Pillow Talk. Kathleen O'Reilly
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proudly in 1937 by her grandfather, Elijah Barnes. An extra bathroom had been added on when Jessica was born, the attic had been finished when her brother Patrick turned seven, and four years ago her father had added a one-car garage to keep the snow off the 1987 Buick. For Jessica, it was the only home she’d ever known.
After carrying out her orders, Jessica made her way into the kitchen where her mother whisked from stove to sink to counter and back, faster than the eye could follow. There was never a wasted movement; she never stopped the way Jessica did, wondering what it was she intended to do.
Diane Barnes was a woman who kept a spotless house, was happiest when her children were nearby and had never met a casserole she didn’t like. From an early age, Jessica had known she was not her mother’s daughter. When Jessica had lived at home, they had fought almost every day. Her mom didn’t understand a career woman, and Jessica believed housework was one of the original eight plagues of Egypt, but because the Bible had been written by a man, it never got included.
Jessica watched her mother for a moment, then felt guilty and began putting things away, simply so she could look busy. “How you doing, Mom?”
Her mother lifted a lid from the pot on the stove, stirring idly. “Same as always, Jess.”
“You should take it easy some. You look tired,” Jessica said, noting the way her mother’s skin looked more fragile than usual.
Diane shook her head in a patient manner, her short brown hair rippling with movement. “I’ve got too many things to do, and the days are only getting shorter,” she answered, setting a stack of plates in Jessica’s hands.
Obediently, Jessica trotted out to the dining table and laid out the plates, moving from place to place until the spoons were lined up exactly parallel with the napkins and the forks gleamed in the bright lights from the wall sconces that were fixed around the room.
The dining table had already been set up for Wednesday dinner, five settings. It was family night at the Barnes household. Her father, Frank Barnes, had the chair at the head of the table, but until the food was actually on his plate, he sat in his recliner watching the news, thinking of new names for the local aldermen.
Jessica poked her head into the den. “Pop, supper is almost ready,” she yelled.
From behind the back of his brown easy chair came a grunt of acknowledgment. It usually took a good three tries to get Pop to leave the chair, which was incredibly inefficient, but you couldn’t skip one or he wouldn’t leave. Jessica sighed.
The front door slammed, rattling the bay window in a precarious manner. Patrick was home.
At the ripe old age of eighteen, Patrick had moved out of the house and set out on his own. For two years he’d skipped Wednesday dinners, but about the time he turned twenty, White Castle burgers had lost some of their appeal and he’d developed an appreciation for a home-cooked meal. He was now twenty-five and thought he knew everything. Jessica knew better.
He took off his jacket and threw it on top of the coat tree in the hall. “Hey, Jess. Can you get me something to drink?”
“You been taking drugs, Patrick? Do I look like Mom?”
“More and more every day,” he said, pausing before he walked into the den to pinch her cheek.
Jessica smacked her fist into her palm. “I’m your older sister, I’m the professional in the family.”
“Blah, blah, blah.”
The front door slammed again. Not quite as loudly as Patrick, which meant that Ian was now home from class. He was shorter than Jessica by a couple of inches, but what he lacked in height, he said he made up for in wisdom.
He flung his jacket on the coat tree and shook his head. “Sis, you always let him get to you. The only reason he does that is to get you mad.”
It was the ultimate humiliation to get behavioral lessons from her baby brother. At least he was the scholar as well, which soothed her ego somewhat. Ian had spent three years in the local community college, trying out different majors to see if they suited him. Eventually he’d wandered full circle back to Business Administration and had just been accepted to Notre Dame.
Ian threw his backpack onto the sideboard in the dining room, but then their mother scuttled into the room and moved it into the hall closet, with nary a word of complaint. Jessica couldn’t believe her brother’s inconsiderate nature. “Would it have been so much trouble to put it away yourself? Don’t you think Mom has enough to do without having to pick up after you?”
“Heavy stress at the job, Jess?”
She glared at Ian and then she sneezed. “You couldn’t imagine.”
“Yeah, I can.” He rubbed his hands together, his eyes gleaming with possibilities. “I can’t wait.”
He looked so excited, so full of enthusiasm, and Jessica didn’t have the heart to enlighten him about the real state of affairs in the business world. Maybe she was turning into a cynic. More likely she was just scared.
Her mother called from the kitchen. “Jessica, would you find out what everyone would like to drink, please?”
“Sure, Mom,” she said, collecting drink orders and pondering a career in the field of hotel and restaurant management. By the time she had returned to her mother with the information, she had decided that the hospitality industry might be a possibility. And of course, she’d forgotten what everyone wanted to drink.
Ten minutes later they were all seated at the table, and her father said grace, the same blessing he’d said for all twenty-nine years of Jessica’s life. Short, to the point and sincere. Not fancy, but it was the Barnes way.
Dinner was never a quiet affair, although Jessica wondered what it was like Thursday through Tuesday when it was just her mother and father. Did they talk about the day or get silly, or was it just like tonight with her father buried in the news and her mother buried in the kitchen?
The menu tonight was roast beef, gravy, Jessica’s favorite green-bean casserole and homemade rolls. It made Jessica weak just thinking of cooking all that stuff day after day, night after night. She watched her mother fuss over everyone with appreciation and more than a little concern.
Diane held up the rose-colored gravy boat. “More gravy, Ian? And don’t forget your vegetables.”
Her father took a bite of roast beef and emitted a long “ahhh” of satisfaction. “Those guys in meat-packing can tell me what they want, but there’s nothing closer to heaven than your roast beef, Diane.”
Her mother glowed and picked at her plate. “Thank you, Frank.”
That was all her father had to say? Jessica went to the sideboard and refilled her mother’s water glass.
“That’s all well and good, but shouldn’t Mom have a night off every now and then?”
Her father shoveled a bit of roast beef into his mouth.
Jessica shot Ian a plea for moral support, but he was too much of a pacifist or a chicken—or both—to assist.
It was a battle she would have to fight alone. “Mom deserves to get some rest. You got a birthday coming up, don’t you, Mom?”
Her mother got up and spooned more green beans onto Ian’s plate. “In June.”
Immediately Jessica knew how to solve this problem. “I think we should have a party.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Jessica.”
So typical. If no one leaped to her mom’s defense, she’d never get a break. Well, Jessica wasn’t about to let her back out now. She locked eyes with her mom. “No, no, wait. Hear me out. I don’t want you to worry about cooking or cleaning or being a hostess. I’ll take care of everything. The party will be my birthday present for you. And we can get your hair cut at one of those chi-chi places in the Loop. And your nails. You gotta get your nails done.”