The Chicken Sisters(6)

Barbara turned to Andy. “I don’t know if I’ve mentioned that my other daughter, Mae, has been doing something that sounds like this Food Wars. At least, it’s a show on television. Reality television. Sparkling, I think it’s called.”

Andy’s face lit up. “Wait, Sparkling? Your daughter is Mae Moore? Mae Moore who wrote the big clutter book?”

Barbara seemed pleased, but Amanda rolled her eyes. There was no way this project of her mother’s, washed up for who knew what reason in the backwaters of Kansas and probably living in the trailer park east of town, knew who Mae was.

Andy grinned. “There’s a girl who can declutter my underwear drawer anytime.”

He had a real gift for the conversation stopper. Barbara looked at him strangely, and Amanda intensified her glare.

Andy caught himself immediately. “It’s a quote! From a column, by this guy, he mostly writes about sports, but every year he does this whole holiday thing about hating the Williams-Sonoma catalog. And she was in it— Never mind.” Andy’s face was genuinely red, and against her better judgment Amanda found herself softening toward him. “It’s probably not what he should have said either. Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

He read. He hated the Williams-Sonoma catalog. He could tell, at least kind of, when he was being an asshole. Amanda was starting to get Mary Laura’s crackers-in-bed call, but seriously, he liked Mae? Apparently, he couldn’t see through a selfish, superficial fraud. At least that meant he couldn’t possibly have actually watched Sparkling. Amanda had, and Mae was a disaster on it—stiff and fake and judgmental. One more reason Merinac was better off without her.

Barbara turned back to Amanda. “I think I’d like to know what Mae thinks,” she said, and then, as if that wasn’t enough: “Actually, I think I’d like to have Mae here, if I’m going to do this. After all, you’ll be with Nancy. You’re no help to me. I need Mae.”

Amanda should have known; she absolutely should have known. Why had she not seen this coming? She expected the needling about her choosing Nancy over her own mother—that was an old refrain and one that hardly got to her anymore. But the rest—of course her mother would want to use this as bait to get Mae home.

But Mae wouldn’t take it. There was no way. Mae hadn’t been back in Merinac in six years, and she had Sparkling, as terrible as it was. The last thing Mae would want her picture-perfect life associated with was a dump of a chicken shack in the middle of Kansas, and especially one with Barbara’s house looming out back—proof positive that Mae Moore was not who she said she was. Sure, go ahead, ask Mae. But when Mae says no—

“She’s really busy, Mom. I don’t think there’s any way she could do this on such short notice. They’re right in the middle of shooting their whole Sparkling season.” Amanda knew that because Instagram. Because Facebook. Because Twitter. Because Mae made sure everybody knew it, just like everybody had to know about her perfect handsome husband and her beautiful apartment and her adorable flawless children. But that was okay, because it would hold Mae exactly where she was, which was as close as Amanda could stomach her. And Barbara had said, If I’m going to do this. She was more than halfway there, and even if Amanda couldn’t imagine why, she would take it. “Andy will help you, though. And whoever else is working. I know they will.”

Andy, beaming, conspicuously struggled to match her calm tone. “I think they’d be pretty enthusiastic,” he said to Barbara. “I think they’d be disappointed if we—if you—said no.” He laughed. “I know I would. I love Food Wars.”

Barbara crossed her arms over her chest, and the smock she always wore atop her shapeless dress strained. “I’m still going to ask her, though,” she said. “This is important, right? If we win, if our chicken is the best, you said we get a hundred thousand dollars?”

Well, yeah, but Mimi’s wouldn’t win. Amanda could see in Andy’s face that he knew it, too. “We’ll all get lots more business, too,” Amanda said. “That’s worth a lot.”

“I’ll ask Mae.” Barbara turned to the screen door, which had swung open again, getting ready to go inside.

“But wait, Mom,” Amanda said. “If she won’t come, you’ll do it anyway, right?”

Barbara paused, her hand on the door. “I don’t know,” she said. “Having Mae here would make it easier. It’s nice to have a little family support.” Dig, dig. But Amanda could let it go, if Barbara only said yes.

Andy went over to her. “We can do it,” he said. “She’s right, it will bring people in.” He grinned. “It’ll help you pay my salary.”

The screen door again swung open, and this time Andy walked up the stoop and examined the latch. “I can’t imagine why that keeps opening,” he said. “I looked it over when we took the storm door off, and it’s fine. It should hold.”

Amanda met her mother’s eyes. So there was at least one other thing about Mimi’s that Barbara hadn’t told Andy yet. Mimi’s itself would have an opinion, and Mimi’s would make that opinion known. The kids in town were always making jokes about Barbara’s old house being haunted, especially around Halloween—and with its Victorian gables and worn gingerbread trim, it looked the part. But it was utilitarian Mimi’s where, every so often, the Moores were pretty sure someone—probably Mimi herself, or that’s what they liked to believe—lingered. It wasn’t something they talked about much, even among themselves, and it was hard to imagine Barbara mentioning it to Andy, who straightened up and shrugged. “Some breeze, I guess.”