Rich Seeber
The Lesson in the Mashed Potatoes
Mashed potatoes dripped off the serving spoon like runny melted cheese.
There you have it, Marnie thought with something like glee.
The consistency of a marriage. Around her in the kitchen stood the guests,
six of them -- the Executive Committee of her husband’s firm and their wives --
and her husband himself, Chess. No one said anything. The wives looked apologetic,
as if they’d had this very nightmare themselves, and were thankful someone else was
living it. The husbands, who she suspected might know about Chess’s liaisons,
shifted their eyes in a different way altogether.
Marnie smiled. “My grandmother’s recipe,” she lied, and thought:
Every potato deserves a good lie. Who had said that? She couldn’t recall.
But she liked it; she liked the idea, and she liked the lie.
The recipe -- the one that had turned out so disastrously, not the imaginary
recipe she attributed to her grandmother, whom she didn’t know, not, at least,
since early childhood -- called for eight golden spuds. Marnie had used six and made up the difference with two reds culled from the plastic bag on the pantry floor. The reds had grown soft and sprouted eyes, but who’d ever know? She’d plucked the eyes, but hadn’t peeled the bodies. A flap of red skin clung to the lip of the serving spoon.
“She started a culinary revolution upstate,” Marnie said. “The whole countryside was gaga for Gran’s runny taters.” Lie number two, but she had them hooked.
“One year,” she continued, stirring again for no particular reason, “it must have been shortly after the war, before she met Grampy Gooner, she won a blue ribbon at the Okanogan County fair.”
The wives listened raptly, mouths half a-gape. In the past year she’d joined these women twice on shopping excursions to the Premium Outlets, once for a trip to a day spa. She knew plenty about them, yet they knew nothing about her. Marnie didn’t like to talk about herself, not the way the other wives did. The Premium Wives, she called them after the first shopping trip. Hundred dollar dye jobs, quarterly dental bleachings. Frozen on the cusp of middle age. To which Chess would rebut, “There’s nothing wrong with taking care of yourself if you can afford it.” The husbands, who until that moment had contributed a polite, if not altogether sincere interest, perked up when she mentioned the war.
Marnie relaxed. Lying was easier than she’d imagined. Not just easy; liberating.
There was power to a lie. For the first time since the phone call she felt
the ground beneath her feet.
The phone call. How long ago had it come? A week? Two? It felt like an eternity,
an eternity of confusion and pain. She recalled the man’s raw, pained voice.
Mrs. Tombaugh, he’d said. My name is Richard Pine.
I believe your husband is having an affair with my wife.
Marnie put the phone call out of her head and concentrated on her audience.
Grampy Gooner! she thought, smiling inwardly.
They’d believe I saw Jesus Christ in a pudding cup.
“Remember Grampy Gooner, Chess?” Marnie said. “How the two of you made colon jokes? During your gastrointestinal episode?”
Everyone turned to look at Chess, who with a worried look took a step back. A few of the men cocked a questioning brow.
Chess laughed nervously. “Oh yes,” he said. “Quite a curmudeon, that Grampy Gooner.”
Marnie winked at her husband. She knew he’d catch on quick. Chess had lots of experience with lies.
“It was the recipe that brought them together -- Grampy and Gran, not Grampy and Chess,”
she laughed, and the others laughed with her, everyone except Chess,
whose jaw clenched in silence. “Grampy took one bite of Gran’s potatoes at
the Rotary luncheon and declared, ‘I will marry this woman!’” That’s five,
almost there! “Smeared it on each others’ faces at their wedding the way other newlyweds smear cake. Oh, I’ve heard stories!”
Two to go, Marnie-my-girl!
Chess cleared his throat. A purple vein pulsed at his temple.
“You alright, dear?” Marnie asked.
“Fine,” Chess said, “fine. Getting hungry.”
Marnie flashed her sunny smile again. “Those certainly were the days,” she said.
At last Patricia Nunez, wife of Charlie Nunez the sod-n-seed king, spoke up. “I’d’ve never believed Marnie Tombaugh hailed from such an idyllic world,” she said.
“Believe me,” Marnie said, affecting a heart-warming blush, “Spring Meadow
had its dark side. No one knew about Grampy’s, um, fondness
for young boys until he blew off the back of his head.”
Smiles wilted. Everyone, with the exception of Chess, occupied themselves with their drinks. For the first time since she’d confronted him on the affair, Chess looked frightened.
One lie to go!
But she couldn’t think of one, and now the guests asked questions about Grampy:
Had the boys come forth? How long had this gone on? Are you comfortable
talking about it? She needed another lie, a lie to end the lie, but there was none:
Lies begat lies. Every potato deserves a good lie,
she thought again. No one said that! Half a truth is all of a lie,
that’s how it goes. Or was it, whoever lies for you will lie against you?
It didn’t matter. In none of this could she remember a single thing about potatoes.
At once Marnie and Chess and all of their guests smelled the smoke seeping out of the oven.
“The pie!” Chess gasped, looking thankful.
Marnie picked up a couple of pot holders and calmly extracted the pie from the oven. Black smoke billowed around her. The pie, a deep brown on top, had blackened at the edges, where she’d crimped the dough.
Her guests made hurried, empty gestures of assistance, a half dozen culinary mimes.
“Ah,” Marnie said, holding out the pie for all to see. “Boysenberry Crisp, just
as Great Uncle Helmut ordered. He was a Nazi loyalist,
lived out his years as a baker in Argentina.
On Chess’s side of the family. Go ahead, dear, tell them.
You know the story better than I.”
©2008 by Rich Seeber
