they did at first, like someone thought he was dressing a chubby straw-filled scarecrow and it has turned out to be just a broomstick. Cassie has considered more than once asking if there might be access to a sewing machine or even just needle and thread so she could try to make them fit better. She has the fleeting thought that maybe Donna feels sorry for her, cringes a little at the idea, and decides to concentrate on whatever they are going to do here and try to do it well. Donna has sat down at the table and reaches toward Cassie, gently laying her hand on Cassie's wrist for just a second to draw her down beside her. Cassie sits and Donna pushes a cookbook into the space between them.

“I'm thinking chocolate cake. How does that sound?”

“Good.” Cassie nods.

“This is a recipe I've always liked. You can substitute whole wheat flour and honey for some of the white flour and sugar, and it still turns out really good.”

“Okay.”

“Have you baked a cake from scratch before?”

“Oh yes.”

“Good. Then I'll start getting the ingredients, since I know where everything is that we need, and you can start sifting the flour. Is that okay?”

“Yes.” Cassie hates that she can never think of anything much to say in response. She is so unused to sharing conversation with other people except to chatter at Gram who, for the last couple of years, probably didn't even know what Cassie was saying. She wonders if people just say whatever comes into their heads or if they run through the way it's going to sound first and, if they do that, how they do it so fast. She decides to try out the former since it's the only way she can imagine it working. She is concentrating on the idea of it so hard that she can't even think what subject she might want to talk about. Then it dawns on her that maybe the way she talked to Gram is really just the same as how everybody else does it. They just get an answer.

“Gram liked yellow cake.”

“Oh, would you rather we made that?”

“No. I . . . I was just thinking of that.”

“So, you did a lot of cooking, huh?”

“Yes.” Cassie pauses, grasps for something more to say about cooking. “I did all of it after Gram got too sick.”

Donna looks surprised and stops riffling in the utensil drawer for a moment to pay attention, asks, “How old were you when that happened?”

Donna's sudden focus has rattled Cassie. “Um, I'm not sure. I just got tired of peanut butter. I suppose I was about ten when I first tried to fix something. It was meatloaf.”

Donna smiles. “Why did you choose that?”

Cassie is trying to remember. She hasn't thought about this in a long time, maybe ever. She remembers the food but not the
why
. She is sure now it was mostly because of Gordon. He complained, said she had to figure out how she was going to pull her weight or he'd have to find someplace else for her to go. At first, he even blamed her for Gram, said Cassie was doing a bad job caring for her. She was terrified. She thought if she had food ready when he came, it would make him want her to stay. Six o'clock sharp. Of course, that wasn't enough and very shortly after that, he come up with his own idea for
why
he wanted her to stay.

“Cassie?”

“Oh. Meatloaf. Um, I guess because I thought . . . I thought my uncle Gordon would like it.”

“I see. Did he?”

Cassie shakes her head, smiles sadly. “I don't know. He never said much about the food.”

“Well, what do
you
like best?”

“Um, everything. I mean, everything you make.”

Donna laughs. “I wasn't fishing for compliments. I wondered what's
your
favorite food?”

“Oh. Maybe chocolate cake?”

Donna laughs again. “Well, then I guess we're on the right track.”

Cassie isn't sure what Donna means by fishing or trains, but she thinks the conversation is going well.

T
HE BACK DOOR
opens and Grace is stepping in, has stopped on the little rug they've placed there for pulling off their boots without tracking in. She stands for a moment watching Donna wipe the last remnants of cake batter into the pan with a rubber spatula. Cassie is mixing confectionary sugar with cocoa powder, softened butter sitting on the table beside her ready to be added for the icing.

“Hey,” Grace says, still glued to her little rug, not wanting to remove her shoes to come in any farther. “Did you find that tiller manual or figure out what might be causing the noise? I'm going to town, and I thought I could buy parts or oil or whatever you think it is.”

Donna is spreading the batter evenly over the pan, her back to Grace. “Did you check the parts number on the gearbox? I remember that there was more than one possibility for this tiller. I can't figure out which parts you need until I know that.”

Grace curses under her breath, clearly impatient with the idea of going back out to find the parts number. Cassie knows Grace has been working in this direction all day, guiding her activities, and theirs, so she could get the parts before the tractor dealership closes today and be ready to start on repairs first thing in the morning. She mentioned it more than once back in the tomato field, seeming intent on keeping everything moving to prevent her plans from becoming sidetracked. She had said that the next planting of the greens that are the farm's mainstay will be delayed, a result she was clearly unhappy about, if she couldn't get the tiller back in action quickly.

“Well, do you at least have the manual in here? I could take it out with me, or maybe just take it to Mike and he can help me figure it out.”

The tone of the words is stinging, and Cassie sees Donna's jaw go tight, hears the jarring clatter of the pan as it hits the table just a little too hard, a plop of batter climbing the side and curling back in. Cassie hates that kind of voice and wonders if Donna does, too. Grace is waving her hand as if to try to erase her sharpness, but when she speaks again, her words sound almost whiney to Cassie, limply imitating the apology she claims to intend.

“I'm sorry, Donna, but it's just a priority issue. You're baking a cake, and I've been waiting on this for two days.”

Cassie moves as quickly as she can, scurries over to the sink and washes the sticky icing off her hands, barely wipes them on the handtowel and is back across the room, pulling a tattered booklet with a faded orange cover from the narrow space between the napkin holder and the wall where everything on the table has been pushed by their cooking activities.

Her voice is almost a whisper as she hands the book to Grace. “ST 47.”

Grace takes the book, frowns at Cassie curiously. “What?”

Cassie's hand goes directly to the end of the ponytail hanging over her shoulder, her jerky movements twirling it in nervous knots around her fingers. “It's written in section six dash eleven. It says your gearbox is model number ST 47.”
She gestures toward the book, her pleading eyes urging Grace to check the information.

Now Donna has turned and is watching them. Grace looks toward her, and Donna shrugs, cocks her head, raises her eyebrows. Grace still holds the manual in her hand but doesn't open it. “What else did it say?”

Cassie looks to Donna for a moment, swallows uncomfortably, tries to imagine how she's going to get the words out of her mouth even though she remembers them clearly. She closes her eyes so she won't have to see Grace's face frowning at her and pretends to read the words as if they are streaming across the inside of her eyelids.

“Um, it said that a squeak could be a worn universal joint, or it might mean the lift stop needs to be adjusted if it's happening when the tiller is idle and lifted, or it could just be low oil in either the central drive unit or the side pan, and both of them take 90 EP gear oil.”

Cassie thinks she might just sink into the floor. She opens her eyes but keeps them lowered to avoid Grace's expression. She doesn't know if Grace will be mad that she read the manual or think she is just trying to be a smart aleck—that's what Gordon always called her when she told him about things she read until she finally stopped telling him at all. When Cassie dares a glimpse, Grace is still just staring down at the manual, hasn't opened it, though it appears to hold some mysterious interest for her. Suddenly, Donna is right beside Cassie and has reached out to take the manual out of Grace's hand as if to wake her from a reverie.

“Wow, did you remember all that just from skimming the manual when you were waiting for me?” Donna asks.

Cassie nods, shrugs, and turns back toward the table to finish the icing. Grace is still standing just inside the door, both tongue-tied and paralyzed, until she seems to come to and shakes her head a little. “So, I guess I could try the oil and adjusting the lift stop and maybe check for any visible wear on the universal joint. Does that sound about right?”

Cassie smiles a little, looks down, nods her head.

“I guess I'll get right on that,” Grace says, with only a trace of sarcasm in her voice. She looks at Donna but gets no further response, shakes her head some more, and turns abruptly to leave, letting the door slam behind her.

When Cassie looks up at her questioningly, Donna appears stern and speaks as if she wants to be sure Cassie is paying attention. “Cassie.”

“Yes?”

“You're going to make us wonder how we ever got along without you.”

I
T'S ALL UNBEARABLE,
every single minute of it. The garden, god, how Lauren hates the garden. And the group sessions, stupid Ellie thinking she's god's gift to the world. But these meals have got to be the worst. All the forced cheer, all the . . . togetherness. And the women acting like no one has ever eaten before, like they actually invented vegetables or something. Maybe Lauren could just refuse to show up, refuse to eat. If she starved herself, they'd have to take her to the hospital and then at least she wouldn't be here any more. The idea is mildly attractive, and Lauren promises herself to give it a bit more thought.

If she sees a jar of peanut butter on the table one more time, she is going to scream. What is it with them and peanut butter? Donna keeps saying, “If you don't like that, Lauren, you're welcome to have some peanut butter.” Isn't this some kind of abuse Lauren could use against them?

Nobody gets it. Lauren doesn't belong here. She tried to tell that Tracy Hughes again when she was here, but that woman is the worst of all.

She had told Lauren, “Honey, you got it all mixed up, what you're entitled to and what you deserve. Nobody is entitled to what you think everybody owes you, and
this
is exactly what you deserve.” Lauren has no idea what the hell the woman was talking about, but she knows it wasn't meant to be nice. Aren't they supposed to be nice to her? Aren't they supposed to treat her with some kind of respect?