One Year in Coal Harbor (5 page)

I took a bike ride out Jackson Road. Jackson Road is a good thinking road. There is nothing but treed mountains until you come to Miss Clarice’s farm and B and B. There is a stillness there you don’t find other places. It’s the
quality
of the stillness. It’s like the stillness is thicker and there’s more in it, the way ersatz gravy is just consommé until the cornstarch goes in and then it has what chefs call viscosity. When I am there I can feel my thoughts expand until they feel full of viscosity themselves, so that before I’d even ridden the length of the road, I had a plan.

I biked furiously back to the library and got out a Julia Child cookbook. My mother had some tapes of Julia Child’s old cooking shows and I knew she was considered a gourmet. I ran my finger down the table of contents until I had what I needed and then I headed back to The Girl on the Red Swing.

I came in through the alley kitchen door.

It seemed to me that Miss Bowzer, who is a furious chopper anyway, was chopping with special ferocity.

“I was just visiting Uncle Jack.”

“Feh,” said Miss Bowzer, and chopped even harder.

“His ceiling doesn’t want to stay up,” I said casually, pulling over a stool and chewing on a piece of celery.

“Ha!” said Miss Bowzer.

Apparently this was going to be a day of one-syllable responses.

“He was saying that he’d probably hire a gourmet chef to run his restaurant. Someone who could cook the kind of things you can’t. You know, really hard recipes. Like
boeuf bourguignon
.”

Miss Bowzer stopped chopping. She whirled around.

“He told you I couldn’t make
boeuf bourguignon
?”

She was spluttering. This was excellent.

“Well, he implied it. Or I inferred it. I can never remember the difference,” I said, looking out the window as if the whole thing didn’t concern me in the least. In fact, I do know the difference between
inferred
and
implied
because one of the wonderful things about Miss Connon is that she demands people be precise with their language.

“Oh, really? Well, where does he think I went to cooking school?”

“I don’t think he thinks you did. I think he thinks you just, you know, picked it up.”

“PICKED IT UP?” Miss Bowzer’s eyes were afire and her neck was getting blotches of red. Maybe I’d gone too far.

“You know, like, on the street.”

“ON THE STREET? I’ll have him know I went to the Cordon Bleu in Paris for an entire semester!”

“You did?” I said. I hadn’t known this. I was impressed.

“
Boeuf bourguignon!
He probably doesn’t even know how to spell it.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re right. He’s probably never even tasted it. He probably wouldn’t know a
boeuf bourguignon
if he fell into a pot of it.”

“Feh! Hand me that Dutch oven on the shelf behind you.”

I handed it to her. “Are you making one now?” I asked.

“
Boeuf bourguignon
. I’ll show him!”

“Should I invite him here for dinner?” I asked.

“Feh,” she spluttered.

“I mean as a paying customer.”

“Huh!”

We were back to one syllable.

“Well, I guess I’ll head over there.”

“Don’t bother!” she said, going to the freezer and getting out some beef. “
I’ll
bring it over for him to taste when it’s done. The nerve!”

“Well, do you want some help?” I asked.

“No,” said Miss Bowzer. “Some things I have to do myself, Primrose. Now skedaddle.”

I wondered if I should have mentioned that he’s really shy and out of practice when it comes to women. Or would that have been too obvious?

Later, after my own supper, I went over to Uncle Jack’s to see what the upshot of the
boeuf bourguignon
episode had been. I was hoping that Miss Bowzer had brought it over and they’d ended up having a romantic candlelit dinner for two. But then who would have minded The Girl on the Red Swing? No, no! That would have been even
better
, if
she’d forgotten her restaurant in the passion of the moment
. Even Uncle Jack would have seen that was a
sign
!

Uncle Jack had papers spread over his kitchen table and there were empty TV dinner trays on the counter. He either hadn’t had the
boeuf bourguignon
or she’d only given him a taste. I’m sure if he’d had a whole dinner of it, it would have been filling enough without hauling out the rat chicken.

“Primrose!” he said. “Two visits in one day.”

“Oh, here.” I handed him some of my mom’s cookies. They were the excuse I had come up with for popping in.

“Thanks, I was just wishing I had some dessert. Put them on the counter. I’m sorry but I’m kind of busy.”

“I just thought since you probably were eating TV dinners, nothing special, like nothing gourmet, you’d like some homemade dessert. The TV dinners were your first dinner tonight, right?”

“First dinner? What are you talking about?” He looked up from his papers. He was sharp, which was a major stumbling block to my plans, and his eyes scanned my face, but I was getting wise in the ways of the matchmaker and I just stared back at him innocently. I can make my
pupils dilate. I used to do this in school when I got bored. You just blur your vision. You can actually feel them dilating. It makes you look innocent and doe-eyed.

Uncle Jack’s eyes remained suspiciously on me for a bit and then he said, “Right. Well, I’ve got to work.”

“Okay. For some reason you just smelled kind of like beef when I came in,” I said.

He dropped his pen. “You don’t say. I don’t smell it myself but to assuage your curiosity, I will confess I did have a taste of
boeuf bourguignon
. I’m afraid Miss Bowzer is losing her mind. She came charging over as I was about to leave my restaurant, holding a big casserole dish, piping hot, and yelled at me. ‘Just taste this!
Taste
this, you fool!’ ”

“What did you do?” I asked breathlessly.

“I tasted it. It was good but I see no reason to get hysterical because you have a pot of it.”

“Did you
tell
her it was good?”

“I didn’t get a chance. I said, ‘Is this beef stew?’ and she yelled, ‘STEW? It’s
boeuf bourguignon
, what do you think of
that
!’ like that was supposed to have some kind of significance for me.”

“So what did you say then?” I asked, gripping the chair in the excitement of the moment.

“I said, ‘Ah.’ ”

“Ah? Jeez, you could have done better than
that
, couldn’t you? And what did
she
say?”

“She said, ‘HA!’ ”

“Jeez!” I groaned again before I could stop myself.

“What should I make of such a thing?”

“Never mind. After the ha and ah,
THEN
did you tell her it was good?”

“No, because she said, ‘Well then! Well then! We’ll hear no more about THAT!’ and went charging back to her restaurant. I’m telling you, I think she’s cracking up. Running a whole restaurant by yourself must be quite a strain. We must get her some help.”

“Yeah, yeah. You could have
told
her it was good! Did you ever think of that? If it was.
Was
it good?”

Uncle Jack stopped as if to consider. Then he said, “You know, it
was
good. Very tasty, in fact. But I don’t know why she had to come charging over with some. She’s gotten very defensive since I said that thing about her restaurant.”

“Really?” I said coldly. “How odd.”

“Odd is the word for it. What do you make of the whole business?
The strange affair of the
boeuf bourguignon, as it shall be hereafter known,” he said, and his eyes twinkled for a second and he looked like his old self and not so fraught with worry and paperwork.

“I don’t know,” I said slowly, my gaze dropping to the floor as if I had to think hard about this. “I know she really values your opinion … maybe she needed to make sure the
boeuf
was seasoned right. Or maybe she was hoping you’d taste it and come have dinner at her restaurant
with her. It sounds, you know, like she cooked it
just for you
.” I thought I might have pushed it too far but Uncle Jack picked up his pen and went back to his papers with a distracted air.

“Yeah, I doubt it,” he said. “Now I really have to settle these plans. I don’t want to be rude but …”

“Okay, I’m going. But not all
bourguignons
are about the
boeuf
!” And with that one little clue, I swept out.

None of my adult friends seemed available at the moment, being in mourning or consumed with business ventures and a stalled
affaire de coeur
that manifested itself in fine French cuisine, so I was left with Eleanor Milkmouse, whom I hung out with when there was absolutely nothing else to do. Eleanor was kind of lumpy and shapeless, with black straight hair that partially obscured her face. You wanted to reach up and brush it out of the way for her, especially since some of it always seemed to be stuck to her chapped lips or damp forehead or something indeterminate that had dried on her cheek and was best not pondered. She had a nasal condition, which I know wasn’t her fault, but somehow I couldn’t help feeling she could dry up her nose
occasionally
if she really tried. I once spent ten minutes entertaining the idea of sticking a hair dryer up it. But of course it wouldn’t fit. And she didn’t seem that keen when I mentioned it. There were always partially used Kleenexes hanging from all her pockets. I
don’t think she liked me any more than I liked her but she sometimes asked me over for sleepovers and I could never think of an excuse to say no. One day she confessed listlessly that I was her best friend. At first this filled me with horror, that I actually meant something to her; then I realized being appointed her best friend didn’t bespeak affection but lack of any other option and I relaxed.

There were only a dozen twelve-year-old girls in Coal Harbor and everyone had paired up in kindergarten except for us. We were left with each other or nobody. Out of pride we put on a show of being friends by choice, and when people had to pick a partner in class at least we had one. The teacher never had to lead us by the wrist to each other and join our sweaty palms together. It was really the most dignified option. Eleanor told me once she thought I was strange because I
“thought about things.”
And she kept away from me that whole year my parents had gone missing, as if the condition were contagious. Now that I was hanging out with Eleanor again, I kept thinking maybe we’d find some new common ground. That she couldn’t be as boring as she appeared, she must have unplumbed depths. And she probably did, but it didn’t make me compatible with what was down there. A lot of what was down there was her undying and undeclared love for Spinky Caldwater. She could rattle on endlessly about him and I found it embarrassing but of
course I had to be polite. I wouldn’t have minded if I had something similarly boring to rattle on about on a daily basis; then I could have just sat there patiently waiting for my turn. I wanted to think I would find something to make me really like Eleanor but maybe it’s better to admit that some people you’ll never like and that’s that. I couldn’t decide whether being with her was worse than being alone. Although, being with her was in many ways
just
like being alone. I ached for a best friend whom I actually liked and respected. For one thing, it was difficult to find stuff both Eleanor and I liked to do. She wanted to play paper dolls and I tried to teach her to cook but she was afraid of making mistakes and her mother wouldn’t let her use knives.

“You’re twelve!” I said when she confessed to this. “How do you cut your meat?”

“I can use
steak
knives at the table,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I can’t just, like, you know, chop.”

“Well, why don’t you tell your mother you think you are ready to chop? Maybe she’s waiting for you to make the first move.”

As usual Eleanor had no answer. She never argued. She just got quiet. Complete silence was always her last word on everything.

One day after school we were hanging out at her house. I was trying to think of as many positive things as I could about Eleanor. This was slow going but I had finally come
up with the fact that she had hardly snorted at all that afternoon when we started making cootie catchers and couldn’t find scissors except for kitchen shears and she said she wasn’t allowed to use those either because the tips weren’t rounded.

“I have to go,” I said, and walked right out the door.

I need someone I can talk to, I thought, my feet beating desperately down the pavement toward town. I need someone who can use sharp scissors. I was racing past The Girl on the Red Swing and on impulse burst through the kitchen door.

Miss Bowzer was chopping potatoes with a sharp knife and looking the embodiment of a sane universe.

“I’m never going to have a good friend,” I said, telling her the knife and shears story.

“Sure you are, kid,” she said, not looking at me. We were both still a little embarrassed about the dinner party and I was embarrassed at the failure of my
boeuf bourguignon
plans. “Next time just pick someone who doesn’t blow her nose on my napkins.”