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SIXTEEN
Grandma was waiting at the door when we got to the house.
“Mr. Coglin isn't here yet,” she said.
Morelli let Bob off the leash, and Bob ran into the kitchen to say hello to my mother. I
heard my mother shriek and then all was quiet.
“He must have eaten something/' Grandma said. ”I hope it wasn't the cake." The house smelled good, like Italian spices in marinara sauce and garlic bread in the oven.
The dining room was set for six. Two bottles of red wine on the table, a bowl of grated Parmigiano-Reggiano. My father was asleep in front of the television, and I could hear my mother working in the kitchen, talking to Bob.
“Be a good boy, and I'll give you a little lasagna,” she said to Bob.
I followed Grandma into the kitchen and looked around for Bob damage. “What did he eat?” I asked my mother. “It was almost the cake, but I caught him in time.”
I went to the stove and stirred the extra sauce cooking in the pan. I love being in my mothers kitchen. It is always warm and steamy and filled with activity. In my mind, I have a kitchen like this. The cabinets are filled with dishes that actually get used. The pots sit out on the stove, waiting for the days sauces and soups and stews. The cookbook on the counter is dog-eared and splattered with grease and gravy and icing smudges.
This is a fantasy kitchen, of course. My actual kitchen has dishes, but I eat standing over the sink, paper towel in hand. I have a single pot that is only used to boil water for tea when I have a cold. And I don't own a cookbook.
Sometimes, I wanted to marry Morelli so I'd have a kitchen like my mom's. Then, other times, I worried that I couldn't pull it off, and I'd have a husband and three kids, and we'd all be eating take-out standing over the sink. I guess there are worse things in the world than take-out, but in my mother's kitchen, take-out feels a little like failure.
The doorbell chimed and Grandma took off like a shot.
“I've got it!” she yelled. “I've got the door.”
My mother had the hot lasagna resting on the counter. The bread was still in the oven. It was three minutes to six. If the food wasn't on the table in eight minutes, my mother would consider everything to be ruined. My mother operates on a tight schedule. There is a small window of opportunity for perfection in my mother's kitchen.
We all went into the living room to greet Carl Coglin.
“This here's Carl Coglin,” Grandma announced. “He's a taxidermist, and he got the best of the cable company.”
“Those fuckers,” my father said.
“I brought you a present for being so nice and watching my house,” Coglin said to Grandma. And he handed her a big box.
Grandma opened the box and hauled out a stuffed cat. It was standing on four stiff legs, and its tail looked like a bottlebrush. Like maybe the cat had been electrocuted while standing in the rain.
“Ain't that a pip!” Grandma said. “I always wanted a cat.”
My mother turned white and clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Holy crap,” my father said. “Is that son of a bitch dead?”
“His name is Blackie,” Coglin said.
“He won't explode, will he?” Grandma asked.
“No,” Coglin said. “He's a pet.”
“Isn't this something,” Grandma said. “This is about the best present I ever got.”
Bob came in, took one look at Blackie, and ran off to hide under the dining room table.
“Goodness,” my mother said, “look at the time. Lets eat. Everyone take a seat. Here, let me pour the wine.” My mother poured herself a tumbler and chugged it down. It took a couple beats to hit her stomach, and then the color started to come back into her face.
Grandma dragged an extra chair to the table so Blackie could eat with us. Blackie had close-set eyes, one higher in his head than the other, giving him a pissed-off, slightly deranged expression. He peered over the edge of the table, one eye focused on Morelli and one eye on his water glass.
