Mary Jane Jessica Blau (namjoon book recommendations TXT) 📖

I busied myself by putting on the oven mitts. ThenI opened the oven and took out the chicken. “So you’re not Jewish?”

“No way. We were Presbyterian. I grew up in Oklahoma.”

“Oh. Wow.” Oklahoma seemed exotic. I’d never met anyone from Oklahoma. And what about a Presbyterian marrying a Jewish person? Would my parents think a half-Jewish family was easier to take than a whole Jewish family? Did Mrs. Cone’s parents, like mine, think Jewish people had a different physiognomy? Dr. and Mrs. Cone seemed more like each other than my parents. If I really thought about it, it was my parents who appeared to be different breeds (my mother the talker, the doer; my father the silent newspaper reader). And the Cones seemed happy and in sync. They were different versions of the same model.

“Yup, wow.” Mrs. Cone smiled at me.

“We go to Roland Park Presbyterian. I’m Presbyterian.”

“I know. Sheba told me. She thinks we all should go to your service on Sunday.”

“That would be so fun!” I smiled, but Mrs. Cone just gritted her teeth. Like maybe it would be painful for her to go. “I mean,if you want.”

“I try to avoid church. But if Sheba really wants to go . . . we’ll see.” She shrugged again.

I tried to imagine Sheba and Mrs. Cone in their long blond wigs in my church. It seemed impossible. No one looked like thatat Roland Park Presbyterian. I took down the serving platter Izzy and I had washed a few days ago when we cleaned out somekitchen cupboards, and then moved the chicken from the pan to the platter, placing each piece with the bronzed meaty sideup. The orange slices were hot, but I could still lift them from the pan with the edges of my fingers so I could arrange themartfully. I thought it looked like something out of Sunset magazine, and Mrs. Cone might have agreed because she stared down at the platter and looked happy again.

“What are the herbs?” Mrs. Cone poked a piece of chicken with her finger and then stuck her finger in her mouth.

“Rosemary, garlic, thyme, and salt. Izzy sprinkled all of it on top.” Just like I did for my mother, though my mother premeasuredthe portions before handing them over.

“Mary Jane,” Mrs. Cone said, “you are a gift to us all.” She leaned in and kissed me. I was starting to get used to all the kisses around here.

I picked up the chicken platter and carried it out to the dining room table. Izzy was standing on a chair, with Sheba behindher. They were holding a match together, lighting candles in tall silver candlesticks.

“We’re doing candles tonight!” Izzy said.

“That’s beautiful.” I placed the platter on the table. Mrs. Cone followed behind with the bowl of rice in one hand and thegreen beans in the other.

Sheba looked down at the chicken. “No, that’s beautiful.”

“Izzy did the spices.”

“I put on the mary rose,” Izzy agreed.

“Rosemary.”

“ROSEMARY!”

“Go get your dad and Jimmy.” Mrs. Cone put Izzy on the ground and gave her a little pat on the bottom to help her get moving.Izzy ran out, and then Mrs. Cone moved in closer to Sheba. The two of them started talking about something that had happenedearlier in the day, the town they had visited, the little inn they had seen, a restaurant they both liked. Their voices werelow and humming, like they were talking during the opening credits of a movie. I pretended to be straightening the place settingson the table, but really I was just listening in.

Dr. Cone, Jimmy, and Izzy came in. Izzy and Jimmy were making screeching monkey sounds, as if they were in the jungle andcould only communicate with long-held vowels: eeee oooo eeee! Dr. Cone’s brow was furrowed. He looked tired and maybe angry.

Jimmy lifted his hands in the air above the chicken, like a preacher, and said, “Lord have mercy! What hath Mary Jane and Izzy made for us tonight?!”

“Chicken with mary rose!!” Izzy shouted. She clapped her hands and jumped up and down.

“Chicken with mary rose! Well then, this needs a song of praise.” Jimmy left the room and Izzy ran behind him. The rest ofus sat at our usual places at the table.

Dr. Cone reached for the chicken and Mrs. Cone said, “No, dear! Wait until everyone’s seated.”

Dr. Cone huffed out a breath but withdrew his hand. He leaned back in his seat, looking for Jimmy and Izzy to return.

“Do you like our hair?” Sheba asked.

“Isn’t it the same hair you two had on this morning?” Dr. Cone asked.

“Maybe.” Mrs. Cone threw her hair over her shoulder, Sheba style. She winked.

Dr. Cone didn’t seem in the mood to play games. “I’m hungry,” he said.

“Lighten up,” Mrs. Cone said.

“Or light up,” Sheba said, and she and Mrs. Cone laughed.

I didn’t get the joke, and Dr. Cone didn’t seem amused by it. “How long do we have to wait for this song?” He drummed hisfingers on the table, and as if that movement were magic, Jimmy marched into the room with Izzy sitting on his shoulders.He had a guitar strapped across his chest, hanging on his back, and his hands on Izzy’s ankles.

“We’re going to sing for our supper!” Izzy said. Still, Dr. Cone seemed hungry, or angry. I worried I had done something wrong.

I stood and helped Izzy off Jimmy’s back. Then I pulled her into my lap.

Jimmy put one foot on his chair, laid the guitar across his knee, and started strumming and singing. It was a Cat Stevenssong, I knew, because we had learned it in choir at school. “Morning has bro-ken. . . .”

Sheba jumped in and sang with him. Then she reached over and pinched my arm to get me to sing. I looked at Dr. Cone, who hadhis arms crossed over his chest and a half frown on his face.

“Come on, Mary Jane. We need you on harmony,” Sheba said, and I looked away from Dr. Cone and jumped in. “Praise for the singing . . .”

Mrs. Cone turned her head in my direction. Dr. Cone looked