Francesca's Kitchen Read online

  “Pardon me, but what is your name?” asked Phoung with great deference. He was still quite chagrined at his earlier misbehavior, and now he was trying his utmost to show respect.

  “My name is Mrs. Campanile,” said Francesca. At seeing the strained look on their faces, she decided to sound it out for them. “Like this: Com-pah-neel-ay.”

  “Comma…?”

  “Oh, just call me Mrs. C,” she laughed. Then she let a stern expression come over her face, the same expression she used to wear whenever she gave one of her children a good talking to. The boys all stood rapt.

  “I want all you young men to do me a favor,” she told them with great solemnity. “I can tell that you are all good kids, so I want you to promise me that you’ll always look after the old folks and the little children around here. This has always been a good neighborhood, so now it’s your turn to do your part to keep it that way. Can you do that?”

  All of them nodded.

  “Good,” said Francesca. “Now show a little pride. You can start by going home and shoveling off the sidewalks in front of all your houses. How’s an old lady like myself supposed to get around the neighborhood without slipping and falling?”

  The snow from her recent tumble on the side of the road was still caked on Francesca’s coat and hat, so the remark elicited a round of giggles, the boys glancing at one another while trying their best to not laugh out loud.

  Not wanting to press her luck further, for in reality they were actually a pack of tough-looking customers, Francesca decided that it was time to go. First, though, she wanted to impress them one last time.

  “Chao ong,” she called over her shoulder as she turned to go, quite pleased with herself for having remembered how to say good-bye. Then she went on her way.

  “Chao ong!” they all called back.

  As she walked away, Francesca heard Phoung say something, as if he was giving some sort of an order to one of the other boys. She waited until she came to the corner of her street before casting a quick glance back. To her surprise, she saw that the small boy, Tai, was doing his best to follow her at a discreet distance. At seeing her stop, he ducked behind a telephone pole. Francesca pretended not to notice and proceeded home up the hill.

  Back inside the house, Francesca pulled off her coat and boots, and hurried to the front window. She parted the curtain just enough to get a view of the street. Tai, she saw, had followed her all the way home. The small boy walked up the street to the front of the house and stood there for just a moment, before running off back the way he had come. Francesca wondered what he was up to. As she went about her business the rest of the day, she worried all the while that perhaps she had gone too far with those boys, and that they might have some sort of mischief planned for her. Perhaps, she told herself, she had made a mistake in even talking to them, instead of just walking away and keeping her big mouth shut. The thought shadowed her the rest of the day and into the evening while she prepared for bed. It didn’t leave her until she awoke the next morning to discover that someone, during the night or the early morning hours, had shoveled out her driveway and cleaned off the front steps and walkway.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  It was Saturday afternoon, and Francesca was making her confession, as she often did before evening mass. Something about acknowledging her sins, however great or small they might have been, had a way of lifting her spirits and getting her through the week to come. A lift was what she sorely needed, for at the moment she was in decidedly ill humor, and had been all day.

  By now, the pleasant glow from Francesca’s encounter with Phoung and his friends earlier in the week had faded away, only to be replaced by some considerable soreness in her hip and shoulder, the result of her encounter with the snowbank that same day. Francesca felt certain that she hadn’t done herself any serious harm, and indeed, she hadn’t. Just the same, she squirmed uncomfortably as she knelt in the confessional. The jolt from the fall had strained her hip and back muscles; they would be tender for the next few days. A few doses of even a mild pain reliever would have done wonders for her. Francesca, however, usually disdained taking medicine of any kind; she preferred to just grit her teeth and bear it. Two nights of poor sleep, though, had left her tired and irritable. She would have to give in later on and take something before bed. Otherwise, she would be tossing and turning all night again. A few aspirin and a good night’s rest after confession and mass were sure to chase away the pain and brighten her mood by morning. Till then, though, she was as amiable as a lioness with a thorn in her paw.

  “It’s been six weeks since I last confessed,” she continued, a distinct edge in her voice.

  “Ah, Francesca, where have you been?” Father Buontempo said pleasantly from behind the thin little curtain inside his cubicle. “It’s been so long, I was beginning to wonder what had become of you.”

  “Hey,” Francesca snapped, “you’re supposed to at least pretend not to know who I am when I’m giving you my confession. What kind of priest are you?”

  “Sorry,” he replied, rolling his eyes, knowing she wouldn’t see. This wasn’t the first time he’d had an exchange of this sort with his parishioner. Experience had taught him that there was no point in arguing with her. Still, he couldn’t help himself from adding, “But how could I not know it’s you? You’re one of my best customers.” Then he let out an audible sigh before adding, “Sometimes you’re my only customer. Do you know what it’s like just sitting in here all by yourself all afternoon?”

  “Never mind about that,” Francesca grunted. “I’ve got problems of my own.”

  “All right,” he relented. “What have you been up to now?”

  “I took the Lord’s name in vain,” Francesca answered, getting straight to it. “I didn’t mean to do it, but it just slipped out, more than once, after I fell down in the snow.”

  “Were you hurt?” asked Father Buontempo, sounding truly concerned.

  “Mostly my pride,” admitted Francesca. “I guess having too much of that is something else I should confess.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. I lied to my children.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Everybody lies to their children.”

  “Father!”

  “Well, I know how difficult having children can be, even after they’ve grown up. It’s just that I think stretching the truth is the only thing that gets parents through their days sometimes, so I try not to be too hard on them.” Then he corrected himself. “But of course, it is something a father or mother should refrain from doing when at all possible, even when they think they’re doing it in their children’s best interests. The truth is always the best way.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No,” said Francesca after a moment’s pause. “Something else has been on my mind.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, it’s hard to explain.”

  “Give it a try.”

  Francesca took a deep breath. “Like I said,” she finally replied, “it’s hard to explain, but lately, God has been getting on my nerves. Is that a sin?”

  “Hmm, that’s a new one, “replied the priest. “I guess it depends. Why don’t you tell me what you mean when you say God is getting on your nerves.”

  Francesca hesitated for a time, trying to put into words exactly the way she felt. It had been building for some time now, and she wanted desperately to get it off her chest.

  “I just don’t know what He wants from me lately, that’s all,” she finally lamented. “I mean, I feel useless these days, and I can’t get rid of the idea that it’s all His fault. What is my life supposed to be all about now that He has taken my husband and my children have grown up and moved away? What am I without my family? I know that I’m old, but does that mean that everything’s over for me? Have I already done whatever it was that God intended for me to do in this life, and I’m just killing time now until i
t’s all over? It’s starting to really annoy me.”

  “Those are hard questions,” answered Father Buontempo, “questions that all of us ask ourselves at different points in our lives. God’s will isn’t always immediately clear to us, so there’s certainly nothing sinful about seeking to understand it. Accepting His will once we understand it can be the hard part.” He paused to assess whether his words were helping her. Then he continued, telling her, “But you ought to remember that even though your children might be far away, they love you and think about you every day, just like you love and think about them. You’re always all together in your thoughts and prayers. That’s how you stay close despite the distance.”

  “It’s not enough,” said Francesca, shaking her head. “I need more from my family. They need more from me, even if they don’t know it.”

  “Perhaps. But maybe it would help to consider the possibility that your children and grandchildren are not your only family. You’re also part of God’s greater family. Everyone you meet is a son or daughter or sister or brother, or even a father or mother, regardless of your age. They’re all there, all about you, everywhere you go. In a special way, each of them needs you, and you need them.”

  “Maybe,” muttered Francesca, not completely convinced.

  “Be patient,” the priest told her kindly. “When God is ready, He’ll make whatever it is that He wants you to do next clear to you.”

  “No chance He could give me a little hint in the meantime?”

  “Sorry, I don’t think He works that way. You’ll just have to wait.”

  “And what do I do while I’m waiting?”

  “For starters, you can say three Our Fathers,” he told her, “and you can try to stop lying to your children.”

  Then he absolved Francesca of her sins, real and imagined, and sent her on her way.

  After mass, Francesca stopped by the market to pick up some vegetables and a few pieces of meat to put in a soup she was planning to make. She liked soups, especially in the winter. They were so easy to make, and one good-sized batch cooked on a Saturday night would last her through the weekend and for several meals beyond. As she looked over the selection of stew beef and other meats, Francesca’s eye fell upon the butcher’s weekly special: a nice pork tenderloin roast that would be perfect for a Sunday dinner. In her mind, she could already see the entire meal on the table, the beautiful roast at the center, beside it some roasted potatoes and a platter of sautéed rabe, and maybe a fresh-baked loaf of bread. She could almost taste it all. The beautiful vision quickly faded, though, as the realization that there would be no one there to share such a meal with her once again invaded her thoughts. Just the same, Francesca picked up the roast and put it in her basket along with the vegetables and meat she had chosen for her soup.

  “That’s a nice price for that roast, isn’t it?” said a smiling Tony when Francesca brought everything to the cash register.”

  “Too good to pass up,” Francesca agreed.

  “Cooking for the family tomorrow?” he asked as he tied the roast up in a plastic bag to keep it separate from the rest of the groceries.

  “Nope,” replied Francesca, shaking her head. “Just me.”

  “That’s a lot of meat for just one person,” Tony joked.

  “Oh, no,” explained Francesca. “This is going in the freezer for someday and somebody, who knows when or who.”

  “And what about you in the meantime?”

  “Me?” she said with a shrug. “I guess tonight I’ll just make myself some soup…and then I’ll wait.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “Blood pressure is fine,” said the doctor. He removed the cuff from Francesca’s arm and scribbled the numbers down on her chart. Then he took the stethoscope and listened to her heart for a few moments, before placing the cold metal disk on her back. “Big breath, please,” he asked.

  Francesca took a deep breath.

  “Now out,” said the doctor. He moved the stethoscope to another part of her back. “Again.”

  Francesca had come in for her yearly checkup. She didn’t care much for going to the doctor, but it kept her son and daughters from nagging her about taking care of her health. But wasn’t it her job to nag them, she wondered as the doctor continued his examination. Francesca had been in such gloomy spirits earlier that morning that she had almost cancelled the appointment. The thought of having to listen to the children carry on to her about it was the only thing that had motivated her to get in the car. She looked back at the doctor, who was now leaning back against the examination table. He was a young man, late thirties at the oldest, she guessed, though a few flecks of gray on his temples suggested he might be slightly older. If she had to go to the doctor, Francesca ordinarily would have preferred to be examined by someone closer to her own age. Doctor Johnson, however, to whom Francesca had gone for years, had retired the previous spring, leaving this new doctor, Doctor Olsen, to take over the practice. Though she did not yet trust him, trust being something that did not come easily to her, she could not help but like his pleasant manner and the way he took his time with her. He seemed competent enough. Francesca decided that he would do for the time being.

  “Let’s see,” the young doctor continued as he scanned his notes, “your heart sounds good, weight’s just where it should be—though it wouldn’t hurt to be a little heavier, believe it or not—and all your blood work looks fine.”

  “So I guess that means I’m going to live, Doctor Olsen?” she asked, not particularly cheered by his findings.

  “If I had to put it into medical terms, I’d say that you’re healthy as a horse.”

  “Then how come I feel so rotten all over?”

  “Well, I’d say it’s because of that fall you told me about,” he explained. “You’d be surprised by how long it takes to fully recover from a jolt like that. It might not have seemed so bad to you at the time, but you probably gave yourself a good wrench. Just that little bit of constant achiness you’ve been experiencing catches up with you. Add in a few nights of poor sleep on top of that, and you’re not going to be in the mood for turning cartwheels.”

  “I guess,” said a glum Francesca. In her heart, she knew the doctor was right. She also knew that there was more than just the fall that was making her feel so down. She had already confessed all that, however, so she saw no point in bringing it up again here.

  The doctor tapped his pen against his clipboard and eyed her thoughtfully for a few moments. “You know, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you other than what I’ve told you, but this time of year can get you down as well. We call it seasonal affective disorder. SAD.”

  “Sad. That sounds about right for what I have,” said Francesca, chuckling for the first time since she came to the office. “What causes it?”

  “Lack of sunlight this time of year,” he explained. “It’s more and more unheard of the closer you get to the equator, where the daylight remains fairly constant. Up north where we live, though, as the days get shorter, so do our tempers, if you know what I mean.”

  “What do you do for it?”

  “Try to get out in the sun for a few minutes each day,” he recommended. “Or even just sit in front of a sunny window whenever you can. Getting more sleep will help as well. Perhaps even taking an afternoon nap every day if you don’t already take one. You’re a very healthy person, so you should try to find something to keep your mind active to pass the time. That’s always important.”

  “I’m tired of just passing the time,” Francesca told him with a sigh. “I want to fill it and live it.” She sat there sulking for a time. “Maybe I should get myself a job,” she suggested.

  “There’s no reason why you can’t still work if you want to,” said the doctor.

  “Really?” said Francesca. She had made the suggestion as a joke and was much surprised by his response.

  “I mean, just part-time,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to see you working more than a few hours here and there every
week. Not that you couldn’t, but unless you need the money, why would you?”

  Francesca turned the idea over in her mind. By a strange coincidence, while she had been straightening up the kitchen after supper a few days earlier, she had happened to notice an article on the front page of the career section of the Sunday newspaper. The article was titled “Getting Back into the Job Market: A Guide for Older Workers.” At the time, she hadn’t given it much thought. She hadn’t bothered to read the article, but instead used that section of the newspaper to wrap up the food scraps from dinner. Looking back now, though, she wished she had saved the article. For a moment, it seemed like an intriguing possibility. But then another thought brought her down.

  “It’s been years since I worked outside the house,” she told him. “Last time was before I had my children. Who would hire me now, and to do what?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted the doctor. “But it’s never too late to learn something new, something that you might enjoy, and at the same time be of use to an employer. I guess you’ll just have to keep your eyes open and wait to see what comes up.”

  “Wait,” Francesca muttered. “You sound an awful lot like someone else I know. Seems like all I do these days is wait.”

  The doctor gave her a kind smile. He helped her put on her coat and then held open the door. “See you next year, Mrs. Campanile,” he said pleasantly.

  “If God wants,” Francesca replied, giving him a nod. Then she picked up her pocketbook and headed out to the front desk to schedule next year’s appointment.

  CHAPTER 9

  The newspaper lay in an orange plastic bag at the bottom of the front walk when Francesca looked out the window early the next morning. The sun had only partially risen, so the front yard was still in shadows. From where she stood, the newspaper looked like some sort of small, bright orange creature curled up asleep on the icy pavement.