Chapter 6 Cooking
For the next couple of days, no words pass between me and my father as we walk to the bakery each morning.
He glances at me but swallows back the words he wants to say, shaking his head.
I’m sure he wants to launch into his normal lecture about American youth, but knows he can’t when he continues to take a portion of the money from said American youth.
This eliminates even the few words we normally speak to each other.
When I’m at home, too, the silence is expanding, taking up more space than it used to.
The only words Mama directs at me are instructions to get Babcia’s tray or to clear the plates.
Nothing more, certainly nothing about my new job.
I know my endeavor has added another ripple of worry to the already heavy air in the apartment.
My parents don’t know what to make of me, heading out into the world as I am.
The guilt lodges in my chest, causing me to struggle to draw a breath.
Babcia is mercifully ignorant of the little drama playing out in the quiet apartment.
And by some tacit agreement, we keep it that way.
She wouldn’t be able to bite her tongue and now that she is bedridden, her mind is forever grasping for something to latch onto from which she will never let go. At least we agree on one thing.
Friday afternoon finally comes, and when I leave the apartment, I’m clutching a bag full of ingredients and spices, and I hold my head high as I throw open our door. When Jake answers my knock, he grins widely when he spots my bag.
He exclaims, “Oh super! What do I have to look forward to tonight?”
I redden and demur, “I figured I’d see what Veronica feels like making.”
“Excellent! I’m looking forward to anything those lovely hands make.”
I’m sure he is talking about Veronica’s hands, as everything about her is lovely, but he playfully grabs my hand and swings it in an arc reminding me of that first time I met him in the hallway when he tried to dance with Papa and me.
A flush rises from my chest to my cheeks.
I pull my hand back in surprise, turn quickly, and head down the now familiar hall.
Veronica is sitting on the stool and smiles weakly at me when I circle into the kitchen.
Jake calls out, “I’m leaving. Be back at six.”
We both say, “Goodbye,” in unison.
I turn to Veronica and inquire, “How are you doing?”
Veronica shrugs. The weight of the world appears to be resting on her slim shoulders. She’s wrapped in a lovely white and green kimono. Wanting nothing more than to distract her from her heavy thoughts, I start chattering—about birds, of all things.
“I was walking in Central Park and saw a wood duck the other day,” I tell her. “Have you ever seen one? Honestly, it looks just like your kimono.” I leave out the unfortunate circumstances surrounding the sighting.
She forces a smile but appears to perk up slightly. I gauge she still isn’t in the right mood to select a recipe, so I make an executive decision. “Are you hungry? I’m going to make some pierogis.”
She nods her head and settles her elbows on the counter, leaning her head on her hands so they encircle her lovely face.
I quickly mix up the dough and give Veronica the ingredients for the filling: ricotta cheese with eggs, sugar, salt, and pepper. As she stirs them together, I tell her, “Now we have to let the dough rest for twenty minutes.”
“Rest, why would dough ever need to rest?”
“Er, you know I don’t really know. I just know it’s very important. We all need our rest, right?” I giggle.
A little wisp of warmth unfurls in my chest when I see Veronica smile back at me. The first proper smile I’ve seen.
Leaning my elbows on the counter and resting my head in my hands, matching her pose, I whisper conspiratorially, “I told my parents I’m giving you cooking lessons because you’re getting married and wanted to learn to cook.
So, if you ever bump into them when you’re going in or out, can you go along with the story? ”
Veronica eyes me and then shrugs. “Sure, but I’m not going in or out these days. I’m lying low.”
“If I looked like you, I would be out every night,” I blurt—and then, realizing I may have overstepped, I add, “Or at least that is what I imagine I’d do.”
Veronica nods sagely. “It’s not as fun as it looks, and shit can really mess you up.” Waving her hand gracefully in a circle around her beautiful face. “It’s really all an illusion.” Suddenly she jumps up and exclaims, “That’s a great idea! We must do it.”
I frown. “Do what?”
“A makeover, of course. What fun.”
My frown deepens, and I cross my arms across my chest, withdrawing a bit.
Ignoring my shaking head, Veronica pulls a chair away from the large oak kitchen table and pushes it over toward the window, then heads down the hallway.
Instead of turning to the right, into the room I helped Jake carry her to the other day, she moves past it, entering the room that is my parents’ bedroom in our apartment.
In no time, she returns with a little suitcase and lays it on the table. It opens like a clamshell. Inside are hundreds of nooks and crannies filled with little bottles of this and tubes of that.
“What is all this?” I exclaim.
Veronica laughs. It is deep and unexpected. She ends it with a little snort, which immediately makes me smile. I’d do anything to make this sad waif of a creature smile and laugh, even if it means putting on makeup.
Setting out several bottles and brushes on the table, Veronica keeps glancing at my face.
She tells me to sit and dramatically twirls around my chair.
I catch my breath at the fun of a spinning chair.
All our kitchen chairs are ancient and certainly do not spin.
What could be the purpose of a spinning kitchen chair?
Veronica, though, has no doubt about its usefulness, as she rotates me back and forth while holding her finger up to her mouth and staring at me with frank intensity.
“I’ve never really worn makeup before,” I rush. “I bought foundation once from Duane Reed, but it made me look kind of orange, and my mother banned me from ever putting any-thing on my face again. She used the word harlot, although pumpkin would have been more fitting.”
Veronica smiles indulgently. “You have the complexion of a porcelain doll. You just bought the wrong shade. The secret is to put on makeup so it doesn’t look like you’re wearing anything at all.”
“But then, what’s the point?”
Veronica states dramatically, “Ah, just wait and see,” and then she sets to work.
She hums to herself and periodically tells me to close my eyes or press my lips together.
I can feel the feathery touches of the various brushes stroke my face, and I relax under her ministrations.
My mind drifts and I wonder what the little wood duck is doing now.
This is the first time I’ve thought of him without immediately remembering the associated curse, and I’m glad of that.
I don’t want to blame the colorful little bird for my issues or think it is a curse of any sort.
Maybe he simply appeared to me when I needed him most, and he was saying, “I’m here for you. ” I let out a sigh, feeling better.
I’m jolted from my reverie when Veronica waves her arms with a flourish, spins me around in a complete circle, and announces triumphantly, “Tah dah!”
“Come, come,” she orders and leads me into Jake’s room.
She turns on the fancy overhead light I remember from that morning, and I see the little stars dancing on the quilt. She pulls me over to a large mirror on top of a low bureau.
I approach it hesitantly. And then I stare.
It is me, but it isn’t me. I’m enhanced.
My eyes look wide and more pronounced. They’ve always been large and the color of blue cornflowers, but today they are luminous.
My lashes are long but very blonde, so you normally can’t see them.
Now, suddenly, they stand out and seem to have a life of their own.
They sweep up and down as I blink; my eyelids glide up and down in slow motion and seem to be speaking a mystical language, saying, look at me.
My skin looks dewy and has a rose tint that, no matter how much pinching I’ve done to my cheeks, I’ve never achieved.
It is a faint blush of perfection. My lips are a perfect little bow, and the color isn’t a daring red or anything close, but they look larger and almost sumptuous.
I turn and clap my hands to my face and exclaim, “Oh my gosh, you are magic!”
Veronica hoots, “Em, you have a solid base, I just played it up.”
She called me Em.
Staring at the mirror some more, I bat my eyes and tilt my head to one side. I really look so different, yet the same, and I certainly don’t look like a harlot. I look almost younger than my twenty-six years.
I breathe, “You’ll have to teach me.” I almost say Vee but at the last minute stop myself.
“Perfect!” Veronica says. “You will teach me to cook, and I will teach you makeup.”
“Oh, the pierogis!” I exclaim. “The dough must be ready.”
We start to walk out of Jake’s room, and I catch a flash of movement at his window and walk over.
There is a plastic birdfeeder attached to the window, and a few white-breasted nuthatches and chipping sparrows are picking at some seeds.
What a marvelous idea—having the birds come to you instead of always having to go to them.
Why haven’t I thought about doing something like that?
Veronica takes my arm and pulls me away from the feeder.
I hand her a spoon and the cheese filling, and I find a jar lid to cut out circles from the dough.
Then I show her how to put a dollop of cheese filling in the middle of each dough circle and then pinch the edges to seal them.
She eventually gets the hang of it but a few of her dumplings will struggle to keep their seal during the next steps.