Diane Davidson - Killer Pancake

I glanced up and down the street, looking for the pickup truck that had been blocking our driveway the evening before. The pickups along the curb all looked alike. I found this to be true even when they were zooming past me down the highway. In Colorado, the only difference I could distinguish between moving pickup trucks was how many dogs were trying to keep their balance in the back of each one.

Arch trudged home at nine and headed straight for bed. At one A.M. I set the alarm for six and fell between the sheets. Poor Tom, I thought as I drifted off. Such a long workday. A sudden blast of noise brought me to full consciousness. I sprang out of bed and irrationally checked the closet. Tom’s bulletproof vest was still there. I crossed to the window. A flash of lightning and rumble of thunder heralded another nighttime storm. That would account for the noise. I fell back into bed and wondered how long it would take to get used to being married to a policeman.

I listened to rain pelt the roof and wished I could fall asleep. Tom came in later, finally, and nestled comfortably beside me. The nights are too short, I was foggily aware of thinking as sleep finally claimed me. And the days are too long.

I awoke in a sudden sweat. The bedroom was flooded with light. The radio alarm had not blared some forgettably peppy tune, because the doggone power was out again. This time Tom had departed without my realizing it. His terse note on the mirror read: No news on investigation. We’re checking Hotchkiss. I called SW hospital. Glad Marla’s recovering . T. I wondered if he’d had a nice chat with Dr. Lyle Gordon.

I buttoned myself into my chef’s jacket, zipped up a black skirt, and checked on a still-sleeping Arch. After a frantic search I located my watch and dully realized that I had less than forty minutes to put together the ribs and other goodies for the food fair. If I was not set up down at the mall by nine-forty, I would miss the county health inspector’s visit to my booth and risk being expelled from the whole event And then what would I do with three hundred individual portions of ribs, salad, bread, and cookies? Not something I wanted to think about.

On so little sleep, facing such hurried preparation without the ability to brew a caffeinated drink was truly the punishment of the damned. When I scurried into the kitchen, Julian was chopping fervently for the Chamber of Commerce brunch. Neat piles of raisins, grated gingerroot, and plump slices of nectarine indicated he was starting with the chutney. His hair was wet from his shower and he was wearing pristine black pants, a white shirt, and a freshly bleached and ironed apron. But his happy expression of two mornings before was gone. Grieving took different forms, and I trusted Julian to tell us if he needed help. On the other hand, the kid could be as stubborn as a mountain goat.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to cook without power,” he announced ferociously as he whacked the spice cabinet open. “I called Public Service, and they said it would be at least an hour before electricity was restored. What is the matter with these people?”

His anger dissolved my resolution not to pry. “Tell me how you’re doing,” I said.

He faced me, clenching two glass spice jars. His skin was gray, his eyes bloodshot. He had cut himself shaving and a corner of tissue stuck to his cheekbone. “How do you think I’m doing?”

I said nothing.

He turned away. “I’m sorry. I know you care. I just … don’t want to talk about what happened day before yesterday.” He measured out cinnamon and added in a low voice, “I’m not ready.”

“Look, Julian, I don’t know if it’s such a good idea for you to be doing this brunch today. Why don’t you let me call somebody in to help? Maybe one of your classmates from Elk Park Prep could come over. It’s just not that big a deal to get a temporary server.”

“No, no,” he said angrily as he measured ground cloves. “I’ve got the whole day mapped out. All I need is some fucking electricity.”

“It’ll come back on just when I’m leaving,” I told him as I opened the refrigerator. “It’s called Murphy’s Law of Food Preparation.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, nothing.” I got out the covered containers of ribs, salad, bread, and cookies. The walk-in refrigerator would stay cold for several hours if the door was not opened too often. Lucky for me the organizers of the fair were providing butane burners and grills for heating food. I couldn’t imagine serving—much less eating—cold barbecued ribs at ten o’clock in the morning.

Julian set aside the spices and began to dice the onion. “Coronary Care Unit visiting hours are the first ten minutes of every hour,” he continued in a clipped, controlled tone. “I’m going down when I finish the chamber shindig. Is the hospital staff going to give me a hard time? Should I tell them she’s my aunt Marla? That sounds kind of funny, I’ve never called her that before. I mean, really, I’ve been on my own for quite a while.”

“As long as you’re there the first ten minutes, you’ll be fine. I was there yesterday, and the receptionist guarding the doors to the CCU was like a female Doberman. But Marla’s doctor’s pretty nice, although she treats him terribly.” Julian shook his head morosely. I continued. “The doc wants her to have as much emotional support from visitors as she can get. Why don’t you come get me at the mall? My time at the food fair will be up by then, and we can go see her together.”

He set aside the onion and washed his hands. “Okay. I have the chamber brunch, then cleanup, then drive down and pick you up at the food fair, then go see Marla. Does that sound okay? I wanted to take Arch with me, but he said he promised Todd they could go to a record swap this afternoon. The thunder woke us up last night, so we talked about his plans.” His words were still coming out fast, much faster than usual. “Arch wanted to help me today too. But I said no. I asked him if I could help him find some sixties albums.” Julian took a breath and poured sugar into a measuring cup. It cascaded over the top and he cursed softly. “I mean, I’ve been promising him all summer that I’d help him with his new hobby and I haven’t done any of it. Plus I was going to take him to some veterinarian’s office yesterday.” He reached for the cider vinegar and measured it carefully. “Now I’ll have lots of time. I guess. We can go to the animal hospital. I don’t know much about sixties music, though, like Jimi Hendrix—” He broke off, slammed the bottle of vinegar on the counter, and clasped his arms around his shivering body.

“Julian, don’t—” I put my arms around him. I couldn’t bear to see someone so young in such pain. I murmured to him how sorry I was, that the whole situation was awful, to go ahead and cry all he wanted, that he should forget the damn chamber brunch. I’d order everything in from the Chinese place.

“If I just knew why,” he sobbed into my shoulder. “If I just knew who would do this! God! What is the matter with the world?”

“I know. It’s screwed up.”

“I feel as if—” He choked on his words, then said, “Life is so stupid. It is just dumb, that’s all. When something like this can happen and people just go on … Oh, what’s the point?”

Again I replied that I didn’t know. My heart felt painfully heavy. Would he please take a day off, I begged. But Julian merely shook his head, and said he was doing the brunch. Just could I stop talking about it, he asked me. He looked disconsolately around the kitchen and then began to arrange frozen rolls on a rack to thaw.

The phone rang. A woman from the church was volunteering to contact an excellent private nurse for Marla. I thanked her and said that would be wonderful. Would I be at the early service this Sunday to tell the parish how Marla was doing, she asked. I replied that I would.