Dying for Chocolate

I carried in the baskets. Adele, impeccably attired in a beige cashmere sweater and perfectly creased matching slacks, limped slowly behind me. Her slouched shoulders and downcast face tugged at my heart. I asked her if she was pleased about the amount of money she had made for the pool project. She shrugged, then said in a weary, trembling voice that the trip had fatigued her. She went to lie down while the general headed for his study. It was my great hope that he would tie up all the phone lines while I prepared dinner. Arch came out to the kitchen with me.

“Mind if I work on my magic while you cook?” he asked.

“Of course not.”

I scanned the refrigerator. I had all the ingredients for Chinese-style cod. I set to work on it while trying to rid myself of the image of Pilgrims eating with chopsticks.

“Not fish again,” said Arch when he saw the ingredients. He was setting his supplies out on the kitchen island.

“But you didn’t even have it last time,” I reminded him, then changed my tone. “Shall I order you a pizza?” I was trying to stay charitable. After all, this was the child whom I had never allowed to have a mouse, gerbil, hamster, guinea pig, or other rodent for a pet. And I had ruined his one interaction with voles.

He pulled some cups out of his bag and said, “Let’s ask Julian.”

At that moment the menu arbiter himself appeared at the kitchen door, as he was so prone to do, just when his name was mentioned. He had Sissy with him. She was dressed all in white—crisp white halter top, white shorts, white socks and shoes. A white bow held her spill of brown curls off to one side of her pretty face, now set in petulance. As usual, Julian didn’t look too happy either.

“Doing magic?” he asked Arch.

“Just practicing.”

Without further explanation Julian and Sissy moved off toward the deck, where he ceremoniously shut the French doors. Even when you don’t want to appear nosy, people will assume that you are.

“Okay, Mom, watch the cotton ball.”

I turned my attention to the island. Arch had a cotton ball and three red cups. He deftly placed one over the cotton and then began to shift them around. When I incorrectly guessed which one had the cotton under it, he piled the other two on top of the final cup, gave them all a tap, and triumphantly lifted the stacked cups. There was the cotton ball.

“Great,” I admitted. “Simply marvelous. When are we having this show? Before or after I serve the food at the barbecue?”

Before he could answer we could hear raised voices coming from the deck. A moment later there were shouts.

Arch pulled his mouth into a wry, knowing knot. Over the shouts, he said, “Guess they’re having a fight.”

Poor Arch. His only model for male/female relationships was one of continual conflict. A moment later, Julian stalked by the kitchen door. He did not look in.

“Hey, Julian!” Arch called. He ran after him. “Wait up!” Wanted or unwanted, Arch tromped down the steps to the lower level and Julian’s lair. I did not know whether an eleven-year-old would be welcome after a teenagers’ quarrel. But I went back to the cod and resolved to stay out of it.

“Goldy?” Sissy’s voice startled me. I turned around. Her smile was tight, forced; her tense posture distinctly at odds with the portrait-of-innocence outfit. She said, “Are you working?”

No, I wash fish for fun. I said, “I’m about done.”

“What’re you making?”

“Baked cod with Chinese seasonings. Low calorie, low fat, and full of virtue.” I looked at her drawn face briefly, finished chopping the scallions, rolled out and cut squares of foil, placed the fillets and seasonings on top, and rolled each into individual packets. I put them in the refrigerator and took out two soft drinks.

“Want to go out on the porch?”

She gave a facial gesture as if to say, Might as well, and turned. I followed her. The smell of pines moist from the shower was as lovely as it had been on the drive to Schulz’s. I inhaled deeply and tried to bring the feeling back. Sissy’s voice, honed to sharpness, interrupted my reverie.

“Where were all of you this morning?” Sissy demanded. She thrust her face toward mine and sent the jaunty hair bow askew.

“I, um, we went to look for birds at Flicker Ridge.” Her tone was so aggressive that it was a moment before I wondered what business it was of hers where we were. I said, “Why do you ask?”

She did not answer, only took a sip of her drink, then pressed her lips together and gave me an accusing look. “And last night? Where were you then?”

“Well, excuse me, Sissy, not that it’s any concern of yours, but Arch and I went out. For dinner and the evening. Now, what’s going on?”

“Was Julian with you?”

“Is this what you two were arguing about?” I thought back. Julian had said he had a date. I’d just assumed it was with Sissy. I said, “You’re not married to him, you know.” I tried to make my tone soft. “Men don’t like possessive women.” It didn’t come out sounding soft.