The following Tuesday, Mr. Walters approached Thomas after the final bell rang. “Heading for the bus? I’ll walk you.”
Thomas shook his head as he pulled his coat out of his cubby. It was Aunt Sadie’s day to pick him up.
“Did you leave this on my desk when we had recess?” Mr. Walters asked, holding out an envelope.
Thomas nodded, keeping his eyes on the note.
“Do you want me to read it now?”
Thomas nodded again, waiting as Mr. Walters slid his finger under the envelope flap and tore it open.
“ ‘Dear Mr. Walters, will you teach me and my aunt to make something in our food processor? We don’t know how to use it.’
“Hmmm…”
George jogged past them.
“Your idea for turning our math homework into a fantasy football league has promise,” Mr. Walters called after George. “I like your initiative.”
Without turning around, George saluted his teacher.
“What does your aunt say about this?” Mr. Walters asked Thomas.
Taking his note back, Thomas grabbed a pen from his backpack. “You are the only person we know who can use one,” he wrote. “Plus, she says you’re of a higher order.” He didn’t add “than Mrs. Evans,” which is what Aunt Sadie had really said.
“You haven’t told her about this plan, have you?” Mr. Walters waited for Thomas to shake his head.
“There you are, Thomas.” Aunt Sadie came into the classroom, shifting her purse so she could put her arm around Thomas.
“Hello, Jason.”
Mr. Walters tucked Thomas’s note into his pocket. “Hello, I was just…Thomas wrote something about a new food processor.”
“Oh, right. We have to go by the store, Thomas. Have you decided what you want to make?”
“So you’re going right now…to the store?”
Aunt Sadie nodded. “Yes. The store. Where they have food.”
“The food store. Nice. It just so happens that I am a whiz at food processors since I used to work on a cruise ship.”
“You were a chef? On a cruise ship?”
“A line cook would be more accurate. But I do know my way around an S blade, and Thomas asked if I would help teach you. I’m happy to offer my services.” Mr. Walters put his hands in his pockets and smiled at Aunt Sadie.
“Thank you, but I’m sure we can muddle through on our own.”
Thomas tugged on Aunt Sadie’s sleeve.
“Can’t we, Thomas?”
Thomas shook his head, got out his pad, and wrote, “Please.”
“Depending on where you live, I could be at your place at four thirty or so…after the staff meeting and one quick trip to a friend’s?”
“Well…” Thomas could see his aunt was flustered. She hadn’t planned on this. “What would we make?”
“May I humbly suggest a strawberry tart with lemon curd and a pecan crust?”
“Lemon what? Do they have that at Thrifty Acres?”
“They have the ingredients. Tell you what, I’ll give you a quick list since I know you’re going to the store and I’ll put your address into my phone. Go.”
Mr. Walters pulled out his phone and stood at the ready.
Aunt Sadie set down her purse and drew the lapels of her coat together. “Really,” she said. “You don’t have anything better to do?”
“It’s either cook with you or go home and hang out with my mom, who’s been watching the soap Metro Medical since she was a teenager.”
“Hang out with your mom,” Aunt Sadie repeated. “Fine. Give me the list.”
Aunt Sadie pulled out her phone and Mr. Walters dictated to her. “I’m trusting you already have things like sugar,” he said. “But since you might be one of those frightful margarine people, let’s add real butter. Nothing in a tub—the stick variety. Oh, and unsalted, please.”
Aunt Sadie added “butter” to her list. “What about strawberries?”
“That’s why I have to stop at my friend’s. He grows them.”
“No one has strawberries yet,” Aunt Sadie said with great authority.
“What can I say?” Mr. Walters winked at Thomas. “It’s magic.”
Aunt Sadie looked at Thomas. “Speaking of magic, does the magic still work if we have a guest, Thomas?”
Something bubbled in Thomas’s stomach. As if Dave had been drinking fizzy water and burped.
“Thomas? Was that a giggle?” Aunt Sadie asked. “Well, we won’t keep you. 723 N. Fox Avenue, Apartment 2B. That will be four thirty?”
“Or so,” Mr. Walters said.
“Or so” turned out to be 5:18. Aunt Sadie wasn’t pleased. She consulted her watch. “I’ll have to call your father,” she said before opening the door.
“Voilà.” Mr. Walters handed Aunt Sadie a shoebox filled with strawberries.
“Um, could you take off your shoes?”
“With pleasure. My socks, too?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“It’ll be great to air my feet.” Mr. Walters said this from his position on the ground. “I prefer being barefoot.” He’d slipped off his shoes and was now sitting cross-legged on Aunt Sadie’s doorstep, pulling off his socks.
Aunt Sadie tried to close the door. “If you could just move in a…” But Mr. Walters’s attention was on his feet, which he was now massaging.
“Shoes are terrible for your feet,” he said. Then, seeing the expression on Aunt Sadie’s face, Mr. Walters asked: “What? Am I breaking a rule? Why are you looking at me like that? Is it my toes?” He stuck his legs out straight to give them a better view. “It’s true, my second toe is longer than my first toe. It’s a condition called Morton’s toe. Did you know that since ancient times those with a longer first metatarsal were considered more clever and creative than other people?”
Aunt Sadie shook her head. “I had no idea. Did you, Thomas?”
Thomas shook his head as well. “I’ve never seen a teacher’s toes before.”
Mr. Walters jumped to his feet. “Thomas, did you speak? Can you say that again? I want to hear the sound of your voice.”
“I said, ‘I’ve never seen a teacher’s toes before.’ ”
“This is great! Should we sing something? I want to hear your singing voice.”
Aunt Sadie went into the kitchenette. Thomas heard water running, then her voice: “It’s not permanent. Explain to Jason, Thomas.”
“It’s magic,” Thomas told his teacher. “I only talk when I’m with Aunt Sadie.”
Thomas expected more questions, but instead Mr. Walters said: “Then it’s even more important to sing to keep your voice in shape. What should we sing?” Mr. Walters started to hum. “How about a camp song? What camp songs do you know?”
Thomas shrugged. Aunt Sadie leaned over the counter. “Thomas never went to camp. By the time he was old enough, it made Helen anxious to—” She broke off.
“Then I’ll teach you one. Let’s see. How about ‘She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain.’ ” Mr. Walters started to sing, slapping his knee and singing about driving six white horses and wearing red pajamas and calling out “yeeeee-haw.” Thomas sat on the couch, listening.
So this is what you do at summer camp?
“Oh my God. Jason, where did you get these strawberries?” Aunt Sadie held a green stem in her hand; the other hand was under her mouth to catch any possible drips.
“I told you, it’s magic,” he said, taking a rubber band from around his wrist and putting his hair into a ponytail. “Time to cook?”
Thomas followed Mr. Walters into the kitchen, where Aunt Sadie had put the strawberries into a colander. “I feel like they’ll melt in my mouth.”
“That’s because you’re used to supermarket strawberries that have been bred to travel thousands of miles. My buddy grows the old-fashioned kind in his solar greenhouse. You can’t stack these in a truck.”
“But I can eat them. Try one, Thomas.”
“Go ahead, Thomas.” Mr. Walters put his face in the colander and took a big sniff. “So where is this grand food processor you’re so excited about?”
Aunt Sadie pointed at a cupboard. “In the appliance garage,” she said.
“Appliance garage? Nice. There’s a first-world phrase for you.” Mr. Walters found the Revolutionnaire. “I love these things,” he said, running his hands over the sides of the work bowl. “Did you get the ingredients?”
Aunt Sadie took the ingredients out of her shopping bag and set them on the counter. “These look rotten,” she said, pointing to the package of dates.
“They may look rotten, Sadie, but appearances can be deceiving. Dates are delicious.”
“I’m not the world’s most adventurous eater,” she warned him. “Can we please get on with this? Thomas is going to be late for dinner.”
Mr. Walters hopped up to sit on the counter. “We could eat the tart for dinner.”
“I don’t think so, and as a teacher, you must appreciate having a schedule.”
“As a teacher, I appreciate not scheduling things when I don’t have to.”
“His father will be waiting.”
Mr. Walters saluted Aunt Sadie and hopped down from the counter. “Let’s have a look at these dates. Nice. They leave the pits in to keep them fresh longer.” Washing his hands, Mr. Walters explained: “You can open the flesh with your fingernail and then pinch.”
Taking turns at the sink, Thomas and his aunt washed their hands.
“We’ll need a cup of them,” Mr. Walters instructed.
When they were done he dumped the dates into the food processor and told Aunt Sadie to press the pulse button five times.
She kept her finger on the button until Mr. Walters said, “Let’s review the definition of the word ‘pulse,’ Sadie.”
“I am not one of your students, Jason.”
“I hate to say this, but with regard to cooking, you might be. Plus, what’s wrong with being a kid? Am I right, Thomas? I liked being eleven.”
“He’s not eleven yet.” Aunt Sadie pressed the pulse button again. “You can probably remember that age quite well.”
“You’re really hung up on my age, aren’t you?”
“I’m not hung up.” Aunt Sadie finished pulsing. “There. It looks like goo.”
“Not done yet. Thomas, your turn.” As Mr. Walters measured out the pecans and put them in the work bowl, Thomas changed places with Aunt Sadie.
“Now, show us what a pulse is, Thomas.”
Thomas tried to pulse the way Philippe did, pushing the button down quickly several times, like Dave opening and closing his wings when he was happy.
“Excellent. Ten more times. I’m twenty-seven and you’re, what, thirty…?”
“Thirty-four. I don’t even know why we’re talking about this.”
“That’s perfect, Thomas! They’re ground up together. Do you have a little oatmeal, Sadie? It’s just a bit moist.”
“I’ve got one of those instant packets.”
Mr. Walters sighed. “My work here is cut out for me, Thomas.”
It took two hours to make the strawberry tart. Aunt Sadie had to call Thomas’s father twice to say they were delayed. Thomas had never seen so many dishes. The crust was pressed into the bottom of a pie plate, then they made the curd, which sounded awful but looked like lemon pudding. Cutting up the rest of the strawberries, Mr. Walters tossed them with sugar until they glistened. Then he poured the fruit over the curd.
They didn’t eat it, though. It had to chill. All that work and Mr. Walters didn’t get a bite.
“It doesn’t matter,” Mr. Walters said when Aunt Sadie told him it wasn’t fair. “I licked the spoons when your back was turned. Of course, we could make it again. If you’re a hands-on learner, as I expect, you’ll only master it after you’ve made it on your own. With my encouragement, of course.”
“I think one strawberry tart is enough.”
“I think it’s a good idea,” Thomas said. “Maybe you could teach us pizza crust, too.”