BEULAH WIPED OFF the kitchen counter and realized she was nervous. When was the last time she had a houseguest outside of family? She couldn’t remember. Here she had gone and agreed to host a woman who came from a different country altogether; and then there was the dilemma of what to call her? Certainly not Mama DeVechio.
The house already seemed lonesome without Annie. They had fallen into a comfortable routine with each other and the arrangement seemed to work out well. I’ve grown to depend on my granddaughter, she thought, as she folded the dishtowel and placed it over the kitchen faucet to dry.
At the sound of crunching gravel, Beulah saw Jake’s vehicle pull into her line of sight from the kitchen window.
Beulah peered out the window and watched as a spry little woman climbed down from the passenger side of the truck. Fashionable even, with black, sling-back heels, a nicely cut dress and a scarf. Why had she pictured a gray-haired woman in a muumuu? Mrs. DeVechio put her hands on her hips and looked around, frowning. Meanwhile, Jake pulled two large suitcases out of the back of his SUV.
“My lands,” Beulah said out loud. “I’ve never seen the like of luggage.”
Jake carried the two bags to the back door while Mrs. DeVechio retrieved a large purse from the back seat. Beulah smoothed her hair and took off her apron before going to the back door.
Before she pushed open the screen door, Mrs. DeVechio cried out, “Mamma Mia!” and lifted her bag high in the air with her eyes laser-focused on Booger, the old black snake who had made an unexpected appearance on the millstone. Jake, quick as a cat, saw what was happening and dropped the luggage, catching Mrs. DeVechio’s bag before it came down on the snake.
Thank the Lord Jake had good reflexes, Beulah thought, her hand to her heart. Booger was like family.
“It belongs here,” Jake said, smiling as he took the bag from Mrs. DeVechio. “Beulah keeps him for mice.”
Mrs. DeVechio turned and looked at her as if she had a horn growing out of her forehead.
“You need cats,” she said. “Not snake. Veepers eez bad.”
Beulah looked at Jake for the translation.
“Oh, it’s not poisonous … This is Beulah.”
In a split second, Mrs. DeVechio changed expressions and opened her arms.
“I so happy to be here.” She grabbed Beulah and kissed her on one cheek and then the other. “Call me Rossella,” she said, rolling her R in the way foreigners did.
“Thank you,” Beulah said. “Welcome, please come in.”
“Ah, the kee-chen. Beautiful. Thees eez where I work,” she said, and pointed to the largest bag Jake was pulling. “Open that,” she said. “We put here.”
Jake placed the bag on the floor and unzipped it. Beulah was astonished to see the suitcase explode with canned goods, a tin of olive oil, produce, vegetables, and even jars wrapped in clothing.
Item by item, Rossella placed each one on the kitchen counter while Beulah stood with her mouth hanging open. At the very bottom of the suitcase were long rolls of clothes lying side by side. Rossella knelt and peeled off undergarments and blouses to reveal a bottle of wine, which she proudly handed to Beulah.
Beulah took it, and held the very thing she swore she would never serve in her house—the demon drink. Rossella continued to unroll bottle by bottle while Beulah was rooted to the floor in shock.
One after another, wine bottles were placed on the counter until she counted six. Beulah finally managed to look at Jake and saw his eyes dance while he pursed his lips, as if he were fighting a grin, which made her know she would have no support from him.
What in the world would she do if the preacher happened by and saw her harboring a gaggle of wine bottles? Pastor Gilliam was known to make surprise visits, and he often showed up in her kitchen for a slice of pie or glass of sweet tea, him being especially akin to sweets despite his struggle with weight.
Forget Pastor Gilliam, what of the Gibson’s? Or worse, Woody Patterson. He might stumble if he thought she was partaking. She had to do something now. It was her kitchen, after all.
“Mrs. DeVechio,” she began.
“No, not Mrs. DeVechio,” she said. “Call me Rossella.”
“Rose-ella,” she said.
“No, Rossella,” she said, emphasizing the rolling R. “Try again.”
“Rose-ella” she tried again, but her R sounding like a dying June bug. Rossella pointed to the roof of her mouth and said her name once more, getting louder with the rolling R. Out of the corner of her eye, Beulah saw Jake walk out of the kitchen, his shoulders shaking.
“My mouth doesn’t work like that. I’m sorry.”
“Eez okay, you try.”
Beulah felt her face flush hot.
“Let’s put your things in the pantry here,” she said, pushing aside the curtain that hid the wall-to-wall shelves in the small, dark room just off the kitchen. She could at least get the wine out of sight for now.
“Okay, fine.” Rossella handed the items to Beulah and she put the wine bottles on a shelf along with some of the canned items and jars. There was nothing in her kitchen to open the bottles anyway.
Just then, Rossella handed her a corkscrew. So much for that, she thought, and placed the gadget next to the wine.
“How about I take these upstairs,” Jake said, grabbing the suitcases and scurrying upstairs before she could meet his eyes.
“Maybe you would like to get settled,” Beulah said to Rossella, leading her houseguest through the dining room to the stairs.
“Bellissima!” she said, looking around and clapping her hands. Instead of following Beulah up the stairs, Rossella wandered into the living room where she looked at each picture, examined the hand-knit doilies from the end tables, and picked up her mother’s afghan, drawing it to her chest and squeezing it.
“Okay,” Jake said, already back downstairs. “Is there anything else you need me to do?” Beulah wished she could think up something else to keep him here a little longer.
Rossella grabbed his hands and kissed him on both cheeks. “Ciao. You come back. I cook for you.”
After Jake left, Beulah attempted the stairs again.
“Would you like to see your room?”
“Ah, Si.” But when they got to the top of the steps, Rossella went into the other rooms, including Annie’s and her own room. Finally, Beulah led Rossella to the guest room where she left her “oohing and ahhing” over her curio cabinet. It was Annie’s suggestion to move the cabinet from the living room to the guest room, and it did please Beulah to hear Rossella enjoying her collection of ceramic figurines.
And now, surely Rossella needed a rest. She sure did.
***
Beulah didn’t know how long she had been napping, but when she awoke, it was to the pungent smell of food cooking and robust singing. She pushed herself up to the side of the bed. Had she been dreaming? No, there it was, the singing along with the distinct smell of food cooking. She opened her bedroom door and a strong smell wafted into her bedroom. Slamming the door shut, she leaned against it.
Garlic. The one spice she never allowed in her house.
She put on her shoes and ran a brush through her hair before taking the steps slowly, trying to be careful about her healing knee, but wanting to get to her kitchen as soon as possible.
From the doorway, she saw Rossella taking the skins off tomatoes, a steaming bowl in front of her. On the stove, a pan of oil sizzled with what Beulah knew had to be garlic. Rossella sang loudly in Italian as she peeled the tomato skins and dropped them in another pan in the sink. When she saw her, Rossella smiled, and with a knife, motioned for her to come in.
Beulah walked in and saw three plates set at the table, a bottle of wine open and three of her small glass tumblers next to the plates.
“I no see your wine glasses. I use those,” she said, pointing again with the knife to the glass tumblers.
“Really, Rossella, you don’t have to cook for me,” Beulah said. “I meant to cook for you tonight. You’re my guest, after all.”
“No problem,” she said. “This week I cook for you. Tomatoes I found in the garden, still good. Tonight, we have spaghetti pomodoro. You like.”
Beulah wondered who was going to be the third person? Had Mrs. DeVechio invited Jake?
“You’ve been to the garden?”
“I walk outside and see what we have. Nice beans, but no arugula. You make big mistake not planting arugula.”
Arugula? She had never even heard of it.
Just then, Woody entered the back door, wearing his overalls with one suspender hanging down and smiling with his big toothy grin, the loose upper plate jiggling ever so slightly.
“I was dropping off the wheelbarrow I borrowed when I saw Rossella in the garden. She invited me to dinner,” Woody said, obviously pleased with the invitation.
“I love Eye-talian,” he said. “Stella took me to a nice place up in Chicago last weekend,” he said before realizing his slip.
“Stella?” Beulah asked, forgetting for the moment her kitchen had fallen into chaos.
“Well, yeah, you know I had to go up there to look at some horses, and, well, uh, I remembered she was there and thought maybe we could grab a bite to eat. So we did… .Would you look at this,” he said, leaning in to smell the concoction, a look of ecstasy on his face. Jealousy seared Beulah upon hearing Woody’s admiration for another cook—and right in her own kitchen to boot.
To make matters worse, here they were with a bottle of wine open on her kitchen table for all the world to see. Poor Woody, an occasional Methodist, was likely to stumble at seeing her Christian witness diminished by the fermented fruit of the vine. Well, he had to know she had nothing to do with it.
Rossella pulled fresh-baked bread out of the oven and put it on the table.
“Sit!” she told Beulah and Woody. “I fix you.”
For all Beulah’s indignation, she knew of nothing else to do but obey Rossella. They sat.
The little woman took the tin of olive oil and poured some of the greenest oil Beulah had ever seen onto the white plate. She cut the bread and gave them each a slice. With a slice in her own hand, she pushed it onto the plate of oil and let it soak. Then she popped it into her mouth.
“You do,” she said.
Beulah watched Woody do it first and then she followed suit. The oil tasted earthy, but it flavored the crusty bread nicely. The bread was too chewy for her, though. Good bread took the right hand, and Rossella doesn’t have it, she thought smugly.
When the tomato sauce was finished, Rossella put spaghetti on each of their plates and then a ladleful of sauce. When she sat at the table, she tried to pour Beulah wine.
“No, thank you,” Beulah said firmly.
Rossella just raised her eyebrows and poured some for Woody and her.
If Woody wanted to partake, it was his business, but he wouldn’t see Beulah doing it.
The spaghetti was heavy on garlic and Beulah dreaded the indigestion sure to follow later. Woody had second helpings of the spaghetti and of the wine. Beulah dearly hoped the mound of spaghetti would offset the effects of drink.
“Rossella, this was the best meal I’ve had in a long time,” Woody said, and pushed his plate away. Another sting to Beulah’s pride since he had just sat at her table less than two weeks before.
“Why don’t you stay around a bit? You did have two glasses of wine; maybe you shouldn’t drive quite yet.” Beulah said.
“I take a little wine every night for medicinal purposes,” he said. “I’m kindly used to it, but I believe I might sit outside and smoke my pipe before I head home.”
“I sit with you,” Rossella said, and then turned to Beulah.
“You no do dishes. I do later,” she said.
Beulah was glad to leave her to the pile of greasy dishes. She went upstairs to her bedroom, feeling the garlic roll around in her chest. It was going to be a long night.
No, it was going to be a long week.