I CHECKED OUT BROWNIE recipes on the internet, but decided not to try to make them until I’d asked Mrs. J. Maybe she had a special never-fail recipe, or maybe the red book had some tips. I wouldn’t mind a good recipe for chocolate chip cookies, either. Mom sometimes made the kind of cookies where the dough is already mixed and frozen in a big pail and you just thaw, scoop and bake. I bet I could learn to make cookies from scratch.
When I arrived at Mrs. J.’s on Wednesday, I grabbed slippers in a hurry, then headed into the kitchen. She wasn’t there, waiting for me, her tea sitting beside her.
“Mrs. J? It’s me.” No answer. I called again. “Mrs. J?”
“Who is it?” Her voice came from down the hall, maybe from her bedroom. She wasn’t in the bathroom. That door was open.
“It’s me, Darrah.”
“Is it that time already? I’ll be right there.” While I waited for her, I looked for the red Foods, Nutrition and Home Management book, hoping to find a recipe for brownies, but the book wasn’t on the kitchen table. Nothing was on the table except two prescription bottles of pills. I picked one up. “Take one or two every four hours for pain.” That bottle was almost empty, but the second bottle was full, even had the fluffy cotton stuffed into the top. Don’t know why drugstores stick that cotton on top of the pills. Maybe so they don’t rattle around? Or maybe it’s some sort of pharmacists’ rule?
I heard her cane thump on the floor, then Mrs. J. came down the hall from her bedroom. She moved slowly, and held on to the counter as she edged her way around to her usual seat. “Put the kettle on, girl. I need tea.” She wasn’t wearing the air boot today, just using her cane.
I filled the kettle, turned it on, then rummaged in the cupboard for her blueberry tea. There wasn’t any. “What kind of tea would you like? The blueberry stuff ’s all gone.”
“Doesn’t matter, just something hot.” She groaned as she hitched herself up on the stool. “Put those away,” she said, gesturing at the pills. “Damn things make me nauseous.”
My own stomach lurched as I realized that her pain was my fault. I didn’t say anything except: “Where do you want me to put the pills?”
I started to do as she asked, but she stopped me. “No, changed my mind. Pass me a glass of water and one of them before you put them away.”
“Are you hurting?” What a stupid question to ask. Why would she ask for a pain pill if she felt fine. “I’m so sorry your leg’s still sore, Mrs. J. I’m really sorry.”
I put the glass of water and one pill, the second last one in the nearly empty container, in front of her. She put it in her mouth, grimaced, swallowed, then grimaced again. “Forget it. What do you want to do today?”
“Make brownies.”
“Brownies?”
“With sprinkles.”
“Don’t have any sprinkles. Besides, good, moist brownies aren’t as easy to make as most people think.”
“Oh.” Disappointed, I poured out the warming water from the teapot, and added boiling water and a scoop of tea called “Constant Comment.” I knew she liked this one, it smelled of oranges and other spices, as well as tea. “My brother asked for brownies. He had a seizure last night and I thought—”
“He has epilepsy, doesn’t he? He’s the reason you were at the hospital the same day I was there. Is he all right?”
“He will be,” I said, taking the tea strainer out of the drawer. “But Mom gets upset when he has a seizure.” Then, perhaps to change the subject, I announced, “I made dinner last night, soup from a left-over barbecued chicken, and I baked biscuits, too.”
She nodded. “I thought you’d be a good cook. You’re clever, and a cook has to be inventive. Takeout barbecued chicken carcass for stock? Never thought of that.”
“It was a success; everyone liked it. Now I’m going to cook two dinners a week for the family, and get a raise in my allowance.”
“Good.” She tried to pick up the teapot, then let it thump back onto the counter. “You filled it too full. Come over here and pour my tea. The pot’s too heavy.”
I’d only filled it halfway, but I did as she asked. “So you don’t think I’m ready for brownies?”
She held the mug to her lips, blew across the tea and sighed. “No, you probably could manage them fine. I’m too tired today to help you.”
“Is something wrong with your leg? Shouldn’t it be getting better by now? It’s been weeks since . . .”
“Don’t want to talk about it.”
“Sorry, I just . . .”
“Wacky Cake, that’s what we’ll make.”
“Wacky Cake?”
“It’s all mixed in one pan, the one you bake it in, then you serve it from the same pan. It’s fast, easy and fail-proof. An old recipe of my mother’s. Grab my recipes, there, on top of the fridge.”
Her recipes were in a small box, written out on file cards, the kind I use to make cue cards when I’m trying to learn lines for a play. The box smelled musty and the headings on the section dividers were written in faded ink. I peered at them—“Soups,” “Salad Dressings,” “Breads,” “Desserts”—and decided to look in “Cakes and Cookies.” Logical. There it was, a pale blue card labelled “Wacky Cake.” In spidery writing, the same writing as the recipe, beside a smudge of what looked like chocolate, was a date: September 20, 193_. The smudge covered the last number. Underneath that was a note “Janie made this by herself today.” Janie? Oh, Mrs. Johnson! This recipe card must have belonged to Mrs. J.’s mother!
The old lady in the kitchen vanished, and I saw instead a small girl with long pigtails and a flour smudge on her nose.
“Find the recipe?” The pigtails were gone; Mrs. J., grey hair, cane and all, was back.
“What? Oh, yes, I found it.” I scanned the ingredients. “Vinegar? What kind of a cake has vinegar in it?”
“This one,” she said curtly, and then the phone rang.
She grabbed it, grunted “hello,” then listened. Finally she said, “No, no need to do that. Drop the boy off here. I’ll get Robin to drive him home later. Go do what you have to do, he’ll be fine.”
She grunted a few more times then, with a final “you’re welcome,” she hung up the phone. I was only half listening, still checking the Wacky Cake recipe. “Who’s Robin driving home?” I asked.
“You. And your brother.”
“Andrew? Andrew’s coming here?” I dropped the file card. “Why?” I asked, scrambling to pick it up.
“There’s an emergency at your mother’s office. She has to go help out, right away, something that has to be dealt with immediately or dire consequences will befall the whole company. Your father’s in an important meeting; it’s going to run late and he can’t get away to look after your brother. Or to pick you up. She doesn’t want to leave your brother alone.”
“She always watches him carefully after a seizure,” I said, thinking of how Mom hovered around Andrew until he blew up and told her to leave him alone, to stop helicoptering.
“Your mom said she would come and get you and take you home so you could keep an eye on your brother. I told her to bring him to you instead. You can watch out for him here just as well as at your house.”
“Here?” My brain wasn’t absorbing what she’d said. “Andrew’s coming to your house?”
“That’s what I said. While you’re making sure he takes off his shoes and puts on slippers, you might want to look at your own feet. You’re multicolored this afternoon.”
She was right. I was wearing one purple and one orange slipper. “I was thinking about brownies; wasn’t paying attention.”
“I know the feeling very well. People say you’re forgetting things, but what you are really doing is not focusing on the right thing at the right time.”
“You don’t forget things, Mrs. J. You know where everything in this kitchen is. Bet you know where everything in the whole house is kept.”
“Told you, girl. It’s my house. I know it and it knows me. The only way anyone will get me out of here is—”
“Don’t say that!”
“Interrupting is very rude, girl.”
“I’m sorry, but I know what you were going to say and it gives me the creeps. I don’t want to hear it. Please.” I shivered and wished that whoever was walking where my grave would be some day would go walk somewhere else.
“You have a point. It is a rather ‘creepy’ statement. I won’t say it again.”
“Thanks.” I looked at the recipe for Wacky Cake. “I bet you know this one by heart. You’ve been making it since you were, how old?”
“I can’t remember how old I was when I first made it, but I had to stand on a chair to reach the sugar in the cupboard. Mother was out and I decided to bake a cake to surprise her. I think I got the bigger surprise, a good spanking when my father got home.”
“Your father beat you?”
“They called it discipline back then, not abuse. But yes, he did. With the back of a hairbrush. On my behind.”
“Why? You were doing something good.”
“I wasn’t allowed to use the stove by myself.”
“Did you have to light a fire? Was it one of those wood stoves?”
“No, it was a brand new electric stove. All gleaming white. My mother kept telling me how easy it was to use, so I thought I’d try.” She winced, as if the spanking she had received so many decades ago still stung.
“Get the square glass baking pan, and let’s get started. No bowls to wash up; everything is mixed in that one pan.”
I had my head in the low cupboard where the baking dishes were kept when the doorbell rang.
“Ouch!” Even though I knew Mom was coming, I’d still jumped at the sound, banging my head against the top of the cupboard. “I’ll get it,” I said, needlessly as Mrs. J. made no attempt to move from her perch.
Mom told me to make sure Andrew did his homework and keep an eye on him, reminded him to mind his manners, and said she was sorry she couldn’t come in and say “hello” to Mrs. Johnson but she had to dash.
“Why are your feet two different colours? What are those things anyway?” asked Andrew.
I pulled off the purple slipper and tossed it into the basket, found the other orange one and pulled it on. “Slippers. Grab a pair,” I said.
“I’ll just wear my socks,”
“No you won’t. House rules: no outside shoes, no bare feet or socks.”
“They’re all wimp colours,” he complained, surveying the slippers. “Except the orange ones. Can I wear those?”
“No. Hang up your coat and backpack, take off your shoes. Once you’re ready, bring your homework and come to the kitchen. I’m working.”
I’d measured the flour, cocoa and sugar into the pan by the time Andrew came in. He’d taken his time, probably agonizing over which pair of slippers to wear. On his feet were brown ones with thin yellow stripes. They must have been at the bottom of the basket as I hadn’t noticed them before, and they were much too big for him.
“Mrs. Johnson, this is my brother, Andrew.”
“How do you do, Andrew?”
“Fine. What’s Darrah making?”
“Wacky Cake.”
“What kind?”
“Chocolate cake,” I said. “Sit down on the bench and start your homework.”
“No, come sit by me, boy. I’d like to see what passes for homework these days. What grade are you in?”
“Five.” He’d pulled up the other tall stool, the one that was usually pushed into a corner, and the two of them sat side by side. Andrew wriggled uncomfortably.
“What’s your arithmetic homework?” Mrs. J. asked.
He looked puzzled.
“Math,” I explained.
Andrew put his math text on the counter. “I’ve got lots. It’s review. Fifty questions by tomorrow.”
The two of them bent their heads over Andrew’s math homework. I continued with the Wacky Cake, making three holes in the dry ingredients, putting the vinegar, the vanilla and the oil each in a different hole.
“DO NOT BEAT” the recipe insisted in capital letters, underlined, so I mixed well “with a fork” as instructed, and popped the cake into the oven (preheated to 350 degrees).
Andrew was reading the questions to Mrs. J., and she was figuring out the answers in her head. They were racing to see who could get the answer first. I could tell Mrs. J. beat Andrew almost every time—she nodded her head just a bit and almost smiled when she got it—but she usually let him say the answer before she did.
Once again, Robin appeared in the kitchen unannounced. “Hi Gran, hi kid, how you feeling?”
“I’m feeling fine,” I answered, even though I knew he was talking to Andrew. “I think you have nasal radar that can smell something baking from miles away.”
He smiled. He had a wonderful smile.
“Bet that’s Wacky Cake.”
“How’d you know?”
“Gran used to let me make it when I was little.”
“Good, then why don’t you make the icing?”
He laughed and reached for the recipe card. “Okay, if I can use this cheat sheet. It’s been awhile.”
I could smell the chocolate cake baking. Andrew and Mrs. J. said an answer at the same time and laughed. Robin whistled as he blended butter and sugar together in a small pot. Outside, it was dark and cold, but in here it was warm and bright. I could see my reflection in the bay window; the overhead lights reflecting back from the dark.
I sat on the bench in the kitchen nook and watched and listened and felt warm. Not warm from the oven heat, but inside. At first I didn’t recognize that feeling. Then I realized what it was.
I was happy.
The four of us finished the cake. Mrs. J. had a small piece and pronounced it “acceptable,” except the icing was too sweet. Andrew asked her if we could borrow the recipe. Maybe he could help me make it at home.
I promised to take good care of the recipe card and return it the next time, then slipped it into Andrew’s math book. “I’ll let you help if you copy it out for me,” I told him.
“Deal.”
“It’s after five,” said Robin. “Isn’t your dad coming for you, Darrah?”
“No,” said Andrew. “You’re driving us home.”
“Meant to ask you, forgot, sorry,” said Mrs. J.
“No problem.” Robin smiled at me. “Always a pleasure.”
The warm happy feeling stayed with me all the way home. Andrew leaned over the back seat and chattered at Robin who kept turning and smiling at me.
The warm happy feeling was still with me when we stopped outside our house.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said.
“Yeah, thanks,” said Andrew, climbing out of the backseat. “I like your grandma,” he told Robin cheerfully.
Then it happened, and the warm feeling twisted in my stomach and turned into something cold and frightening, as Andrew continued, “Too bad she’s going blind.”