On Mondays we spread more peanut butter sandwiches than we normally do because sometimes kids don't get enough to eat over the weekend. Of everything we do in the kitchen, spreading sandwiches takes the most time. We go through more than a gallon of peanut butter every day.
Verona and I sat there together for almost an hour while the others were out setting tables and getting the lines ready. It was almost 11:00, time for the second grade to show up. The vegetables were already up in the roasters, ready to serve. It's almost Christmas now, but we were talking about the March menus. Planning school meals isn't any different from doing the job at home—it's hard to come up with something new. And it's got to be likeable, of course. The waste here is a sin you never quite get used to.
"We could use tons of apples," Verona said.
Sometimes government fruits come thick during the winter, if there's a surplus.
"You never know if we'll get them for sure," I told her.
"You never know anything for sure," Verona said.
"You got me there, I guess," I said.
It was already the fourteenth. I knew that if I was ever going to say a thing, I had to now. So I didn't wait for something easy. I kept telling myself it was me or the lawyers. Kelly doesn't just shoot off her mouth about things like that. So I charged in right there in the middle of menus, and maybe I shouldn't have. Like I said, we've never said a word about it before.
"Verona," I told her, "Kelly says that jumper you sent for Mandy's birthday was just darling."
You could feel cold seep into the room as if someone had just opened a window to winter.
"I've been waiting to see it on her," I told her. "She looks so cute in dark colors."
Government peanut butter isn't the texture of Peter Pan. Sometimes towards the bottom of the can it spreads in chunks and rips the bread.
"Verona," I said, "I wish there was some other way we could do this. I know what that child means to you. I mean, I can see it when she comes through the line."
She wasn't looking at me at all. She reached in the bag and pulled out a half‑dozen slices of bread, then jammed the spatu1a down into the tub for more peanut butter.
"I know we never talk about it," I said, "but if it helps at all for me to say it, I think I know how you feel."
"How dare you say that?" she said, turning to me, her eyes full of glass shards.
It was pointless for me to argue, so I let it go and the both of us kept on spreading.
Martha finished up on the tables and came up to the window wondering if she ought to start slicing up cheese for tomorrow's lasagne. When I told her to check the napkin holders, she knew something was sticky between us.
"It hurts me to have to say this," I told Verona, "but Kelly's always been her own person and I long ago gave up trying to fight her. Maybe she's got a point too. She says it's got to stop—your presents." I didn't know whether or not the woman was even tuned in to what I was saying. "Are you listening to me?" I said.
She never moved.
"Well, you're going to hear me because I'm the one who's got to say it." I was shaking myself, I'll have you know, maybe even a little bit angry because Verona just couldn't be civil. "Kelly says you've got to stop sending presents because Mandy's getting old enough to wonder where they're coming from. That's what I'm supposed to say. And you know it's true. You've watched her grow."
Verona's eyes stayed down on the bread. She turned hard as the counter top.
"She's right, Verona. Mandy's no baby, but she doesn't have to know the whole story, not yet. You know that too. She's too young."
Miss Brigston from the second grade came through the door all smiles. "It's five minutes early I know," she said. "But I figured you might not mind if I brought the kids down a little quick. They're so excited. Did you see the beautiful snow?"
I hadn't even looked outside since seven.
Verona and I sat there together for almost an hour while the others were out setting tables and getting the lines ready. It was almost 11:00, time for the second grade to show up. The vegetables were already up in the roasters, ready to serve. It's almost Christmas now, but we were talking about the March menus. Planning school meals isn't any different from doing the job at home—it's hard to come up with something new. And it's got to be likeable, of course. The waste here is a sin you never quite get used to.
"We could use tons of apples," Verona said.
Sometimes government fruits come thick during the winter, if there's a surplus.
"You never know if we'll get them for sure," I told her.
"You never know anything for sure," Verona said.
"You got me there, I guess," I said.
It was already the fourteenth. I knew that if I was ever going to say a thing, I had to now. So I didn't wait for something easy. I kept telling myself it was me or the lawyers. Kelly doesn't just shoot off her mouth about things like that. So I charged in right there in the middle of menus, and maybe I shouldn't have. Like I said, we've never said a word about it before.
"Verona," I told her, "Kelly says that jumper you sent for Mandy's birthday was just darling."
You could feel cold seep into the room as if someone had just opened a window to winter.
"I've been waiting to see it on her," I told her. "She looks so cute in dark colors."
Government peanut butter isn't the texture of Peter Pan. Sometimes towards the bottom of the can it spreads in chunks and rips the bread.
"Verona," I said, "I wish there was some other way we could do this. I know what that child means to you. I mean, I can see it when she comes through the line."
She wasn't looking at me at all. She reached in the bag and pulled out a half‑dozen slices of bread, then jammed the spatu1a down into the tub for more peanut butter.
"I know we never talk about it," I said, "but if it helps at all for me to say it, I think I know how you feel."
"How dare you say that?" she said, turning to me, her eyes full of glass shards.
It was pointless for me to argue, so I let it go and the both of us kept on spreading.
Martha finished up on the tables and came up to the window wondering if she ought to start slicing up cheese for tomorrow's lasagne. When I told her to check the napkin holders, she knew something was sticky between us.
"It hurts me to have to say this," I told Verona, "but Kelly's always been her own person and I long ago gave up trying to fight her. Maybe she's got a point too. She says it's got to stop—your presents." I didn't know whether or not the woman was even tuned in to what I was saying. "Are you listening to me?" I said.
She never moved.
"Well, you're going to hear me because I'm the one who's got to say it." I was shaking myself, I'll have you know, maybe even a little bit angry because Verona just couldn't be civil. "Kelly says you've got to stop sending presents because Mandy's getting old enough to wonder where they're coming from. That's what I'm supposed to say. And you know it's true. You've watched her grow."
Verona's eyes stayed down on the bread. She turned hard as the counter top.
"She's right, Verona. Mandy's no baby, but she doesn't have to know the whole story, not yet. You know that too. She's too young."
Miss Brigston from the second grade came through the door all smiles. "It's five minutes early I know," she said. "But I figured you might not mind if I brought the kids down a little quick. They're so excited. Did you see the beautiful snow?"
I hadn't even looked outside since seven.
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Tomorrow: More troubles.
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