“In Italy the chickens are fed wheat, and it’s the best chicken I’ve ever had,” Tina said. She’d gotten the baby to coo and laugh by pretending to eat her nose.
“Well, of course, in Italy.” Rebecca laughed, her snobbery bested for once. I felt her eyes roving all over me. My dress. My hair. My face. I sensed outrage at what she saw, and maybe a little bit of betrayal. I’d told her the attire was festive, and she was wearing the black wool dress she’d worn to my father’s funeral.
“Come meet everyone,” I said to Rebecca, and showed her the way to the living room.
* * *
Rebecca seemed to relax next to the fire with some gin. The other women were empathetic to her situation, full of advice about how they’d gotten their babies to stop being so clingy. Rebecca listened to them and didn’t interject with any of her success stories about Allen. She didn’t mention Allen at all. Everyone assumed the baby was her first, and she allowed it. She finally tucked her hair behind her ears and even laughed at a joke Frances told, though I saw the way she looked at Irene sitting so close to Frances on the couch. Her disapproval was radiating off her in waves.
We moved to the dining room for dinner. Before we sat down, Frances insisted on taking a picture of Tina and me, holding my prized roast chicken. The other women piled behind her in the doorway, exclaiming over what a great picture we took together. Frances promised to send us a copy as soon as she had the chance to get the film developed.
Everyone raved about the meal. They wanted to know how I got my potatoes so crisp, whether I stuffed the cavity of the chicken with butter. The women took turns passing the baby so that Rebecca had a chance to enjoy her meal. The bones on her plate were picked clean by the time my niece made it back around the table.
“You could do this professionally, Ruth,” one of the women said. Down the formal stretch of the burlwood table, Tina and I met eyes. We’d been talking about my goal to enroll in culinary school, but first I had to complete my GED.
Tina raised her glass with an impish smile. “Actually,” she said, “Ruth is going to culinary school to do just that.”
I realized Frances was grinning too. “That’s the plan eventually,” I said before the women got too excited for me. “But I have to go back and get my GED first.”
Tina gave a small shake of her head. “I spoke to the school. They’re willing to waive the requirement in exchange for a summer of work in a restaurant kitchen.”
Frances said, “And we have a friend who could use the help.” Irene nodded, and Rebecca’s jaw clenched at the use of we.
The women asked a million questions. How many years was culinary school? Did I want to work in a restaurant, or catering, maybe? Someone’s cousin had found success in catering weddings. Maybe I could even open a restaurant of my own one day!
The final course was a lemon tart with a thin layer of chocolate between the pastry and the filling. The women moaned in ecstasy, but I noticed that the baby was drifting off in Rebecca’s arms and that she hadn’t been able to touch her piece.
“You can put her in our room,” Tina said to Rebecca. I registered the seriousness of the words our room, but it didn’t seem as though anyone else did. Everyone was too full, too tipsy, too happy for me.
“It’s a big house,” I said as humbly as I could. “I’ll show you.”
* * *
Rebecca and I removed the cushions from the love seat, the one by the bay windows that seemed to cut Mount Rainier off at its snowy head, and constructed an infant-sized nook on the floor. Rebecca rocked back on her heels and took in her surroundings. In the bedroom she shared with my brother, there was not even space for a bureau, and they stored their clothes in a linen closet in the hallway.
Rebecca’s eyes dipped over an indent in a pillow. The bed was made, but Tina had jumped on top of the covers and put her hands behind her head to watch me try on clothes for the party. Remembering her like that—watching—I wished everyone would go that very second.
“Do you sleep in here too?”
My heart met my throat, with bold intentions at first. She had to know the answer; asking implied I had some reason to explain myself. To her, of all people. I raised my chin and said, “I do.”
I was prepared for disgust, but to my complete surprise, Rebecca put her hand on my wrist tenderly. “You know, Ruth? If you’re trying to punish your family for the way they’ve treated you… I wouldn’t blame you one bit.” She sank into a cross-legged position with a heavy exhale. “I should have thanked you a long time ago. I was so scared the first few months after you went away. I kept waiting for someone to tell your brother about us. For someone to tell my parents. But no one ever did. I got off scot-free. But you”—her eyes glistened with tears—“you suffered, and I’m sorry.”