Make Way for Her by Katie Cortese

Author:Katie Cortese
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The University Press of Kentucky
Published: 2018-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

Week Five

It was normal to drop a few students during the course, but this week only half the class showed up. I’d have to freeze the rest of the pork loins and come up with something creative to do with a dozen extra beets. Arthur was one of the missing.

Mrs. Norman was also absent, and Mr. Norman set about his preparations as if readying for war. While his pork loin simmered, he dashed an onion into a thousand tiny pieces and peeled and chopped beets until his fingers were stained the deep crimson of blood. He kept swiping his hands across his apron, drawing red streaks against the black and white.

At the end of class, Mr. Norman asked for extra Tupperware. “The wife is staying with her mother a few days,” he said. “Pre-baby jitters.”

His borscht smelled rich and delicious, and when I inserted a wooden spoon in the center of the pot, so many vegetables were crowded in there that it stuck straight up: the sign of a very good batch. I helped him split it into two separate containers.

“You’re starting to get it,” I said. It was hard to stay angry at a good cook.

“Do you have kids?” he asked, tightening the lid down on one container and marking it “Lily” with a permanent marker. They’d been married for barely a year, and it would only get harder. I had no wisdom for them.

“I’m not cut out for motherhood,” I said, and felt another burst of freedom.

Even though we’d parted awkwardly, I missed Arthur at the front counter, his efficient, nimble fingers peeling the paper jackets off small white onions and working a whisk with brisk, confident strokes. I felt I’d been stood up, as if he’d broken a promise more tangible than his presence in class. I cleaned up quickly afterwards and shut off the test kitchen’s lights.

Out in the hallway, a familiar backpack had been dropped by the door.

He’d come after all, without ever intending to stay.

At home, my husband looked up from his Chomsky while on the television a weatherman waved his arms frenetically in front of a giant cartoon rendering of the continental United States dotted with clouds and sun and rain.

“What’s that?” he asked, marking his place with a finger still pre-dinner thin.

“A student left it. Want to heat this up?” I handed him my tub of borscht, slung Arthur’s bag to the coffee table, and reached for the paperclip-tipped zipper.

“Do you think you should be doing that?” he asked.

I looked up from Arthur’s bag, the mystery contents. He’d left it for me, but there’d been no note on the outside, no explanation. “I’m looking for an address,” I said. “So I can send it back.”

My husband clutched the tub of soup to his chest, face white and slack in the twilight creeping in across the lake. He looked at me that way a minute longer, then slipped like a shadow into the kitchen.

The zipper parted easily. I pushed aside hotel towels and

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