Amirror can be a cruel thing. It can mock you. Even laugh at you . Today the thing was plumb near hysterical. I scowled at it in return. Looking back was a stranger. My tired, worn, twenty-four-year-old face mocked me. The lines on my forehead must have crept into place in an afternoon. Because they certainly weren’t there this morning.
Who did this to me? Who stole my youth? I crinkled my brow up and down. Pulled the side of my eyes back only to discover I would make a woeful-looking Asian. And the process did nothing to remove the deeply embedded crow’s-feet. My green eyes drooped and the corners of my lips turned downward. I need BOTOX. I might need a facelift before I’m thirty. I need to find out who Mother’s miracle worker is and stop this madness.
As I let the corners of my eyes fall back to their basset-hound positions, the apple lady’s words echoed in my mind. I was old and tired, ragged and worn, and it took a stranger to let me know. Even my golden brown hair didn’t seem to shine. It, too, scoffed at me. My eye caught a sight in the far corner of my shower. It looked like mildew. My right eyebrow raised and the perils of “cleanliness is next to godliness” set in. Retrieving my rubber galoshes, knee pads, and rubber gloves from under the sink, I tore into that bathroom and scrubbed as if I were an exfoliant attacking a buildup of over-obsessing mothers and apathetic fathers.
Hours later I heard a sniffing noise near my behind, which was protruding from the commode, where my efforts were finishing off the pipes that connect the water to the toilet.
“Duke, if you’re remotely dirty, you better get off my tile!” He laid himself down and rested his head flat against the tile, eyes looking up at me.“How was your day?”
He raised his right eyebrow.
“Long one, huh?”
He looked down.
I turned around to face him and removed my weapons of war. “Me too! Come on, let’s go eat.”
We trotted down the stairs, where Dad was putting some dishes in the dishwasher.“What are we going to do for dinner tonight?” I asked.
“I’m doing the same thing I did last night, Savannah.” He turned around and leaned against the counter.
I sat down at a stool on the other side of the island. “How long is this charade going to continue? Pretty soon we’re going to need clean underwear. What are we going to do then? I say we hire someone to clean the house, fix us dinner, and wash our clothes.”
He laughed and crossed his arms.“Savannah, your mother has never let anyone clean her house in her life, and you know it.”
“Oh yes, she did. Once.”
“Key word in that phrase is once.”
No one likes to reminiscence about the day we had a housekeeper. It was the longest day of all of our lives . Victoria is a neat freak. I mean you can move a chair and before you’ve gotten up from it, she’ll put it back to where it “should” be. Everything has its place. Everything has its order. And everything must match, coordinate, or complement. And everything must be clean. We were stupid to even think for a moment that she would appreciate someone’s aid.
Shortly after mother went to work at the chamber of commerce, Dad lovingly convinced her that she needed a housekeeper. “I wouldn’t dream of having her cook,” he assured Vicky, “but at least let someone take some of the load . You can’t do it all.” He really had her best interests at heart.
Well, she assured him she could do it all and all of us would have been better off for believing her. Because for eleven years, mother has never ceased to resurrect the memory of Mrs. Gonzalez on cleaning days. As for Mrs. Gonzalez, every time she sees mother coming, she hightails it quicker than a cat caught in a tree facing a fire hose. Mrs. Gonzalez is the best in the business. Mother heard about her from Sheila, Paige’s mother. In fact, Sheila still uses her to this day.
Mrs. Gonzalez hadn’t been in Savannah long and at that time her English was still, shall we say, expanding. She arrived promptly at eight thirty. Mother felt it necessary to take the day off to show her how she cleaned the house. By noon Mrs. Gonzalez had done nothing but observe mother clean the house herself. They were doing sign language to communicate. Somewhere around three, Mother made it clear to Mrs. Gonzalez that she didn’t think she was going to work out.
“You’re . . . just . . . too . . . slow . . .” mother said loudly and slowly, as if volume would remedy Mrs. Gonzalez’s inability to understand. Mother added to the insult by showing her the book The Tortoise and the Hare. When Mother pointed to the turtle and then to Mrs. Gonzalez, well, let’s just say I wish I knew Spanish. But her sign language was interpretation enough.
For kicks, Paige and I will sometimes hug Mrs. Gonzalez and then just whisper Vicky’s name in her ear so we can hear the beauty of the range of the Spanish language. Our combined ten years of Spanish study does us no good, but our imaginations fill in.
My dad’s continued evaluation brought me back to the kitchen. “Besides, you, Thomas, and I are more than capable of cleaning this house and washing our own clothes.”
“You left out meals.”
“That is why God made take-out.”
“Well, you are missing a wonderful opportunity here. And because mother is totally obsessive-compulsive and thinks no one can clean as well as she can, we could use this opportunity to relieve her of the stress. And on the days that she doesn’t feel like cooking, like today, we would have someone here to help us.”
“Savannah, I thought you were about to move out.”
“I am, but not this week, and tonight I need food.”
“I would say for someone so close to moving out, it’s high time you wash your own clothes and fix your own meals . What did you do in college?”
“I took everything to the cleaners and ordered takeout or ate in the cafeteria.”
“No kidding?”
“Does this look like a face of jest?”
“Girl, it is time you grew up.” He walked past me and picked his car keys up off the table.
I turned my legs around in my stool to face him.“Well, I’m sure I can fix something.”
“I’m sure you will . Your mother said she saw you briefly today.
I expect that to be an everyday occurrence.”
He walked over and kissed me and left me there sitting on the stool. Duke followed him, because it was evident who would be eating well tonight, and dogs have their priorities. He would endure stone for steak. He apparently would even endure Vicky.
See, he wasn’t real bright.
In the refrigerator, the only things that looked familiar were the condiments and the drinks . There was some dip in there that goes great with Doritos, and some sour cream that would be good on a baked potato. You can do this, Savannah . You’re about to be out on your own. Just give it a shot.
Lady & Son’s Cookbook rested on the bar by the telephone. Page 30 offered a lovely looking dish. Some kind of pasta bake. Remembering that most things start with boiling water, I pulled that off without much fanfare or pain. Mother had frozen some homemade ziti noodles and had homemade spaghetti sauce canned and in the pantry. An hour and a half later I pulled a pan full of pasta bake out of the oven.
Except there wasn’t much more than a bowlful in the center of the baking dish. It looked nothing like the picture. Something was missing. Scanning the kitchen, trying desperately to figure out why my creation didn’t resemble the picture, the tubular noodles resting in the colander in the sink caught my attention. I had a pan of simply “bake.”
“Hello, is this Mr . Wong’s Chinese Palace?” I asked as soon as I heard the connection.“Do you deliver?”