Tough Cookie

I added the ground beef to the pan and soon the scrumptious aroma of beef sautéing in garlic and onion filled the kitchen. I was beginning to feel a little better, perhaps because I was cooking. Or maybe it was because we were talking about somebody else’s problems. I said, “Rich, elderly women with cancer? Why target them?”

Tom perused my Swedish meatballs recipe card, washed his hands, and whisked together eggs and cream. “To steal from them. He’d tell these women’s families that he knew a doctor down in Mexico, an American genius with a pedigree as long as a prosthetic leg. Reed’s very convincing line was that Doctor Genius had given up on the FDA ever approving his cancer-healing miracle drug. Why wouldn’t they approve? these people would ask. Because the AMA didn’t want their oncologists to go out of business, Reed claimed.”

“For heaven’s sake.”

“At Doctor Genius’s luxurious healing spa in Oaxaca, Barton assured his clients, their terminal relatives could be healed. They’d be back home in six months. He showed pictures, offered testimonials, the whole bit. He had a background as a lay preacher, and was very convincing. Each family handed over sixty thousand dollars—ten thousand a month for the first six months. They’d send Granny off with Reed, and that was that. They got glowing reports from Doctor Genius, from Reed, even from a purported resident chaplain. But never heard a word from their beloved grandmothers.”

“Which should have been their first clue.”

Tom nodded. “Finally, one relative went down to find out what was going on. The women were being kept in dreadful conditions in a sub-par nursing facility. No phone, no medical treatment, no chaplain. And needless to say, no genius doctor. Barton Reed had to hang up his snowboard so he could be incarcerated for three long years.” He paused. “Where’s the allspice?” I handed it to him. “Here’s the irony,” he continued thoughtfully. “After less than six months behind bars, Barton Reed was diagnosed with testicular cancer. Parole board member Doug Portman had no sympathy.”

“Or Barton Reed had no cash to fan the flames of Doug Portman’s sympathy,” I commented sourly.

Tom whirled cornflakes in the blender; he added them, along with dried minced onions, to the egg mixture. “Our guys are picking up Reed now for questioning. Miss G.—I want you to stay away from Reed. The man is fueled by rage.” Tom seasoned the crumb mixture and stirred it into his bowl of fresh ground beef. His large, capable hands formed scrumptious-looking meatballs. He placed them in rows on a jelly-roll pan and popped the pan into the oven. I stirred tomatoes, red wine, and herbs into the sauté pan for the double batch of lasagne sauce. While it was coming to a simmer, I browned two packages of chicken thighs in olive oil and set them to stew with onions, carrots, and bay leaf. These would form the base for the Sonora Chicken Strudel to be served at Arthur’s buffet the next day. Soon the old-fashioned scents of stewing chicken and spicy tomato sauce were wafting through our kitchen. Heavenly.

I layered the cooked pasta, grated cheeses, and rich tomato sauce into two pans—one for us, one for Rorry Bullock—then set the table. When the lasagne was bubbling, I called Arch. He made one of his silent appearances in the kitchen and nodded approvingly at the pasta dish. When Tom cut into the lasagne, a lake of melted Fontina and mozzarella spurted out over the delicate layers of ricotta and tomato-beef sauce. Sauce and melted cheese oozed between the tender pasta. I savored each bite. Best of all was watching Tom and Arch help themselves to thirds.

When we were finished eating, Arch stood up from the table and hugged me. “Great dinner, Mom.”

This sudden display of affectionate enthusiasm made me wary. “Thanks …”

“All right,” Arch began, in a preamble-to-an-announcement tone. “Lettie’s dad is driving the two of us to school early tomorrow, since we’re writing up our theories on the physics project together. Her father is picking me up at seven A.M.” He pushed his glasses up his nose and gave me a very serious look. “When Lettie arrives, Mom, please do not ask her what she wants for Christmas. Okay?”

“No problem,” I replied. “If you want, I won’t even let her in. Does she have a thick winter jacket? So she can wait for you outside?”

My son considered this question. “I don’t know. But you can invite her into the kitchen.”

Tom smiled at me and winked. I said, “So, if Lettie is coming inside, what would she like for breakfast?”

“Will you stop?” Arch implored.

Now what did I do?

Monday morning dawned cold and dark. At six, I scooted across our chilly wood floor and checked the thermometer outside our bedroom window. It seemed stuck at seven degrees. With any luck, we’d make it into the low twenties by afternoon.