Diane Davidson - Killer Pancake

In the interim, it was time to work. My screen held the lowfat menu Babs Braithwaite had ordered: Cucumber-Mint Soup, Barbecued Fruit Skewers, Turkey Curry with Raisin Rice and Condiments, Vegetable Slaw, Homemade Rolls, Frosted Fudge Cookies . Honestly, lowfat food was beginning to dominate my life. The printer spat out the menu while I checked that we had all the ingredients for the curry and the cookies. I removed ground turkey from the freezer to thaw, then chopped onions and apples for the sauce. I scrawled a note to Julian that he could start by chopping the fruit for the barbecue skewers.

The phone rang and I gave my usual greeting: “Goldilocks’ Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right!”

“Ah, may I speak with Miss Shulley?” The voice was high and extremely snooty. I figured it was a wrong number, but the caller plowed on to explain: “This is Hotchkiss Skin & Hair. Is Miss Shula available? She requested an urgent appointment for skin treatment and asked to order all the products from our catalogue. I was wondering how she planned to pay for her order.”

My blood ran cold. I’d never even had a facial, and here I was, a not-well-to-do caterer ordering all kinds of hideously expensive products and making an appointment for a treatment— which the woman pronounced with the same kind of awe usually reserved for electroshock therapy —under false pretenses. The caller was bound to ask all kinds of questions I was not prepared to answer— What is your skin type, or do you even know? Is this your first visit? How many years of neglect are we talking about? I pressed my lips together and wondered how much of a drain it was going to be—from time, money, and emotional reserves—to find out exactly what Reggie Hotchkiss was up to.

“This is Mrs . Schulz. I made the call. And I have a coupon for the facial.”

The voice became instantly ingratiating. “Oh, Mrs…. Zult, we can take you at your earliest convenience. There’s no problem with scheduling a skin treatment. And of course we’ll also provide you with all the products you requested. How soon can you make it in today, and do you plan to pay by check or credit card?”

Why did she need to know this? Did they have people stiff them for soap and moisturizer? “Ah … well, I live up in Aspen Meadow—”

“In the country club area? Or in Flicker Ridge?”

Needless to say, the answer to that question was neither of the above , although I catered in million-dollar homes in those areas quite often. I imagined my interrogator with a pen poised over the same kind of client card that Dusty had filled out for me at Mignon. I said, “How much … er … time should I allow?”

“Well, Mrs…. Shoop, that depends on what you would like us to do for you. What problems are you having with your skin?”

“Aah …” What problems, exactly? “My … er … face is in a state of crisis. I … don’t feel as if I’m as attractive as I could be.”

“Mrs. Chute,” purred the smug voice, “that’s why we’re here! You’d best allow two hours for a facial and makeup application. That’s not very long to undo several decades of abuse.”

Decades of abuse sounded a bit extreme, but I said only, “Two hours? I can be there by one. How do I get there from Westside Mall?”

She explained where in the Aqua Bella neighborhood Hotchkiss Skin & Hair was located. I could drive or I could walk.

“And with the coupon,” I said uneasily, “just how much more will it cost to undo several decades of … complexion problems?”

She told me. I said I’d put the whole thing on my credit card, hung up, then grabbed the counter to keep from fainting.

“Gosh, Mom.” Arch entered the kitchen from the direction of the TV room. He pushed his glasses up his nose. “Now what?” Today’s tie-dyed T-shirt was a symphony of bilious colors.

“Remember … when your soles separated from your sneakers and I couldn’t afford to buy you a new pair?”

“Only dorks call them sneakers these days, Mom. But okay, sure. That was in November of sixth grade. You got me some new athletic shoes at Christmas. So?”

“I’m about to spend the cash equivalent of ten pairs of athletic shoes.”

Arch, being a literal fellow, looked at my feet. “Why’d you do that?”

“’Cuz my face needs it.”

He slowly raised his large brown eyes behind their tortoiseshell glasses from the floor to my face. “Am I missing something here?”

“Oh, Arch. I’m sorry. You went to bed early, and now you’re up early. What you’re missing is a nice breakfast. How about some?”

Unlike the previous day, he brightened. You never could tell with kids, when they would be hungry. But breakfast, unlike the world of beauty, was something we both understood. Since Marla was coming home in the late morning, I resolved to prepare a dish that I could take over and leave for the private nurse to heat up in Marla’s kitchen. Something healthful that wasn’t oatmeal. If I worked quickly, I’d still be able to set up for the food fair with time to spare. Watched by my ravenous son, I began to measure flour and whip yet more egg whites. Something beautiful and appealing to the eye and to the tongue. Something breakfast-y that would satisfy Marla’s sweet tooth. Something that could be frozen and reheated without catastrophe.

Within moments I was dropping dollops of batter speckled with fruit cocktail on a nonstick cookie sheet, and feeling pretty smug. Arch transported the food for the fair out to the van, and by the time he was finished, a delicious pancake aroma swirled through the kitchen.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” he said as he mixed Dutch cocoa powder with sugar to make hot chocolate. “Julian’s gone to visit some friends. He left early. And Tom left early too. Tom said to tell you Krill is an actor. I thought krill lived in the ocean.”

I said I wasn’t exactly sure, but I thought Krill was just some weird guy who was very convincing acting like a weird guy. I brought out the cookie sheet with the fruit-cocktail pancakes. Arch oohed approvingly at the golden, puffed rounds. He heated maple syrup—a mail-order gift from his grandparents, who doted on him—while I put together a fresh strawberry sauce for Marla.

When his mouth was full, Arch said, “You m’berd’s c’ming early f’ me today?” When I glared, he swallowed and repeated: “You remember Dad’s coming early for me today? We’re going over to his condo for the Fourth. I think Keystone puts on some fireworks. Now do you remember? Not as good as Aspen Meadow Lake, probably,” he added, no doubt to console me.

“No,” I said lightly, “I didn’t remember, thanks for reminding me. Are you packed?”

“Sort of. I still have to find my sparklers. Hey, Mom! These pancakes are awesome … I mean, cool! You should call them Killer Pancakes!” He shoveled in a few more mouthfuls. I looked out my kitchen window and found myself wishing for some of that soothing saxophone music. But at this hour, the only sound was the morning rush of traffic down Aspen Meadow’s Main Street, topped by a louder, closer sputter of a foreign car coming down our road. The sound was familiar, and I knew it the way I knew the sound of the mailman’s old grinding Subaru. But I couldn’t place it. Then I did hear a familiar roar—the Jerk’s Jeep. I sighed and headed for the front door to let him in before he staged some sort of stunt. He’d never touched me when Arch was present. On the other hand, when it came to my ex-husband, there was always a first time for most things bad.

I opened the door and he strode in angrily. He bellowed for Arch. He seemed loaded for bear, although I judged him to be sober. Of course, I’d been wrong about that before too.