Read Online Death by Eggplant by Susan Heyboer O'Keefe - Free Book Online Page B

NIGHT
    Sometimes, life is simple, and it’s easy to figure people out. Are you a cat person or a dog person? Do you like deep-dish pizza or thin crust? Are you trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent—or Nick Dekker?
    Almost as clear a division: Do you like your puttanesca sauce with anchovies or without?
    Since I was making puttanesca for supper, the topic occurred naturally. Besides, it was easier and less stressful to think about cooking than about what had happened at school today. So I wondered, what is it about anchovies that is so divisive?
    I minced the garlic that every recipe for puttanesca began with. Then I chopped up a good-sized onion, which was called for in some, though not all, recipes. But no one fought over onions.
    When the garlic-onion mixture was sautéed nicely, Istirred in both sun-dried and plum tomatoes. Many chefs used only plums. But no one fought over tomatoes.
    Next, I threw in a half cup each of sliced green olives and sliced black olives. Some chefs insisted on only black olives in their puttanesca—Kalamata olives at that—yet no one really fought over olives.
    But anchovies—that’s where the line is drawn.
    My father hated them. But anchovy-less puttanesca was a favorite of his, so it was no coincidence that I was making it tonight. I had a zillion questions to ask him when he came home from work.
    What had happened after my father left class today? He had had to go back to the principal’s office to get his cell phone. Did he get to hear Mrs. M. yell at Dekker? Was she going to suspend Dekker, maybe even expel him? And what about the rest of us? Had she said anything about there being consequences for the class? Did it involve terrible things like gym floors and toothbrushes?
    And even these things were easier to wonder about than what the kids had thought of my dad today. Maybe that was the real reason I was making one of his favorite dishes. It was a guilt offering.
    I pushed the thought away and measured out two tablespoons of capers, at last an ingredient that all recipes had in common. I tasted the puttanesca, adjusted the herbs, then put water on to boil for pasta. Fusilli, not spaghetti. The little curves hold the sauce better.
    But all my chopping, slicing, and stirring were for nothing. My father didn’t come home for dinner. He was working late, Mom explained, because of the time he had taken off that afternoon.
    â€œI would have gone in his place, if Mrs. Menendez had only asked,” Mom said. “Maybe she didn’t think of it when we saw her on Sunday. Or maybe working in an insurance office is just more interesting than what I do. You know how some people are. It’s the surface glamour that appeals to them.”
    Surface glamour? I almost choked on my fusilli, which, if you think about it, is pretty hard to do because it’s so soft. Dad more interesting than Mom? Statistics more glamorous than astral projection? Good thing Mrs. M.
hadn’t
asked her; Mom would have taught the kids bilocation. Then they could cut class without ever leaving the room.
    â€œYou know how much I love you, don’t you, Bertie?” my mother asked without warning, staring down at her plate. Now I really
was
going to choke on my fusilli.
    Was she a mind reader, too? Did she know how I had betrayed her yesterday in the schoolyard? Maybe her astral body
had
been there, hidden behind the angry French ghosts, hearing me deny both cooking and her. All of a sudden, my guilt about my father doubled and included her. When was my next appointment with Dr. Zimmerman?
    â€œUh, yeah,” I said, starting to push my fusilli around.
    â€œWell, um . . . uh, good,” she said, imitating my movements. “What I mean is, you’re very . . . very young, you know, and it’s easy to make mistakes at that age, um . . . Ooops!” Some olives slid off her