Can't Get Enough of Your Love (27 page)

Joy is going to get some cooking lessons from Mama.

On the way out, I buy a whole sweet potato pie. They ask if I want a to-go fork. “I couldn't eat another thing,” I say, “and I have a long drive, so …”

I take the fork.

I have half that pie gone by the time I get to Petersburg.

And it is
good
.

And as I drive, I say a little prayer for Daddy:
Wherever you are Daddy, I hope you're happy. And stay mean. Yeah. Stay mean, Pearly
.

“B
ut Mama, you're not measuring anything.”

She throws another pinch of sage into a boiling pot of chicken breasts on the little stove at Jenny's dollhouse. “I just put in a pinch.”

“But how much is a pinch?”

She tilts the jar of sage to the side and squeezes her pointer and thumb together. “This much.”

“But my fingers are skinnier than yours.”

“Double it, then.” She returns to the cutting board, slicing some more celery, while I furiously write it down on a little notepad I'm hiding from her. “And what have I been trying to tell you all day?”

I sigh and slide the notepad under my leg. And this preparation is only for some homemade chicken soup! “That cooking is feeling, not measuring.”

“That's right.”

I continue to hack away at the carrots on my cutting board. Why we're making chicken soup on a day that's threatening to hit ninety, I don't know. All the windows in the house are open because Mama says this place needs “a good airing out.”

She also says Jenny's kitchen is a real kitchen, with lots of space and room for the imagination.

I need to work on my imagination.

“How many carrots should I cut?”

She shrugs. “As many as can fit in the pot.”

I peel another carrot. “When will the chicken be ready?”

“Like I said, there's no timer on any of this, Erlana. I usually wait until the meat falls off the bones.” She stops slicing the celery and puts something else into the pot.

“What was that?”

“A touch of parsley.”

“How much is a touch?”

“Erlana Joy!”

I am no fun in the kitchen. “Well, with the bay leaves you were pretty specific. You said no more than one, two at the most.”

She roots around in a drawer for a measuring spoon, dropping in a little parsley. She brings the measuring spoon to me. “This is a touch.”

There's not much there. “Oh.”

“Soon as you're done with those carrots, get started peeling those potatoes.”

“How thin do I slice them?”

She sighs.

I withdraw the question, Your Honor.

She places a huge sweet Vidalia onion on the cutting board, and in four rapid strokes reduces it to eight chunks. She looks at me. “Any questions?”

“No.”

“Are you still counting?”

Yes. “No.” Eight chunks. I bet they unravel after they've
been in the hot water a while. I write it down on my notepad.

She dumps the celery and the onions into the pot. I want to ask why, but I don't. I just write it down.

“You want me to bring over the carrots?” I ask.

She comes and scoops the carrots into her hands. “We'll need two more.”

Again, I want to ask how she knows, but I don't. She feels. She doesn't measure. Her hands are the scales. I peel and cut two more carrots and bring them to the pot. There are so many vegetables that I can't see the chicken.

I can't stand it anymore. “Mama, why are we cooking the vegetables before the meat is done?”

“The vegetables take longer to cook.”

“Oh.” I feel so dumb.

She shakes a little celery salt into the water. One shake, two shakes, three—

“You're counting again.”

“Sorry.”

She turns me back to my cutting board.

“Are you going to add some pepper?” I ask.

“I might, I might not,” she says, scrubbing some huge potatoes in the sink. “Every time I make it, it's different. In fact, I make every meal just a little different so no meal ever gets old. For example, sometimes I add long noodles, and sometimes I use the star-shaped kind instead. Today I'm adding these potatoes. The recipes in my head leave me room to be creative.”

In other words, her recipes are vague. I decide to test her. “What if I wanted to add some corn?”

“Add some corn.”

“Or lima beans?”

“Add some lima beans.”

“Or beets?”

“You have never liked beets.”

I smile. “Well, maybe I'm
feeling
like beets, and I promise not to
measure
them. See, I listen to you.”

“Then throw away that little pad of paper you've been writing everything down on over there under your legs.”

Busted. “What paper?”

“The paper you've been sitting on.”

I pull the offending notepad from under me. “I just … I just want it to taste like your cooking, that's all.”

She shakes her head. “This is your kitchen, Erlana Joy.
Your
cooking should taste like
your
cooking, not mine. It's how you'll make a name for yourself. Someone will say, ‘You just
have
to taste Erlana's jerk chicken. It's the best.' As soon as you hear your name attached to a dish, you've made it.”

And slowly but surely, my cooking is tasting much better. I add more salt and oregano to my fried chicken and don't use nearly as much butter to fry it as Mama does. I use a lemon rub mixed with Cajun seasonings for my pork chops, cook my greens overnight in a Crock-Pot with turkey necks, and somehow make my liver and onions taste more like steak and onions. My first attempt at potato salad was a disaster—I used sour relish instead of sweet relish, and
way
too much mustard—but I'm getting better.

And I'm getting a little fatter. I'm still walking, even jogging a little, around the pond, which has filled up along with me after four weeks of steady rain at nearly every sundown. It even has water so clear now that I can see the bass looking out the sides of their heads at me. At night, I'm studying
The Complete Idiot's Guide to Chess
and
Bobby Fischer Teaches Chess
so I can
whip Bobby's tail for a change. I even have my own magnetic chessboard, a purchase I made at Wal-Mart.

So, the pond's back, my booty's almost back, and I'm ready to go back to work.

And for a solid month, I haven't thought about Juan Carlos, Karl, or Roger.

Erlana and Lana are amazed. Joy just hums something beautiful.

I
show up at Patrick Henry in late August tanned, toned, and tuned-in wearing a sky blue skort, matching short-sleeved top, and sandals. Walking my land barefoot has smoothed my feet, and the minerals in the water have healed my toenails, the nine I still have. I have dressed differently today because this is going to be a different year, a better year, an awesome year.

It will be a year to remember, which will erase last year's memories completely.

I smile at everybody. I've never done that before. I am, after all, Pearly's daughter, and I ought to show off what he gave me.

I speak even to people I don't know at the convocation, the big meeting of all the staff from the Roanoke City School District at the Roanoke Civic Center. I sit with Rachel Jones, head of Patrick Henry's Special Services Department and my immediate supervisor, as the lights dim and the show begins. Oh, it's not supposed to be a show, but somehow every year it becomes one. It's really a song-and-dance act for the
media. The superintendent reads a list of major accomplishments from the previous school year … and ignores the real problems. Still, it's fun to see kids from local schools singing, dancing, and strutting their stuff to entertain us.

“Same song, different year,” Rachel says as the superintendent rambles on and on. “I almost didn't recognize you without your sweats.”

“It's too hot for sweats.”

“You said it. Have a good summer?”

I want to tell her I found myself, but that would sound strange. “Yes. And you?”

“All I can say is that it's over.”

Rachel needs to come out to Jenny's dollhouse to get rid of her attitude.

“Did you hear about Isabel?”

I haven't heard from Izzie since that … since that night. “No.”

“She took a counseling position at Addison Middle.”

And Izzie didn't tell me. Now who will listen to me rant and rave during my lunch break?

“Have you heard from Bobby's mother?” she asks.

“No.” My heart thuds. “Is he okay?”

She shakes her head. “He'll have to be homeschooled this year.”

Which means … the end is near. Damn, it's like losing another man. “I need to call him.”

“Go on.”

I walk out of the Civic Center auditorium into the sun and call Bobby. His mother answers. “Mrs. Swisher, this is Lana Cole.”

“Hi, Lana. I guess you've heard.”

“Yes, ma'am. Can I talk to Bobby?”

“He's, um, he's having trouble breathing today. His allergies are acting up.”

And with Bobby, his allergies can be killers. “Could you tell him something for me?”

“Sure.”

“Tell him that I studied chess-strategy books all summer, and that the next time we play, he's going down.”

“I will. And if you ever want to visit …”

That would be so hard! “I want to, Mrs. Swisher. Just call me when he's able to play some chess.”

“I will. Goodbye.”

From the sound of her voice, I'm going to have to visit soon. I knew I'd have to say goodbye to him someday, but this is much too soon! Bobby was going to be part of this awesome year, and now …

Take care of that boy, God, okay?
I pray.
You kept me going all summer, so use some of your power to keep Bobby going, too
.

During our first workweek without the students, I look into getting my education degree, talking to Nancy Knowles, who runs PH's Career Center.

“You could take night classes at Radford, Hollins, or Virginia Tech,” she says.

The classes at Hollins University won't be cheap, though the drive won't be so bad. But driving down to Radford or Tech? That's some serious mileage. “That's a lot of driving.”

“Some courses are offered downtown at the Higher Learning Center, and some of the basic courses are offered at Virginia Western.”

Cool. I'll have to take as many of those as I can. “How long will it be before I have my degree?” I ask.

“If you only take night classes, oh, about four years.”

Damn.

“But that depends on what you specialize in and how many classes you take during the summer. As you know, there is a heavy need for special services staff throughout the city now.”

And the rest of the country, too. I read that the state of Florida will need close to thirty thousand new teachers in the next few years in its effort to reduce its schools' class sizes. I can't see myself in, say, Palm Beach, but it's nice to know there are so many openings in sunny places.

“I'm not sure I want to stay in special services,” I say, because there are plenty of obese kids out there who could use my help, too. I recently read that childhood obesity has tripled since I was born, and there seems no end in sight. “What about health and PE?”

“I'm sure human resources could use you somewhere, maybe even at one of the middle schools.”

“Or at an elementary school.” Where this rampant obesity starts. At Star City Roller Skating Rink, I saw a kid who couldn't have been older than nine laboring and throwing his sweat around the rink, and he had to weigh more than me. “What if I take a few courses during the summer? Will I get certified faster?”

She sits back. “If you took, let's say, three classes every summer, you could possibly be certified in less than three years. I'm sure you could work and do your student teaching at the same time, maybe even right here at PH.”

Hmm. Three years is a long time, and if summer
classes start in June, I probably couldn't play football for the entire season. Still, I could be a real teacher—with real pay and benefits—by the time I'm twenty-eight.

“And if you're really serious about this, the city will help pay for your classes.”

I smile. “I like the sound of that.”

“We could sure use you.”

It's nice to be needed, but it would be so hard to start a season and not be able to finish it. I may have to give up football. Hmm. At least this gives me something to think about and look forward to.

Because there's not much for me to do until the students show up next week, I get online in one of the computer labs and check out Virginia Western's course offerings. Since I've already taken Principles of Psychology, I can take Child Psychology, Educational Psychology, Abnormal Psychology, or Adolescent Psychology. Too many choices. I've heard that Ed Psych is duller than dishwater, but it's a requirement for my teaching certificate. A course called “Health, Safety, and Nutrition Education” jumps out at me.

I sign up for that one, and since it's a distance-learning course mainly on the Internet, I can “take” that class during my free periods at PH.

Erlana says she's sick of school, and Lana would much rather surf the personal-ad sites for a new man. Joy hugs them both and tells them it's a brand-new day.

Every day, I walk by pre-season varsity football practice, and each day I drift closer and closer to the action. While watching some line drills, I see a sorry defensive end getting slammed into the ground on just about every play. He's doing it all wrong!

Erlana, Lana, and Joy all agree that this is something that has to be remedied immediately.

I march right up to the young man, looking down on his sorry self all crumpled up and dirty in the dust. “You have to keep your outside arm free, man. As soon as the blocker has that arm pinned, you're useless.”