The Recipe Box That Came Home

The side door

At about ten after twelve, the side door from the parking lot opened, and Rhonda stood there in her long Omaha coat, with her car keys still in her hand.

The long tables. The paper tablecloths. The crockpots. The ladies in their aprons.

Mom at the head table with her cards spread out in front of her like a hand of pinochle. And everyone, every single person in that room, eating my mother’s rolls.

Nobody said a word to her. A few people looked up and nodded, because they remembered her from high school. Marlene stopped talking mid-sentence. The coffee urn ticked. Somebody’s grandbaby fussed and was hushed.

I did not get up. I want to say that I stood and went to her like a good sister, but I didn’t.

I sat still at the end of the table with my hands in my lap, and I waited to see what Mom would do, because this was Mom’s to do. It was her box.

Mom set down the card she was holding, the angel food. She looked at Rhonda across the whole length of the hall.

Then she reached over with the heel of her hand and pushed out the empty folding chair beside her.

“Rhonda Jean,” she said. Not loud. She did not need to be loud. “Come sit by me.”

Rhonda came down the steps. She walked the length of that hall with every eye on her, past the serving table, past the coffee urn, past Mark, who nodded to her once, not unkindly.

She sat down in the chair beside Mom. Her hands were shaking.

Mom reached into her purse, slowly, the way she does everything now. She came out with a blank three by five card and a blue ballpoint pen.

I had bought her a pack of the cards at the drugstore on Saturday, because she asked me to, and I had not known what for.

She set them on the paper tablecloth in front of my sister.

“I can’t write anymore,” Mom said. “My hands won’t do it. So you are going to write it for me. The rolls. From the top. I’ll tell you, and you write it down, in your hand.”

Rhonda looked at her. “Mom, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I can explain.”

“I know you can,” Mom said. “Later. Right now, write. Two cups of milk, scalded.”