Julia's Chocolates. Cathy Lamb

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СКАЧАТЬ Heavens, no, Julia. I’ll get some tomorrow. But I JUST CAN’T BELIEVE IT!”

      This is classic Lydia. The smallest problems leave her totally exasperated, even furious. Astounded. And yet, the big problems, the terrible things in her life that had happened, like losing her father and brother as a child in a car accident and being stuck in that car with two dead people for hours while the police dismantled the car, she rarely talked about, and when she did it was with strength and courage and acceptance.

      And she never talked about being raped by a stranger when she was twenty-five. That was about five years after she had a miscarriage and a drunk doctor slipped with the knife and made Aunt Lydia forever infertile, and then her husband left her. My mother had told me about that.

      Aunt Lydia’s phone rang again, but she didn’t answer it. In the other room I could hear her birds singing to each other. “Cinnamon. Well, I don’t need it for the jam. But I was going to make cinnamon rolls for the girls tonight. It’s Psychic Night, and we’re having it here, I did tell you, didn’t I?”

      “Psychic Night?” I choked a bit on my tea, but I could feel the rum floating through my body, and it felt like a river of pure warmth. Or maybe that was the wood stove that was so hot my back felt as if it were on fire.

      She pushed her gray hair out of her eyes and peered at me. “We’re discussing the power of breasts.”

      My mug dropped onto the table. “The power of what?”

      “The power of our BREASTS!” Aunt Lydia held two fingers in the air, then pointed at her own breasts. “You know what they are! Your mother and I and you”—she glared with indignant accusation at my chest—“all have the same big boobs. And there’s power there. We have to rein it in and use it for our own benefit.”

      “Absolutely,” I muttered. “I need to rein in my Breast Power.”

      “That’s right! Rein in your Breast Power!” Lydia rolled the words in her mouth. “Brrreeeassstt power! Perfect! We’ll call it Breast Power Psychic Night. Every week we have a new title. I’m so glad you’re here, honey. Here, come and stir the jam for me.”

      I brought my big breasts with me as I got up obediently and started stirring, watching the strawberries getting smaller and smaller, the color a brilliant burgundy and soft red. It fascinated me, and I couldn’t look away as Lydia picked up the phone and called her friends.

      I heard her talk to a Katie, a Caroline, and a Lara. It was only on the last phone call that I really listened in.

      “No, no, don’t bring a thing, Lara,” Lydia tossed a dish towel from one hand to another like a ball juggler. “I’m making The Brownies. I ran out of cinnamon! Can you BELIEVE IT? No cinnamon!” She tsked herself deep in her throat. “So a little pot would be okay? Right, just enough to take the edge off of life, that’s a good way of putting it, dear. And good luck with that infernal Bible study. Oh, for God’s sakes, you know as sure as hell I don’t want to go to anything like that! You know what happened the last time…. I don’t care if Linda still talks about it, she needed to hear that God doesn’t like self-righteous, sanctimonious prisses who tell everyone they’re going to burn in hell!”

      Aunt Lydia listened again, then laughed. “Oh, heckles! Tell them to pray for my poor soul and that I’m hoping to get saved by next Tuesday at eight o’clock, right before I out-drink Stash before our next poker game. See you tonight, love.”

      “Who was that?” I finally looked up from my stirring and took another sip of tea. Aunt Lydia tipped a bit more rum into my cup.

      “That was the minister’s wife, Lara Keene. Dear girl. She’ll be here tonight.”

      I stopped stirring, my jaw falling open. If there had been a fly in that room, it could have flown straight in, making several circles around my molars. “The minister’s wife is coming to Breast Power Psychic Night?”

      “Of course! Lara is a splendid person. Very religious. Very kind and holy.” Aunt Lydia tightened her lips. “I had to agree to only put a bit of pot in the brownies, though. Lord knows, after Bible study with that group of Bible-thumping losers, she’s going to need more than a bit of pot!”

      “I can’t—”

      “What is it?” Aunt Lydia, in a whirl as usual, started dumping the ingredients for brownies all over the huge wooden farm table that sat in the middle of the kitchen. Windows surrounding the room and two sets of French doors brought in the spring sunshine in golden columns, their rays settling on the ingredients as if in blessing.

      “I’m surprised, that’s all, that a minister’s wife would be coming.”

      “Well, she is. She comes every week. She needs a break from the preaching and screeching and likes to hang out with people who don’t use Jesus as a weapon to make others feel inferior. God. One time she dragged me to one of those Bible studies, and I swear all those women wanted to do was stand around and see who could say, ‘I’ve been blessed…I’ve been praying…the Lord has been good to me…it’s His will…’ the most number of times. It was pathetic. I’m positive God is sick to shit of them.”

      “Do…do other people in the town know that Lara comes to the Psychic Night meetings?” Sheesh. A minister’s wife at a meeting like this? In a small town?

      “Heck, no. Are you kidding?” Aunt Lydia started melting chocolate. She’s good at her chocolate desserts, but not as good as me, although she is better at every other type of dessert. “Four people know. Me, you, Katie, and Caroline. And all of us took an oath over a bottle of brandy and a cigar and swore to keep it secret. Lara needs a place where she can be herself without someone talking about all the souls in Golden who will not be saved and will be thrown into hell to burn there forever like hot dogs on a stick.”

      I contemplated burning in hell forever like a hot dog on a stick. The rum wound its way down my body. “So, what do you do in these meetings?”

      “Caroline is psychic, like I told you, and she tells us what’s going to happen to us, which makes it an official Psychic Night. Caroline only charges the women of this town a few dollars to do their readings.” Aunt Lydia, a true businesswoman, shook her head. “Although she did it for Mrs. Guzman for homemade tequila and for Dr. Tims for some of his salsa. Come to think of it, she also does readings for Terri, the postmistress, in exchange for Terri’s pies, which I think are terrible, and she does readings for Chad Whitmore, whose wife died. He takes care of their four kids and works. In exchange he gives her bacon every year from one of their pigs.

      “I have no idea how that woman makes it. She owns a tiny little home, about the size of a dollhouse, not far from here, and drives a car I swear will break down any second. Stash has had to go and get her on three different occasions.” Aunt Lydia froze for a minute. “I should tell Caroline to paint her door black to ward off diseases and seedy men. I can’t BELIEVE I forgot to tell her that. Next time she goes to the city I’ll whip on over there and paint it for her. She’ll appreciate that.”

      I imagined a woman leaving her home with a maroon-colored door and coming home to a black door. “She makes a living as a psychic?” I imagined tea leaves and cards and a woman whose face looked as if it had been shoved through a strainer, the wrinkles hardened and grooved on her cheeks. A cigarette would burn aimlessly, and I’d reach to share one short drag, then stop myself. No more smoking. I had smoked for a year, then quit. And the lust for nicotine could still turn my head.

      “I СКАЧАТЬ