title

Russ the Provider


—Russell, I need you to wash these eggs and take them to the Forster’s by ten. Alice is making a quiche for the potluck, and she’ll need them by at least ten o’clock.

Russ, sitting at the kitchen table long after breakfast had been cleared away, looked up from his cup of coffee.

—Where are you gonna hide yerself? Why don’cha take ‘em yerself, and make yer cass’role over there. You do enough cookin’ at the Forster’s place.

Ethel listened with distraction, tying her silver-streaked hair in a small silk scarf.

—I’ve already made my casserole. I’ve got to go into town and pick up your suit from the dry-cleaner’s, and get our present for the couple. Are you sure about the gift?

—What’s wrong with towels? I like towels. It’s always good to have a few extra, ee-normous towels around. Maybe you should buy a couple dozen sets. That girl don’t look like much fer laundry.

—That’s none of our business. You just concentrate on being decent at the reception.

—How should I be at the wedd’n’?

—Don’t smile at me about your own cleverness. You’ll mind yourself at that wedding if you want dinner in this house ever again.

—Don’t threat’n me about dinner, Misses. I know you couldn’t stand to see me starve. B’sides, you know my smile always gets to you.

—This is an important day for Chris and Stephanie, and you’ve got a part to play, so just get done what you need to, and there will be no problems.

—Well, I like havin’ no problems. What’s the rest of my part to play?

—I need you to get your nephew ready. He already has his tux, but you need to make sure he wears it properly. And make sure he knows that he’s not to play with the ring. And teach him not to put his hands in his pockets; make sure he knows that tux pockets are for handkerchiefs and watches, and not hands. That boy would be such a handsome little thing, if he didn’t go slouching around with his hands hidden all the time.

—I’ll learn ‘im what a pocket is for. Where’s my hip-flask, by the way?

—It’s in the liquor cabinet, but you won’t be needing it. The ceremony and reception will only be a couple of hours. I’ll pour you a nice glass of Bourbon when we get home. Now, Abe is going to be here at a quarter to one.

—What’s Abe got to come here for?

—He’s going to help you load the flower arrangements into the truck at Jepson’s, and unload them at the Grange.

—That stupid so-‘n-so. I was skiddin’ logs b’fore he knew what a flower was.

—You’ll need help with those barrels of flowers, and he was nice enough to offer.

—Nice is right! Well, if he tries any a’ that whiskey’s-the-devil stuff, I’m gonna leave ‘im here, ‘n he can walk five miles to the wedd’n’.

—I explained to Abe that you do not have a drinking problem. I told him that you probably wouldn’t even drink at all if I didn’t pour it for you. You just behave.

—Yes, Thel. Don’t you worry, I’ll be the model human bein’.

—Now, the last thing I need you to remember is to bring the casserole.

—I’ll remember that, alright. I wouldn’t leave that cass’role behind. If I did leave it here, I’d leave myself here to guard it. Ma’am, you make the best cass’role in these here United States.

—Oh, never-mind about bringing the casserole. I’ll have to come back here anyway, to bring you your suit. I’ll plan to be back at noon, so you have enough time to get ready before Abe shows up.

—Do ya still want me to get that boy ready, or are you gonna take care of it when ya come back?

—You can still do that. I won’t be able to stay long. That potluck is going to take some setting up. But don’t get him dressed too early. I don’t want him to have time to ruin it before the wedding. Oh, I wish I had time to cut your hair before the wedding; promise you’ll comb that back before you leave.

—I c’n take care ‘a my ‘pearance. So long as I c’n see…don’t you worry.

—Okay. Where’s my purse? Give me a kiss.

—Love you, dear.

—Love you too, Russ heard faintly as the screen-door slammed.

₪

In 35 years of marriage, Ethel had left little to Russ to be responsible for. They had met at the logging camp, where Russ had worked since he was 17. Ethel became a cook for the camp, taking her place beside the other cook, her father, when she was 19. The then 21 year old Russ did not know which was more beautiful: the girl, or the food she prepared. He would start the day at 4 am, with a stack of flapjacks, four eggs, 8 thick slices of bacon, and boiled coffee. His plate was always prepared especially for him by the hands of the beautiful young Ethel.

Ethel, as a child, had always admired her father. He had, in her opinion, never been taken proper care of by her mother. She had always thought it strange that a man should be the one to take responsibility for household preparation, especially cooking meals. Her mother, a kind and loving wife and mother, was not very valuable in the domestic realm—though she had poured a great amount of energy into her daughter’s education, feeling sure that Ethel would follow in her footsteps as a strong and independent woman. Ethel felt that above all men, her father deserved to be cared for in the proper way. She vowed that she would learn to cook, and become as domestic as possible, so that one day she might be able to care for her husband properly.

Russ had never had the slightest desire or necessity for any knowledge of the pre-plate aspects of food. He had known frequently in his life the desire to eat, but never the sensation of hunger. Before becoming a logger, Russ was under the care of his mother, a real and true domestic goddess. He moved straight from one ease into another, leaving no space for self-reliance. Of course, Russ was a provider, with a mammoth work-ethic—so this arrangement was considered by all sides an even exchange of social benefit.

Since their marriage Russ had come home at precisely 6:00 for supper nearly every day—and Ethel had always had supper ready. Essentially he had never known the house without Ethel.

₪

Russ got up from his seat at the kitchen table and began to rummage through the cabinets under the counter, looking for a sieve and an egg basket. He turned on the hot and cold sides of the faucet and cast an apprehensive gaze at the eggs piled in their box on the counter. He picked up one egg, handling it as something that he’d always heard rumors of having extreme delicacy, but never actually encountered. He washed the egg, and holding it in one hand—trying to hold it without actually putting any pressure on it, preferably without touching it at all—carefully spread a towel over the basket with the other hand, and placed the egg on the towel in the basket, in its new safety, with a definite feeling of relief, mixed with anxiety for the 23 repetitions of this process.

—I don’t see why Alice can’t clean her own cookin’.

—Uncle Russell!

Timothy was the orphaned child of Ethel’s sister and brother-in-law, who had died in a car accident 9 years previous. Russ and Ethel had raised the boy from infancy as their own, retaining the proper titles, out of respect for the dead.

—What ’cha want, Timothy?

—I want a sandwich.

—You jus’ had breakfast. How cudd’ja be hungry?

Timothy just shrugged. He knew as little about the origins of appetite as his uncle. He only knew that it was a thing that happened, regularly, like breathing and sleeping, and no more would he wonder about the causes of hunger than the causes of those things. Russ could not fault him on this, being of like mind, so he attempted to summon the necessary intuition involved in preparing sandwiches, of which he himself would not mind partaking.

—Have you ever made sandwiches, Timothy?

—No, but I’ve watched Aunt Ethel make lots of sandwiches. It looks easy. I want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, with lots of peanut butter and a little bit of jelly.

—Well, why don’t’cha make us both a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, ‘cause I never saw the process b’fore.

Timothy went straight to work finding the necessary ingredients, and layering everything with care. Throughout this project Russ was intent on the eggs, missing the entire demonstration of the preparation of sandwiches.

—Well, look at that, son! There’s a talent to be proud about. I haven’t seen sandwiches like that since fer’ever.

Russ dried his hands on the corner of the towel as he folded it over the heap of clean eggs in the basket.

—What should we have to drink with those mouth-gluin’ sandwiches? Milk, or Bourbon?

—You can’t drink whiskey with sandwiches!

—Oh, I s’pose you’re right. Milk it is then. Now listen, boy, I’m s’posed to get you all lined out on yer job at this here wedd’n’. You know not to mess with that ring when they give it to ya, right? You know that it’s to stay in its case in yer pocket?

Timothy’s reply was nearly a minute in forming, as his mouth was out of order with the quarter of a sandwich lodged securely inside. Russ waited out this delay by stuffing his own mouth. From the kitchen table, he could see out the big living-room window, and stared at the waving alfalfa that surrounded the house. His face filled with a mock anxiety as Timothy took a big swig of milk to recover his faculty of speech.

—I know. Mrs. Hornsby already told me everything that I have to do, at church last Sunday. It took about five hours for her to finish telling me everything. But I know what to do.

—OK. Well let’s get these things down and you can go with me over to the Forster’s place with them eggs. Don’t let me forget to bring that carburetor fer Tom. He’ll be wantin’ to get his truck back on the road.

—Did you finish rebuilding it for him? What did you have to do to it?

—Oh, I put a new accelerator pump and a new float in it. It should work like bran’ new.

On the way out the kitchen door, Russ glanced back at the bottle of Wild Turkey in the cabinet in the living-room. He thought it should be like any other Saturday, and Ethel should be there to pour him a glass. “Later,” he thought—“that’ll be nice. Two fingers, with m’ feet up.”

₪

Dealing with Alice Forster had always been something that Russ was quite content to leave to Ethel, and he was glad to be finished with the task and back at home.

—Now let’s see if we can’t figure out this here bow tie. Your Aunt’ll be here soon, ‘n I want her ‘proval of yer ‘pearance while she’s here. It’s been a good number ‘a decades since I had ’a deal with a cummerbund. She ought’a be here already.

Timothy was dressed now, looking like a miniature millionaire. He fretted with his hands, edging them closer and closer to the pockets of the jacket.

—I’m tellin’ you, if yer Aunt walks in here ‘n can’t immediately see those hands, she’s gonna come lookin’ for ‘em. And that won’t be pleasant.

Timothy held his hands out in front of his body like a zombie, rotating his wrists as though displaying them—as though wondering what was so special about seeing his hands.

The 50’s telephone on the kitchen wall rang through the house, startling the occupants as though it were the flash of the Atom Bomb. Timothy’s hands froze in front of him. He looked as though he was slowly raising them at the sudden appearance of a bank-robber, or the police bursting in with guns pointed. Russ looked toward the kitchen with an apprehension as toward a forty years dormant monster that had suddenly made its presence known. Russ had thought it an incredible waste of wages to have a phone installed, a slowly growing concern over the years of having no callers. He advanced toward the kitchen, as though gathering in his mind any training he might have had for answering a telephone.

—Hello, this is Russell Snow.

—Russ, it’s Ethel—how are you dear?

—Fine, Ethel. Has somethin’ happen’? Where ya callin’ from?

—I’m fine, Russ. I’m at Doris’s house. The wedding has been canceled, and Doris is very upset for her son. I’m going to stay with her for a while. Can you and Timothy get along alright without me until this evening?

—Yeah, we c’n get along alright. Timothy made us some peanut butter ‘n jelly sandwiches earlier, and we’ve got this cass’role ‘a yers.

—I mean, do you mind if I stay here for a while?

—Oh, yeah. You should do wha‘cha can fer those folks. Tell ‘em I’m sorry fer the dis’pointment.

—I’ll tell them, Russ. Does Timothy already have his tux on?

—Yeah, he looks like millionaire in a penguin suit. You’d be proud ‘a his ‘pearance.

—Well, make sure he doesn’t get it messy. Make him take it off, and lay it out on
the sofa. I’ll put it back in the bag when I get home.

—Alright. He’ll be glad t’ git back in ‘is play clothes, with workin’ pockets.

—Okay, Russell. I don’t know when I’ll be home, but sometime this evening.

—Alright, Thel. C’n I say “I love you,” over the telephone?

—Yes, Russ. I love you too. Bye.

—Bye, Thel.

Russ passed the receiver back and forth rapidly between his ear and the hook several times before letting it hang there, worried about inadvertently cutting off his wife.

—Well, Timothy, there ain’t gonna be no wedd’n’, so you c’n take that getup off ‘n get back into yer play clothes.

Timothy’s expression took on an aspect of crestfallen relief. But the wedding was completely washed from Russ’s mind. He just gazed at the easy chair, somehow divorced of its ease. He looked at the liquor cabinet as though it were an unbreakable safe. He tried to summon Ethel’s practical, domestic nature, which should have rubbed off after all this time. He thought of supper, and how Ethel would not be there to prepare it, though it was in the fridge waiting, as though Ethel had planned for his care even in the unexpected change of situation. He thought of sitting down and felt emptiness in the activity. He bolstered himself with a flash of the thought of the casserole in the fridge. If she had planned for supper, she must have planned for other things. He looked at the bottle of Wild Turkey in the liquor cabinet, and thought of what Ethel would be doing if she were there. He went to the cabinet and fumbled with the latch, as though unsure of its mechanism. Uncovering its wealth, he procured a highball glass to which he added a one-to-one solution of Bourbon and tap water (Ethel had, over the years, perfected this ratio to his taste.) He took a long, burning-cool flood from the glass, and allowed its ease to mask the emptiness. What, after all, did he have to be anxious about? Ethel would be home at some time. He certainly did not begrudge Chris’s mother her sorrows. There were no longer preparations, but anticipations to be dealt with. One of which was the arrival of Abe, though Russ was vaguely sure of a hope that Abe had been informed of the lack of necessity in his coming, that Ethel would be sure to prevent such a repugnant, obligatory meeting for him.

An often (relatively) suppressed appetite was unleashed by the advent of a seemingly newfound freedom. Russ gathered the necessary ingredients—a pitcher of water, the bottle of whiskey, and his glass—and placed them next to his chair in the living-room. He sat gazing out the South window, with the dark television set vaguely registering to the left of the window, at the sloping fields that converged on the river forming the property line, as the floating clouds made massive continents of shadow over the alfalfa. Lulled by the slow steadiness of nature, and the warmth of whiskey, Russ passed several hours in disinterested attention. At half past five, the sound of the car in the drive gathered his dissolute faculties. He roused his body, wondering what had become of his nephew.

Timothy came stumbling through the kitchen door caked in mud.

—Where ya been Timothy?

—I’ve been catching snakes! How come Abe Clausen’s here?

Russ looked toward the kitchen door, with thoughts containing words like hell and damn flaming up in his mind. Without so much as a knock, Abe walked directly into the kitchen, all disheveled and wild-eyed.

—What d’ya come burstin’ in a man’s house for, like a damn wild-***? Don’t people have…

—Russ, it’s Ethel. She collapsed at Doris’s house, and they took her to the hospital. I came to get you—are you alright? Have you been drinking?

—What d’ya mean, have I been drinking? Is it her heart? What happened?

—She’s at the hospital right now; I think she’ll be alright. I came to get you, to bring you there. Are you ready to go?

Russ had felt like hitting Abe many times before, and now it seemed like the only proper thing to do, but he couldn’t concentrate on it, and just allowed himself to be led out to the car.

Hurtling down the wash-board gravel road with his nephew and neighbor, Russ was slowly becoming more and more embarrassed by the thoughts that his mind was conjuring at such a moment. He was wondering if he would be able to make Ethel’s casserole for her, if he’d be able to read her recipes and get them right.


©Neal Page
11/07/2006