Enchiladas

Excerpt from Recluse at Booknook by Brenda Meisels

A vinegar decanter with three yellow daisies adorned the sky-blue tablecloth, set with white Corelle and paper napkins. Sparrow sighed as she took the mismatched silverware out of the drawer. Wrapping place settings in triangular napkins, she put them on the counter next to Finch’s Betty Crocker brownies. The tossed salad was in the refrigerator; enchiladas, a recipe from an Old El Paso sauce mix, were bubbling in the oven. Milk and ice tea were poured and on the table. Six o’clock: time for them to come.

Sparrow went downstairs to make certain the door was unlocked. Back upstairs, she took the enchiladas out of the oven and rested them on a scorched hot pad. Back down to the bathroom, she washed her face, brushed her hair, put a rubber band around it and pinned it off her neck. Back in the kitchen, she covered the casserole with a towel and took the salad and French dressing from the refrigerator. Then she sat, hands clasped, studying the cracks in the yellow and blue linoleum, listening to the refrigerator’s deathly rasp, the clock ticking in the background.

Ten minutes. She rose and paced the length of the apartment, peered out the window. Six twenty-one. Maybe something had happened to them. It was raining. They could have had a wreck. She should call, but if they were en route they wouldn’t be home. Still, if they were confused about the day or time, they might be there. She picked up the phone and then returned it to its cradle. She walked to the easy chair and sat down.

They were not coming. Damn that Ms. Sparks and her big ideas! She jumped from the chair and hollered. “Finch, Finch, they’re not coming! We’re going to eat, come on now, get your head out of that book and get up here!”

She went to the kitchen, wrested an enchilada from the pan and plopped it on a plate. Red sauce spread across the dish, matching her mood. The doorbell pierced her rage. Sparrow dropped the spatula and ran to the stairs. There the two women met, Maria’s plump body filling the staircase, Angie bringing up the rear.

“I’m so sorry to be late,” Maria apologized. “Anton called just as we were walking out the door. I complain about that man not talking, and then the one time I’m in a hurry he can’t shut up, and then I couldn’t find my keys, and there was this fender-bender on Beecher Street. You know how slick it is out there. And I was sandwiched in between two cars.”

Sparrow backed up the stairs in front of the panting Maria. “It’s okay, no problem. It’s fine.”

Maria, Angie, Finch and Sparrow filled the kitchen area, the sloping ceiling confining them in a tight circle. “How cute,” said Maria.

Finch looked at Angie and grunted. The girls sat on chairs at the empty place settings and waited.

Holding her purse, Maria stood by the table. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Oh, no.” Sparrow turned toward the stove, then the table, uncertain where to begin.

Maria put her purse on the counter and sat in a chair by the wall.

“We’re just having enchiladas. Finch says you like them.” Sparrow’s hand shook as she filled the remaining plates and placed them on the table. She eased into her chair.

“Mom, we don’t have any silverware,” said Finch.

“Oh!” Sparrow extricated herself from the chair and jerked the napkins off the counter. One unfurled and a fork and knife fell onto the cracked linoleum.

“Mom!” scolded Finch.

“I’m always dropping things,” Maria said.

Sparrow grabbed the fork and knife from the floor, rinsed and dried them and thrust them toward Finch.

Finch did not pick up her fork but sat staring at Sparrow.

“What?” asked her mother.

“Where’s the chips?”

“What do you mean?” Sparrow felt the red rising in her cheeks.

“You know—the taco chips and salsa and hot sauce. We always have them at—”

“Oh, no,” Maria interrupted, “not true. I don’t always have them.”

“That’s right,” piped in Angie. “Sometimes we just have beans and rice with enchiladas.”

“Have some salad, girls,” said Maria.

“You know I don’t like tomatoes, Mom,” Angie pouted.

Sparrow’s cheeks were scarlet. “Oh, I didn’t know.”

“Pick them out,” said Maria through clenched teeth.

Finch popped up, took out a tray of crusty ice cubes and banged them on the table. Water sloshed onto the silverware.

Sparrow sponged it with her napkin.

Oblivious, Finch plunked a cube in her milk. “Want one, Angie?”

“Sure,”

“Want some, Mrs. Gonzalez, Mom?”

“No, thank you.” Maria took a drink of tepid tea.

Eyes riveted on her daughter, Sparrow said nothing.

“Gee, Mom, what did I do?” sputtered Finch, as she crammed a huge bite into her mouth.

“These aren’t enchiladas. They’re made out of flour tortillas.” declared Angie.