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“Good morning to you too, boss,” Lena says with a lingering smile. I swear to God she is mocking me with her attitude. And I like her for that even more. Phillip is a lucky bastard.
“You working on the soup?” I frown at the carrots that are perfectly shaped. Just like I taught her.
“Yes, and I took the liberty of preparing red sauce rigatoni for your mother.” She gestures toward the oven, the source of the divine smell.
“How did you know I need a dish for my mother?” I snap.
“It’s hard not to overhear your phone conversations. I hope rigatoni is okay for a wake.” She returns to her slicing mastery.
She anticipated my needs. Lena the fucking Saint. And then I glimpse my expression in the mirror above the sink in the corner and I sigh. “Thank you, Lena, I appreciate your help.”
To her credit, she only shrugs. I love people who don’t gloat. Or who would do it inwardly.
I go to my office, check my emails and look over the reservation systems for the next two weeks. We are booked solid for the special menu I’m testing. Good. I’d go to get changed, but unfortunately my mother has other plans for my day off.
As she put it, spending a day off at work is not healthy. As if going to a wake is.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Speak of the devil. I hate the days off.
“When will you be here?” Mother never starts a phone call with a greeting.
“In an hour or so.” I dare to roll my eyes because she can’t see me.
“Hurry. I don’t want to be late. Are you bringing the lasagna?”
“Rigatoni.” I stand up to leave my office.
“Rigatoni? You’ve never made rigatoni for a funeral. Usually we bring lasagna.” Her voice is accusatory as if I’ve just broken our neighbor’s window.
“What does it matter? You said bringsomething. Something, Mother. Not lasagna. Rigatoni is a perfectly respectable mourning dish.” I slam the office door behind me.
“I just don’t want the family to think we treat them differently.”
Her response makes no sense.
“Mother, nobody remembers what you usually bring to a wake. Who died anyway?” I ask as I turn the corner.
Lena is ordering everyone around with efficiency and unnecessary kindness. The kitchen seems to run as smoothly as if I were working. Why does that annoy me?
“Just get here soon.” Mom hangs up.
Somehow, as the oldest son, I became responsible for accompanying my mother to all the funerals. It might be my ability to bring the food, but for some reason Mother relies on my personal presence. I don’t even know why, but I comply begrudgingly.
She hung up too quickly. God help me if there is an eligible freshly widowed woman involved.
I bark a few commands at Lena, who doesn’t flinch but continues to debone the fish of the day with expert proficiency.
“You don’t want to be late, boss,” she says, puts down the knife and hands me a large dish covered with foil. “Careful, it’s hot.”
Yes, I’m grouchier than usual. Perhaps. But I hate Mondays. I hate when people are trying to get rid of me. I hate not being here.
“Everyone, don’t fuck up while I’m gone,” I roar as Phillip ambles into the kitchen.
“I see you’re your usual sunshine and all.” He walks over and plants a kiss in Lena’s hair. She hands him a bag with sandwiches that he picks up every day for a homeless person near his art studio.
“You know how he gets on Mondays,” Lena deadpans.
“We agreed you have to take two days off for your own mental health, bro.” Phillip pats my shoulder.
