Read Online Rhubarb by M. H. van Keuren - Free Book Online

said Cheryl.
    “If she taught you, it can’t be that different,” said
Martin.
    “That’s what I think.”
    “So maybe it’s something else. Maybe it reminds him too much
of her.” The rhythm of her chopping changed slightly. “Sorry. We don’t have to
talk about her.”
    Cheryl scraped the rhubarb chunks into a large bowl and
added some sugar and flour.
    “Oh, we might as well. Before those waitresses at the Corner
sink their teeth into you. You said you’ve heard the general story?” Martin
nodded. “That she got knocked up by some random dude from out of town?”
    “Heard that.”
    “That she’d been seeing Stewart at the same time even though
he was about twice her age?”
    “Figured that.”
    “Well, she ran off with said random dude, and Stewart took
care of me. But she came back. Showed up one night. No call. No letter. Just
walked in.”
    “Okay, now you’re getting into new territory. Except—I
should warn you that now I’m expecting to hear something about an alien
abduction.”
    Cheryl hung her head over the bowl of chopped rhubarb.
Martin held his breath, but she laughed and said, “Says the Waker with bated
breath.”
    “Don’t blame Lee Danvers,” said Martin. “Blame the Brixton
rumor mill.”
    “Hold that thought,” said Cheryl. She dug an ice tray from
the freezer and cracked it over a towel. She wrapped up the cubes and
pulverized them with the rolling pin. Then she shook the shards into a cup and
topped it off with cold water.
    “Is that a warning not to gossip about you?” asked Martin.
    “Damn straight.” Cheryl dumped Crisco, flour, and salt into
another large bowl. “I was four when my mother came home,” she said, mashing
the ingredients together with a fork. “So I never knew her any different, but
she suffered from a serious mental illness. I mean, I wouldn’t have called it
that then. I really didn’t figure it out until later. She died when I was
sixteen. Lung cancer. The woman smoked like a chimney.”
    “I’m sorry,” said Martin.
    Cheryl tossed a handful of flour on a clear bit of counter
and spread it out. She poured the ice water into the bowl and mixed the dough
with her hands. “Stewart tried to protect me from the worst of it. She’d have
long spells. I remember her crying all day, screaming in the night. She’d go
wandering on the roads alone.”
    “Did she get help?”
    “She’d go on meds for a while, then she’d stop. She had
periods of lucidity, where I got to know her for real. That’s when she taught
me how to make pie. It’s actually my grandmother’s recipe. My grandmother and
mom used to bake it up at Herbert’s Corner, and truckers would drive hours out
of their way for it. My grandmother taught her, and my mom wanted to teach me,
even though Stewart would tell her it was a waste of time. I never knew my
grandmother. She died in the late seventies. Lung cancer, too. You’d think Mom
would have learned her lesson.”
    Cheryl stretched the dough into two rough circles with
short, deft strokes of her rolling pin. She draped the first gracefully into a
pie plate, trimmed the edges, poured in the red and green filling, and then
blanketed everything with the other crust. In seconds, the pie was vented,
crimped, and vanished into the oven. Like a magic show, Martin was sure he’d
missed some sleight of hand.
    “You know, everyone told me you have no idea how to cook.”
Martin handed her glass of wine over, and poured her a little more. “You’ve
been holding out.”
    “It’s easier to let everyone think what they want to think,”
said Cheryl.
    “Why don’t you bake for the diner?”
    “One, screw the diner. Two, Stewart says my pie’s nothing
like Mom’s. Three, he won’t let me work anywhere near Herbert’s Corner. Thinks
I’ll wind up like her.”
    She sipped her wine and stared at a cupboard. Martin sipped
his own and tried desperately to produce a less prickly topic of conversation.
    “Fine,” she said. “Yes,