Killer Pancake

A gentle breeze bowed the stems on the nearby columbines. Close by in the neighborhood, someone was cooking steak on a grill. The succulent smell filled the air and reminded me I had the food fair to start in the morning.

“Todd and I are going out tomorrow afternoon to look for 33 rpm records,” Arch announced. “Unless Julian needs me. Do you think he will?”

“Hard to tell.”

The doorbell rang. It was Todd, wanting to see if Arch could walk into town for ice cream. After I gave my permission, however, Arch hesitated. “Are you okay, Mom? You seem … sad. Is it because of Marla?” When I nodded, he said, “I know she’s your best friend.”

“Thanks for asking. As soon as she’s out of the hospital, I’ll feel a lot better.”

“How about if I bring you back a pint of mint chocolate chip?”

“You’re sweet, but no. I just want to work in the kitchen, get my mind off things.”

And work in the kitchen I did. The second batch of ribs needed to be precooked and cooled, then chilled overnight before being reheated at the fair the next morning. I lifted the thick, meaty slabs and arranged them on racks in the oven. Soon the rich scent of roasting pork wafted through the house, and I went upstairs and opened the windows for air. Poor little Colin Routt started wailing when a motorcycle roared by. Within moments, though, someone started playing the jazz saxophone, and the baby quieted. I wished we could all have our jangled nerves calmed so easily.

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.