“I suppose I meant if you are satisfied creatively.”
I’d never really thought about that. The Farbers give me free rein, but they have a repertoire of my dishes that they love and want to have regularly in the rotation, and everything has to be kid friendly; even if we are talking about kids with precocious tastes, they are still kids. Lawrence is easy: breakfasts, lunches, and healthy snacks for his days; he eats most dinners out with friends, or stays home with red wine and popcorn, swearing that Olivia Pope stole the idea from him. And I’m also in charge of home-cooked meals for Philippe and Liagre, his corgis, who like ground chicken and rice with carrots, and home-baked peanut butter dog biscuits. Simca was a gift from him, four years ago. She was a post-Christmas rescue puppy, one of those gifts that a family was unprepared for, who got left at a local shelter where Lawrence volunteers. He couldn’t resist her, but knew that Philippe and Liagre barely tolerate each other, and he couldn’t imagine bringing a female of any species into their manly abode. Luckiest thing that ever happened to me, frankly. She’s the best pup ever. I named her Simca because it was Julia Child’s nickname for her coauthor Simone Beck. She is, as the other Eloise, my own namesake, would say, my mostly companion. Lawrence’s dinner parties are fun to do—he always has a cool group of interesting people, occasionally famous ones—but he is pretty old-school, so there isn’t a ton of creativity in those menus, lots of chateaubriand and poached salmon with the usual canapés and accompaniments.
The most creative I get is alone at home, in my kitchen, developing new recipes. I’ve got dozens in my computer that are what I would consider finished, probably a couple hundred more in my notebooks in various stages of planning and testing. No one knows about them. They are just for me. Although I don’t know what I’ll ever do with them. I know I don’t want the stress of a restaurant or catering business, and I wouldn’t ever leave the Farbers or Lawrence. Adding another client would be technically doable, but since I don’t need the income, I don’t see a point in looking for one. I told Claire I was content.
“Content ain’t the same as happy, muffin. I’m just saying.”
Which may be true. But it isn’t the same as unhappy either.
Two
Claire’s in the sunroom. I’ll be down in a minute!” my mom calls down the stairs when I let myself in.
I hang my coat up on the coat tree in the foyer and drop my bag. The house has barely changed my entire life, with Mission-style furniture, tribal rugs, and eclectic art on view everywhere. I head through the kitchen, the site of my first culinary triumphs and disasters, with the old cabinets that slam and drawers that stick. The terra-cotta tile floor is hopelessly stained from years of spilled oil and wine; the butcher-block countertops are pocked with burn marks and water rings and nicks and scratches. Through the backside of the kitchen is the small den that used to be my dad’s hangout, with French doors out to the back deck. Last year, when the old deck turned out to be rotted beyond repair, my mother replaced it with an enclosed three-season room and turned Dad’s den into a small studio for her watercolors. The French doors are open, and I walk through to the cozy sunroom, where Aunt Claire is sipping her signature margarita.
“Beanpole! Come kiss me. The heart would rise but the knees have other ideas.” She puts down her drink and opens her arms to me. I lean over and kiss her soft cheek, her ash blond curls piled in their usual messy bun atop her head tickling me. Claire is still a beautiful woman, with fair skin, blue eyes, and a wide, generous smile. She has sort of a Carly Simon thing going on, and she is aging just as beautifully. She gestures to the table where there is a pitcher of drinks and nods for me to grab one for myself. I’m just taking a cold, refreshing sip of her famous concoction when my mom flies into the room. Her small, trim figure is clad in cotton pedal pushers and an old long-sleeved thermal Blackhawks shirt that belonged to my dad, her trademark white Keds on her feet, and her graying auburn hair twisted up into a hair towel, a few damp, curled tendrils peeking out.
“Hello, dumpling, how are you?” she says, her voice full of kind concern, reaching up for a hug. My mom was probably five foot five at her tallest, but I’m pretty sure she has begun the inevitable shrinking process, so at my five-eleven-and-a-half she is about eye level with my chest.
“I’m good,” I say. “Drink?”
“Absolutely.” She plops next to Claire on the deep love seat, leaving me the cushy club chair facing them. I hand her a glass, top off the one Claire is waving at me, and sink down myself, grabbing a pretzel stick out of the bowl on the coffee table.
“So, did you hear the news?” my mom asks with her brows furrowed in a way that lets me know the news isn’t good. These days, between Mom and Claire and their group of contemporaries, I now refer to catching up with them as the “death and dying update.”
“Probably not. I was training Ian all afternoon, and wasn’t listening to the radio on the way over. What happened?”
“Oh, honey. Mrs. O’Connor passed away.”
The piece of pretzel turns to lead on my tongue, and I take a deep swig of margarita to dislodge it.
“Sorry, kiddo, I know she meant a lot to you,” Claire says sympathetically.
“I saved you the obit.” My mom reaches into her pocket and hands me a slip of newspaper.
The photo shows the elegant woman I remember; the only difference is that her locs are longer and grayer. But the slim neck, the regal bearing, the beautiful smile, all still there. I read the brief paragraph.
Helene O’Connor, née Weber, passed away peacefully in her sleep after a long and heroic battle with breast cancer. She was 73 years old. A retired English teacher who spent the bulk of her career at Lincoln Park High School, she also volunteered for literacy programs with the Chicago Juvenile Detention system and was a board member at Rivendell Theatre Company. She is survived by her husband, Glenn O’Connor, two brothers, Morris and Joseph, and a sister, Athena. Viewing will take place Wednesday and Thursday, September 21 and 22, from 2:00 to 8:00 p.m. at Leak and Sons Funeral Home, 7838 South Cottage Grove. Funeral services and internment will be private, for the immediate family only. In lieu of flowers the family requests donations be sent to Sisters Network (sistersnetworkinc.org), Rivendell Theatre (rivendelltheatre.org), or Trinity United Church of Christ Social Justice Team (trinitychicago.org).
My heart hurts. Mom reaches over and squeezes my hand, and Aunt Claire refills my glass. There is tightness in my throat, but no tears are coming. I’m sad, but mostly ashamed. It’s been over three years since the last time I saw her.