THE GOLD FISH: Apple Sauce (2.15)

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Dinnertime was typical for a Tuesday night. No crab cakes, but no Wolfman either. Just the four Ward girls crammed around the kitchenette table. Apparently, Don’s night on the throne had fortified him enough to get to work that day, and he hadn’t been bored enough to make a run for it. Yet.

Joan had made one of the more common dinners in her repertoire: pork chops, green beans -- cooked, it must be noted, until their green color and rigidity had fled the scene -- and Mott’s apple sauce. It wasn’t one of Barbie’s favorite meals. Roast chicken and mashed potatoes were at the top of that list, but it wasn’t the dinner she most hated either: meatloaf.

Despite Don’s recovery, the morning’s drama had left a mark on Joan. On top of her usual broken heart, a crushed spirit had been added to her list of injuries. She just didn’t know how much more she had in her. To fight. To care. She felt wave-the-white-flag defeated. Virginia Woolf, pockets-full-of-rocks, defeated.

Even at the best of times, Joan was hardly a sparkling dinner companion. But on this particular night -- after this particular morning -- she was more quiet than usual. She did manage, however, to offer an occasional encouraging word or two to The Belle along with raised spoonfuls of apple sauce. Because let’s face it, The Belle was the rare ray of consistent sunshine in Joan’s life and given she was only two, could hardly be held accountable for the dinner mess currently smeared across her high-chair tray table. Yet.

Whatever happened in her marriage, Joan thought to herself with a mixture of pride and self-righteousness, she would continue to do the things a good mother did. The girls were going to live in a beautiful, well-organized home, wear clean, well-maintained clothes, and enjoy nutritious, well-balanced meals. Okay, enjoy was a strong word. At the very least, they would pick at them half-heartedly while lost in their own worlds.

Karen, unaware of her mother’s despair -- and frankly, uninterested -- was consumed with thoughts of the cute new guy in her Civics class and wondering whether he had noticed her. Barbie was also lost in her own thoughts, contemplating design themes for Erin’s pants and fantasizing about the other “business” which surely lay ahead. And the Belle was cheerfully tossing limp, gray string beans to Gigi, who sat waiting attentively at her feet.

But some maternal phantom must have poked Joan into awareness because she took a deep breath and asked, “How was school today?” The question was leveled to the air, rather than anyone in particular.

“Great!” cried Barbie.

Both Joan and Karen startled at her enthusiasm.

“Great?!” said a disbelieving Karen. “Are you kidding me? Besides taller kids and different classrooms, it’s as completely boring and useless as it was last year. Like I’m ever going to use algebra when I grow up.” She raised a glass of milk to her lips.

“Well. I liked it,” said Barbie. “It was a complete and total inspiration.”

At this unlikely statement, Karen, caught between a laugh and a snort, choked. Milk spewed from her mouth and nose, flooding the remains on her dinner plate. The Belle giggled.

“Oh for Godssakes...” said Joan, throwing her napkin at Karen. “Control yourself. And clean that up.”

Karen mopped half-heartedly at the spilled milk and gaped at her sister. “A complete and total inspiration?! Where the hell did that come from?”

Barbie shrugged.

“You’re such a weirdo! Or maybe you’re trying...” said Karen, now emboldened by the fact that her mother had let the H-E-double hockey sticks slide, “...to impress Mom with some little goodie two shoes bullshit.”

“Watch your language, Missy.” Joan shot Karen her signature warning look. “That’s twice now...”

“I’m just saying,” said Barbie. “It was totally different than IHM. And kinda... interesting.” She dragged her fork through a smear of applesauce, leaving parallel furrows across her plate and giving her a thought.

“Hey, why do you think apple sauce is listed on restaurant menus as a vegetable? Apples aren’t vegetables. They’re fruit. And honestly, why don’t we call it apple jelly, like you would any other kind of mashed up fruit? No, that’s apple butter, which is a whole other thing.” She fluttered a dismissive hand, unconsciously echoing yet another habit of her new friend Erin, before continuing. “We don’t call grape jelly grape sauce. And why do we only eat apple sauce with pork chops? If it’s so good with meat, why don’t we have it with chicken? Or steak? Or hot dogs? Also, don’t sauces usually go on other things? You don’t eat them by themselves. You’d never sit down and eat a big ole side of tomato sauce. Or put apple sauce on spaghetti!”

She paused, then, almost embarrassed by her own diatribe, and looked down at her plate. “I mean, what the heck?”

Existential examinations of any kind -- let alone of food stuffs -- were unprecedented at Ward family mealtimes, but the fact that this particular thought exercise had come from Barbie was even more surprising.

Joan and Karen were dumbfounded. They were more than dumbfounded; they were perplexed. And speechless. Because Barbie had raised some very good questions -- thought provoking questions -- and they had no answers.

Karen broke the silence. “See Ma, I told you we don’t learn anything good in school. Not that I’m interested in food groups. But it sounds like Barbie’s class on apple sauce left her with more questions than answers.” She paused, mentally patting herself on the back for so clearly pointing out the shortcomings of the Baltimore County educational system, before continuing to mock her sister. “Even if it was a complete and total inspiration.”

“I didn’t say I had a class on apple sauce,” huffed Barbie. “God! I’m just saying school made me think... about stuff. And gave me ideas. Lots of ideas.”

Joan’s eyes narrowed. “Ideas huh? Not sure I like the sound of that.”

“Yeah, Barbie. Don’t go getting ideas,” said Karen, eager to move past her apple sauce class gaff.

“No one wants that. Can’t have you thinking.” Karen grabbed both sides of her face in approximation of Edvard Munch’s The Scream, “Oh the horror!”

Joan snorted in spite of herself, and then the most extraordinary thing happened.

She put her face in her hands and giggled. Actually giggled, her shoulders shaking with the force of it. Soon she was bent over, her cheeks aching, her hand slamming the table. Karen’s antics and the absurdity of the apple sauce discussion had hit her square in the funny bone, and she laughed until tears ran down her face.

And just like that, the oppressive cloud of malaise that had plagued Joan’s entire day broke, bringing in its aftermath the tiniest ray of sunshine.

Barbie and Karen exchanged glances at this rare spectacle. They eyed each other uncertainly, caught between wonder and alarm.

Joan wiped the tears from her eyes and took a deep breath to steady herself. “My daughters,” she said with a snort. “A couple of goddamned Einsteins.”  

She pushed back from the table, grabbed a cigarette from her ever-present pack, and lit up. As the first pull of smoke hit her lungs, Joan’s face lightened further, returning it to its youthful -- and it has to be said, rightful -- 37-year-old self. Picking a piece of tobacco off her lip, she gestured to Barbie. “Alright Miss Smarty-pants, how about you see what’s in the freezer for dessert?”

Ever the eager beaver to accept a mission, Barbie jumped up to rummage in the freezer for whatever leftover ice cream cartons still contained a spoonful or two worth eating.

Despite the presence of her gold (pause) fish lying there amongst the freezer’s other aluminum-foil-clad bundles -- its bulk literally at her fingertips -- Barbie didn’t once think of it.

Her mother’s lightness had completely erased it from her mind.

~ End of Part 2 ~

Next → Surprise, Surprise (3.1)