The Kitchen

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“…angels have no memory...” “Margaret, he has no eyes, no eyes!” “They’re closed.” “Do they have feet; do they need them; his wings don’t move; how will he get around to do his miracles? How will he know where to go if he can’t see?” “Roberta, they’re angels; they just know.” “Why isn’t there a button to bring back the color?” “Stop it, Bertie; it’s an OLD movie; it’s IN black and white.” “Margaret, I can see that, but why isn’t there a button to bring back the color?” “It never had color.” “What does that mean? How could it never have color?” “Because its black and white; now stop it, I can’t hear.” “How are we supposed to believe he’s flying if his wings don’t move?” “Bert, it’s a MOVIE.” “So?” "…to us there is no evil…” “In old movies they don’t have color and there are lots of things they don’t show.” “…we love everyone, equally…” “Why, Margaret?” “I don’t know.” “Well, did they paint everything white before they made the movie? Is that because it’s an angel movie?” “Yes, that must be it. Now will you stop?’’

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I didn’t really mean ‘right now’ when I said we could bake cookies; I meant ‘someday’. I was hungry—not enough to go downstairs. Bert wouldn’t be stopped. She is a short, scrawny, almost-eight year old, quick and resilient as a tiny steel spring.

At the green marble island in the middle of the kitchen she is a mad scientist, or maybe a pale pigmy conductor, arranging her deaf and dumb orchestra. She stands on the little pink step stool dad made for her in his weekend woodshop class. Bowls to the right; both bottles of that awful organic goat milk and a tin of olive oil in front with all the butter and eggs; and sugar, flour, oatmeal, cornmeal, corn flakes and shredded wheat in a clutter to the left, scattered with raisins, lemons and jars of jelly and jam. Bertie waves tireless, coaxing signals to the uncomprehending boxes, bottles and jars, certain they will become something if only she tries harder or figures out the magic sign.

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Except for her red sneakers and red hair, everything Bertie has in the entire world is pink. I love pink, though not so bright. It looks very good on me, not like on her. I mix it with white or navy blue, or beige. Maybe, for me, it’s really an accent. It looks more elegant that way, more attractive and, well, I am a blond and, obviously, that makes a difference.

What can she do with red hair and skin so pale and fine? Whenever I bring Bertie along to the market I try to keep her away from the fish counter. Under the fluorescent lights she looks just like the uncooked shrimp and, then, she is so small. It's ridiculous, I know. Bertie is too short to see the shrimp herself and she wouldn't think anything or care, but I worry that other people might notice. Her eyes are magnificent and scary: deep turquoise, and splintery like the inside of diamonds and bright as her hair, which usually sticks straight out, all over, very soft and thin; and though I love it—the way it feels—of course, it will never work when she is my age; she will have to do something.

“Blood is thicker than water, Margaret.” She likes this kind of phrase, but, to me, it makes no sense. Who doesn’t know that blood is thicker than water? And what does she mean? She is too young to ‘mean’ anything. Blood is blood and water is water, and you can’t be a human being and not need both.

“You don’t put olive oil in cookies, Roberta, and we don’t need all these eggs or the milk, put some of this back—and no cereal.”

“Margaret, what do we need? What?” It is a reasonable question, or should be; but it makes me angry—for a moment. We should be looking in a cookbook or something. I can’t remember ever making cookies; people do, I know. I must have, sometime, with my mother. I’m not sure how that makes me feel.

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“What can I do for you today, Roberta?” “If you don’t know, Mr. Phillips, then why am I here? Waste not, want not.” “No, I mean, you know, Bertie, what would—is there anything you’d like to talk about today?” “Nothing, nothing, nothing.” “All right, we can just sit here, together—I like your sweater, Roberta. Are those flowers you’re drawing?” “No………..They are birds. On little strings. That are very strong. And they are trying to fly away as fast as they can. That’s just what they do.”

“Roberta, I got a special pillow for you, it’s pink.” “I have eyes.” “Yes, Bertie, you do; and I have eyes, too, so I can see you still like pink. It’s a pretty pillow—don’t you think? And you can take it with you or leave it here, if you like.” “I’ll leave it here. I have pillows at home.” “What are you reading?” “A book.” “Yes. Of course. It has a pretty cover; what’s it about?” “Places…Far away places.” “Is there some place you’d like to go, Bertie?” “I want to go home.” “Well. Yes, of course. And it’s all right, Bertie, if you actually want to leave… you don’t have to stay. I’ll call your mother, she’ll be glad to come get you; you don’t have to stay.” “No, I…it’s OK. Mr. Phillips, I don’t… know, I mean they’re shopping. For clothes. Margaret needs new clothes for school and they like to shop.” “Your mother won’t mind at all; neither will your sister.” “I know.” “Margaret is going away soon—to school, to college.” “Everyone says so. I’m going to school too.” “Yes, but Margaret is going away to school-- she won't be living at home, and she won’t be back until Thanksgiving. You’ll miss her, won’t you?” “She’s so much older now. Her hair is so long she looks just like the picture of her mother and daddy.” “Yes, Margaret looks very much as her mother did.”

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“Blood is thicker than water, Margaret, blood IS thicker than water.” She wants to reach over and flip on the water—to prove her point, I guess—but she can’t without moving the step stool, and, really, that would lose all the effect. She looks over to the sink, and starts laughing when she sees that I notice.

“All right, honey, it’s OK. Put the jelly on top, but make a little dent first.” “You won’t like them.” “Yes I will.” “It’ll look like blood, Margaret. The cookies will look like they’re bleeding.” “Ewww, Bert, that’s awful, it’s raspberry, not blood.” “It still looks a lot like blood, Margaret, really.” “They’ll taste like raspberry; like little linzertortes.” “Linzerwhats?” “Cookies, Roberta, just little cookies, with cute red dots on them, just like you.”

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“But I don’t look like anyone. Not daddy or mom or Margaret.” “Roberta, you look like you, and Margaret didn’t look so much like her mother when she was a girl your age.” “But she had blond hair.” “Yes.” “Mr. Phillips, how do you know?” “Bertie, I’ve told you. I knew your father before he was married to Margaret’s mother.” “I know she’s dead, but where is that, where is she?” “I would say heaven but you never like that word, or, that’s what you said last week.” “How can you believe it when the angels never move their wings and they don’t have feet?” “I see what you mean, I do. I never thought of it that way, but it doesn’t mean you can’t believe in heaven. Where do the little birds you draw go?” “Far away, far away.” “Maybe it’s the same.” “But they have very, very, very strong strings so they can’t go that far away, they can’t, even if they do.”

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“Of course I want to go to school, Roberta. It’ll be fun, and everybody has to; how else will I get a job? When you’re older you’ll understand. And you’ll go away to school too.” “That’s not it, Margaret. That’s not it at all, not at all, nothing.” “What then? Where’s the timer, Bertie? We don’t want them to burn. I’m not going away forever and I’m not even going that far.” “But you won’t be here, Margaret, here. HERE.” “Yes I will, when I come back.” “But how?” “I’ll drive.” “No Margaret, I don’t mean that. Did your mother ever come back… just for a visit?”

“Honey, they don’t have anything to do with each other. I am going to school—to college, Roberta—I’ll be back, you’ll see. And…I know this sounds terrible—I was younger than you are now—but, I don’t remember my mother. I remember us. She didn’t live here, with us, with daddy and me. I mean, mom didn’t live here then either, well, obviously, you know, and you weren’t even born. She did live here—my mother—she must have. I guess she was in the hospital most of the time. And when I look at the picture of her and daddy it’s strange, more like me, older, with some boy who looks like daddy, or only just a little. She never looked like that picture—maybe when she was young. She didn’t have any hair. And it’s awful, Bert, and we shouldn’t talk about this at all and you shouldn’t think about this. I don’t know what to say. She put her arm around me, or, well it wasn’t… daddy had to help her.

She gave me the gold barrette, the one in the picture. She tried to put it in my hand. It almost fell. Her fingernails were too long, and sharp. Maybe it was at the hospital—the floor, everything, everything was white. She was sitting up in bed, very high. It must have been morning because it was so bright, the window behind her, the barrette. She told me to look underneath; she said it was our names: 'Anne' and 'Margaret', but I hadn't known her name was Anne; she was my mother. The letters were carved so thin and small, but they sparkled in the light and I could read them. She looked at me for a long time—I mean, I think it was a long time. I can see her now. But it has nothing to do with mom or going to school or you. You shouldn’t think about this, sweetheart. I’m sorry I’m going away, I mean, not really. You’ll see. It will be all right.”