Killer Pancake

Arch knelt on the kitchen floor and tried to attract the cat. Scout, however, wanted a fresh bag of cat food. This he indicated by standing resolutely next to his bowl, which held only undesirable, four-hour-old food. Receiving no response in the meal department, Scout sauntered across the floor and rolled onto his back. Arch enthusiastically rubbed his stomach.

“Julian’s crying,” Arch announced without looking at me.

“Did he talk to you? Is he still in bed?”

“Still in bed. Under the covers. Didn’t want me to stay.” Scout curled his paws and stretched to his maximum length to prolong Arch’s ministrations. “He said for you not to bring him any food. He wants to be left alone today, and he’ll do all the cooking for the Chamber of Commerce brunch tomorrow morning.”

Well, that was just great. But not unexpected. “How about you, kiddo? Want some breakfast?”

He looked around the kitchen, but nothing caught his fancy. “No, thanks. Who are you cooking for?”

“The food fair and the Braithwaites.”

Arch pulled a long face. “Mrs. Barf-mate! That cow.”

“Nice talk about a rich client, Arch.”

“With Mrs. Barf-mate’s driving, you’re lucky I’m still alive.”

Arch had been in the back seat when the accident occurred, and he was not about to let anyone forget it. He maintained to this day that Julian had put on his turn signal and slowed properly, even though Claire was giggling and cavorting around in the front seat and Julian couldn’t remember what he’d been doing. But it was Mrs. Braithwaite, Arch claimed, who was the bad driver. My son had insisted he had whiplash and post-traumatic stress syndrome, and we should sue Mrs. Braithwaite for bad driving. Unfortunately, the police had sided with Mrs. B.

“Well,” said Arch in a resigned tone, “I guess Julian and I aren’t going to the Aspen Meadow Animal Hospital today. He promised, but he probably forgot. They let you hold the rats there,” he added brightly. “Big black and white rats.”

“I’m sorry, Arch. I’d take you, but I have a ton of cooking to do, and I need to go see Marla.”

Arch lifted the towel from the rising bread, peered in, and poked the dough with his finger. “How is she?”

“Don’t know yet.”

He sighed. “Maybe Todd’s dad could take us to the animal hospital. Their rats don’t bite there, they’ve trained them—”

“Arch, please.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to have a rat, I just want to hold one.”

“Give Julian a little slack, hon. And me too, while you’re at it.”

“I am, I am, but can’t we get another pet? If you don’t like rats, can we talk about ferrets? Tom likes them,” he said with a hopeful smile.

I punched down the bread dough, divided it, and reshaped it in ring pans. “We have a cat. Please don’t bring Tom into this.”

Arch frowned and reconsidered his strategy. “I guess I better go check on Julian. Should I take him some coffee? That doesn’t really count as food, does it?”

“Sure, take him some. If he doesn’t want it, come on back.” I fixed a latte the way Julian liked it, with lots of cream and sugar. Arch disappeared just as Alicia knocked on my door. While she lugged in boxes of Portobello mushrooms and fresh herbs, I called the Coronary Care Unit of Southwest Hospital. Someone at the nurses’ station crisply informed me that Marla Korman had not yet been taken for her angiogram, and that the patient could not come to the phone. Marvelous. By the time Alicia had finished unloading the supplies, Arch had returned, dressed for the day in his tie-dyed shirt and torn jeans.

“Julian’s drinking the coffee and says thanks. I’m going to Todd’s. There’s nothing to do around here.”

“Does Julian want—”

Arch pulled his mouth to one side and nudged his glasses up his nose. “He says he’ll come down when he wants to be with people.” Seeing my disappointed face, Arch patted my shoulder. “He’ll be okay. You know Julian. He’s had a hard life, but he always manages to come through. All right, I’m leaving. It’s been real, Mom.” And with that, Arch strode out the front door clutching a bag of audiocassettes.

Feeling helpless, I started on the fudge cookies. As I sifted dark brown cocoa powder over a white mountain of flour, I kept running the previous twenty-four hours through my mind. If only I had not accepted the assignment for the banquet. Would that have helped? Why had Claire even recommended me to her employers? I beat egg whites with canola oil and measured aromatic Mexican vanilla into the batter. Julian’s had a hard life. No kidding. His adoptive parents were far away, and now the young woman he’d fallen head-over-heels for was dead.

The bread loaves came out of the oven golden-brown, studded with cranberries and nuts, and filling the kitchen with their rich scent. I placed the loaves on racks to cool and called the hospital again. Marla still hadn’t gone for her angiogram and could not come to the phone. I banged the receiver down and wondered how many people had heart attacks waiting in hospitals to be treated.