Barbara Clarke - The Red Kitchen

The Red Kitchen

Copyright 2020, Barbara Clarke

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

Published 2020

Printed in the United States of America

Print ISBN: 978-1-64742-008-6

E-ISBN: 978-1-64742-009-3

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020910669

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She Writes Press

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Berkeley, CA 94707

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Names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of certain individuals.

For my mother, who never got to tell her story but encouraged me to tell mineespecially the parts she liked!

In a broken nest, there are few whole eggs.

CHINESE PROVERB

CHAPTER ONE

W hen I asked my mother what was happening to our family, she called it a trial separation. I had just started first grade when Mom took me and my older brother, Bud, who was in sixth grade, across town to stay with her parents, Grandma Rosie and Grandpa John. At the end of the worst week of my life, my mother said that she and Dad were going to try again. We moved back to our house, but I worried whenever they argued.

Then it was summer and I spent most of every day outside in a village swimming in kids. From after breakfast until dinner and then again until dark, we were mostly free to be on our own.

On a muggy hot July day, Mom sent me to play at my best friend Janes house because, she said, I have a project and cant have you and Bud underfoot. Late in the afternoon while I was practicing my tumbling routine in the front yard, Bud came home from baseball camp. He shrugged his shoulders and said dunno when I asked why we still couldnt go into the kitchen.

Do you know about the surprise? I asked Dad. Id been waiting on the front porch for him to come home from work with an answer. His suit coat was slung over his shoulder and his tie pulled down. Moms had an old sheet over the kitchen door and a Keep Out sign pinned on it all day.

No idea, kiddo, but if we go in, well stand a better chance of finding out. Inside, there was the faint smell of paint coming from under the sheet still covering the doorway. After Dad changed his clothes, we three waited in the living room for the boss, as Dad sometimes called Mom. Just then she stepped through the doorway, let one side of the sheet down, and motioned for us to look into the kitchen.

Chinese red, she said and directed our surprised faces to the freshly painted walls, gesturing like she was selling new refrigerators.

Oh, we said in unison and then surveyed the room in silence. I waited for Dad to say something, but his mouth opened and closed, like he needed to think.

Its hamburgers for dinner since I didnt have time to get fancy. We pulled our chairs away from the red Formica table and sat down.

It sure is red, Bud said.

You hate it, Mom said, looking at my father.

Hates a strong word for paint, Em, he said. Id like to decide for myself.

I like it, Mom. I tried to sound enthusiastic even though the red made the room feel smaller and hotter.

Liar, Bud whispered, leaning over, pretending to drop his napkin on the floor.

The small fan on the counter sent a wimpy breeze around the room as it swiveled back and forth. It was hardly enough to cool things down since the big skillet on the stove was only a few feet away. It wasnt the heat and the paint; something else was going on between my parents.

We ate mostly in silence except for Bud and Dad talking about baseball and the Cardinals tickets Dad had bought for the two of them.

Something wrong with your dinner? Mom asked. I shrugged and ate a few green beans since I had finished my lime Jell-O salad. It made me sick to remember what the babysitter said about how defenseless cows were turned into burgers.

You better get going, Dad said, nodding at me and then toward the street beyond the kitchen window where we could hear the neighborhood kids beginning to gather. I tried to look busy, poked the burger a few times, and drank my glass of milk.

Bud finished his dinner and faced me with his mouth open, showing me a wad of his half-chewed food. See you, slowpoke, he said, sending spittle my way. He pushed his chair back, dashed through the house, and let the screen door bang behind him.

So, did you have a good time last night? Mom asked, refilling Dads iced tea glass. Her words had sharp edges; the kitchen air sizzled. I looked over at my father, waiting for his answer. I had heard them arguing outside my door in the hall late in the night, and this morning I saw a pillow and blanket folded up on the couch.

It was fine, Dad said. He didnt look up, pulled the sports section of the newspaper out from under his chair, and started reading. I could tell a fight was brewing by the way my mother kept staring at my father who was acting like he didnt notice. I wanted to dash out the front door with Bud but thought I should stay and try to smooth things over between them.

Where did you get the idea, Mom? Maybe if I showed more interest, she would stop asking Dad about being out late.

Marge and I saw it in my Better Homes and Gardens magazine. We thought red would give these white cabinets and tile a lift.

Ive never heard of a red kitchen, my father said, looking up from the paper. I so wished that hed say something nice.

Well, Dorsey, now you have. Mom pressed her lips together like she was keeping bad words in.

Bunny, are you having your stomach troubles again? Mom pushed her chair back, went over to the sink, and made louder than usual dish-scraping noises.

Im not hungry. Its too hot.

Then go... wait, at least finish your beans. I picked up my fork, but before I could stab a few, she came back, leaned over, and swooped up my plate.

By the time I joined the kids outside playing hide-and-seek, it was dusk and sheet lightning was flashing above our neighborhood. I ran down the front steps and squeezed into one of my favorite hiding places between the prickly spirea bushes and the wall directly under our kitchen window. I could hear my mother at the sink, turning the water faucet on and off. My father must have been pacing; his voice faded and then came back loud enough for me to hear.

You have no idea what we did. His words came out slowly, one at a time, like talking to Grandpa John who cant hear that well. I told you. A group of us met after work for drinks. Only Blanche and I wanted to go to the early show. We got a bite to eat afterward and I was home by midnight. It was damned innocent if you ask me. Besides, Im entitled to an evening out now and then. Why get so mad about nothing?