Mrs. Larrimore’s Lemonade
By Mackenzie Littledale
8/3/2020
“Jake,” my mom called out from the kitchen. “Go answer the door.”
I knew the knock -- three quick raps -- meant Mrs. Larrimore from next door. She kept herself doubled over, holding a cane with a hand as brittle as oak bark. She was also crinkly, like the crepe paper I used for arts and crafts back in first grade.
Three more quick raps. “Hello-o-o?”
“Jake!”
“Alright, Mom.” I put down my X-box controller, unhappy because I was on the verge of beating the school bully’s best score. I opened the door, and sure enough, crinkly witch Mrs. Larrimore stood with her crazy tangle of white hair like a bouquet of spiderwebs. The creases on her face lit up in the afternoon sun and she breathed in sharply as though we hadn’t seen each other in forever. I faked a polite smile, but then she held out a pitcher covered over with aluminum foil. The acrylic pitcher with sunflowers printed on it meant lemonade--one bright spot to this visit.
“There’s my Jake,” she said, the downturned corners of her mouth turning upward. I supposed she would have patted my cheek with her ancient hand if she hadn’t been holding her cane and that pitcher. “I brought more lemonade. I know how much you like it. Is your mother here?”
I bit back my sarcasm because her lemonade is mouth-watering. “Come on in, Mrs. Larrimore,” I said, standing aside and wishing she could have dropped off the lemonade without staying. Her visits always felt like Playtime with Baby Jake.
She handed me the pitcher and stepped inside. “I just stopped by to make sure you got home safe from school.”
I rolled my eyes as soon as her back was to me. My mom told me a million times to show respect to widow Larrimore, but I didn’t like the old lady’s attention on me. I was almost old enough to drive without adult supervision, and it had been a long time since this old witch babysat me.
“Mom! Mrs. Larrimore is here. She brought something for you.”
My mom came out of the kitchen, with a smear of red sauce on her white T-shirt. She made the best spaghetti and meatballs ever, but she didn’t like cooking as much as baking. My mom liked the precision of baking. Anything that could be improvised gave her anxiety. “Why, hello Loretta,” said my mom. “It’s nice to see you.”
“I made lemonade again. I hope you don’t mind,” said Mrs. Larrimore. “Jake’s birthday is coming up soon, and I was hoping to get some clues as to what he might like this year.”
“A 2015 Dodge Charger SE,” I said, completely serious.
“You like those Matchbox cars?”
My spirits sank. Did I really believe my witchy old lady neighbor would buy a car for my sixteenth birthday?
“Jake, be serious,” said my mom. “If Loretta finds it in her heart to give you a Matchbox car, that’s a gift and you’ll be grateful, understand?”
“Hey, she asked.” I shrugged.
She shook her head. “A gift is something extra, and you should always be grateful for one.”
“Yes, Mom.” I wanted Mrs. Larrimore to leave already, so I could get back to my game. “I’ll put the lemonade in the fridge.” I exited the room for the kitchen and hung out in there.
“Jake, pour some lemonade for us, please.”
That wasn’t a bad idea. I always wondered what Mrs. Larrimore’s secret ingredient was.
“Just pour for yourself and your mom,” said Mrs. Larrimore. “I’ll be on my way. My lady friends are coming over to play bridge at four, so I can’t be late.”
I brought two glasses of lemonade with ice and set them down on the coffee table. “Okay, Mrs. Larrimore. Nice to see you, and thanks. I was only kidding about a car for my birthday.”
Once my mom saw Mrs. Larrimore out the door, she took her seat in the living room. “Jake, come sit with me. I need to know something.”
I slumped on the couch across from my mom. My mom: pretty, naturally tanned skin, and with hair dyed in a maple red kind of color in tight curls. “What’s up?”
“There’s something you should know.” She stared into her lemonade and stirred the ice with her finger.
“Like what?” I asked.
“About your dad.” She sighed and threw her head back.
Panic lurched in my chest and I left my glass untouched. “What about him? Is something wrong?”
“How much money have you saved up from working at the grocery store?”
“What happened to my dad?” I demanded.
“I'll get to that, Jake, I promise, but first I need to know how much you have saved up.”
“A little over six-thousand dollars. I saved half of what I earned and you know it’s for a car. Please tell me.”
“I didn’t realize you’d saved up so much.” She gulped down some of her lemonade and put the sweaty glass down gently on a coaster. “Your father…”
“What?”
“He got laid off. He’s been out hitting the pavement every day looking for work, but we don’t know how long it’ll take for something to come through.” Her chest heaved, glistening with sweat. The artery in her neck throbbed right through her skin.
“Mom, how long ago did Dad lose his job? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wish you didn’t have to worry about it, but you’ll have to contribute toward paying the bills for a while, honey. There’s no other way.”
“When did Dad lose his job?”
“A few weeks ago.”
I gasped and scowled, angry at being left out. “And you’re only now telling me?”
“I’m so sorry,” she said softly. “I know you want a car and you’ve worked so hard for it, but we need to keep the lights on. We have to pull together as a family.”
I couldn’t let my family down, but helping out meant giving up on buying the Charger I had my heart set on. Giving up on the car meant either riding the bus senior year like a dweeb or buying a cheapo, ugly clunker that would never get girls’ attention -- Lilla’s attention. Helping my family meant dooming my plans at being cool. I’d gotten really good at advanced math and chemistry, but not so good at weightlifting and wrestling. I’m still a stick figure in jeans and Polo shirts. The school bully picked on me almost every single day. The car was supposed to be my ticket to the cool kids’ table. I could have been Lilla’s ride. Lilla was a sophomore and the most beautiful, artistic girl in school. The only thing she hated worse than the school bullies was nerds with ugly cars.
I looked at my mom, her face masked in shame and desperation. A trick, I’m sure, to guilt trip me, and I couldn’t help but explode. “I can’t believe you’re ruining my life!” I rose to my feet, nearly kicking the coffee table. “This isn’t fair. It took me two whole years to save up that money. You and Dad told me to work for what I wanted, and if I saved up half for the down payment, you’d help me out. ‘Learn the value of a dollar,’ you said. ‘You’re not a little child anymore,’ you said. It’s not fair to go back on what you promised me, and you know it.”
“Jake, honey. I’d never ask you to man up before your time, except this is a family emergency.” She got up, took hold of my hand and squeezed too tight. “Please. We need your help paying bills for a while.”
My whole body screamed inside me. I couldn’t contain it and I couldn’t put the agony into words. My muscles twitched, my legs antsy. I needed to run, so I bolted upstairs to my room and slammed the door. I’d sooner sell my X-box than give up the chance to impress Lilla. That Charger meant freedom, no more borrowing Mom’s minivan or taking the city bus. “How can you be so selfish?” I yelled through my closed door.
Quick footfalls on the stairs. “
Who’s being selfish?” asked my mom, her voice breaking. “Jake, I cannot
believe how selfish you’re being right now. It’s hurting your father’s pride to be unable to provide for us. We have to pull together. We need you.” She slumped loudly against my door. “We need you.”
Unwanted tears flooded my eyes. I flung myself into bed and pounded my pillows. I knew she was right, and I had to make up my mind whether to dig in my heels or soldier through the sacrifice to help.
“The longer you wait, the harder I’m going to make the choice,” said my mom.
I couldn’t imagine the choice being harder, but for some reason it felt like a challenge. “Why do I have to give you an answer right now?”
“The electric bill is already late. We have to pay it in a couple days or the power is going off. If the power goes off, all our food is lost. There’s no TV, no X-box, no Internet, no stove, no oven, no microwave, no lights at night, no hot water.” She paused. “Dammit, one.”
Uh-oh, my mom started counting, and that meant she was at the end of her rope. If my dad had already been out of work for weeks, then she must have been worried and anxious all that time. I could barely get my head around what she was telling me about what we stood to lose without electric power. I had no idea electricity powered so much. I mean, I guess I did, but the thought of losing so much terrified me.
“Two. I’m warning you, Jake. If I get to three, you may as well move out. You think you’re grown, support yourself.”
“Mom!”
“Open this door right now,” she shouted.
“Alright.” I got up from the alleged safety of my bed and let her in. Her make up was smeared to the outer corners of her eyes. Eyes red, swollen from fear and flashing with anger. I’d nearly pushed her too far, but I still didn’t feel heard. “Mom, I’m sorry, but you don’t understand what that car means to me.”
“Riding Lilla around, impressing her, freedom to get yourself to work, taking your friends to the movies. How could you think your father and I don’t get that?”
I took a step back, eyes opened wide. She did understand. “You know I have to give all that up, and you’re still asking me for my savings?”
She sighed loudly, her shoulders trembling before they relaxed. “Your father and I have discussed this -- you can’t imagine the back and forth -- but in the big scheme of things, keeping the electric on is more important…”
“It still doesn’t seem fair.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. This is so hard to ask of you, but we ran out of options. Once your father finds a new job, all the money we borrow can be replaced, but how long can we go without food, or air conditioning, or cooking, or hot showers? How would you do your homework without Internet access? How could any of us get by once we can’t recharge our cell phone batteries? Jake, this is serious. This is urgent.”
I bowed my head and hid my face in my hands. My mom took me in her arms and we cried -- blubbered really -- holding onto each other, her hot tears soaking through my shirt. Our insecurities flowed into each other, and it was unbearable. I held her tighter. “Don’t cry, Mom.” I couldn’t help but notice my ceiling fan kept spinning, the air conditioner whirred, and the lights never flickered.
Later, when my dad got home from job-hunting, Mrs. Larrimore called. My mom took the phone into the kitchen and spoke in hushed whispers, shooting glances at me while I poured a glass of lemonade. Nobody made lemonade as tart as Mrs. Larrimore. It was the best. I had a weird feeling Mom was blabbing our family’s financial woes.
“Jake,” said my dad. “Come here, son.” He sat heavily in his Lazy-boy, but he didn’t lever his legs to a reclining position. Instead, he leaned forward on his elbows, with his fingertips pressed together, like an old-time villain plotting on taking over the world, except for the creased brow and defeat in his eyes. My dad had always been my original superhero. We weren’t rich, but we’d never been without power or food.
“What’s up, Dad?”
He stared at his polished, brown leather shoes. “Your mother told me you agreed to help out with the bills, and I just want to say thank you for manning up,” he said, nodding. “It’s not easy to get laid off, not by a long shot.” He looked up at me with a desperate spark of hope in his eyes. “Something’s going to give soon, and I promise you’ll recover your money from me.”
“I believe you, Dad. Mom told me.”
“Honey,” said my mom, coming into the living room. “Loretta Larrimore invited us for dessert tonight after dinner. She made your favorite, tiramisu.”
“That sounds nice, I guess,” said my dad, shuffling a deck of cards to lay out a game of Solitaire.
“Do we have to go?” I asked. “Her house smells like cedar and mothballs.”
“Yes, it’s a nice offer. Jake, honestly.”
While my mom put dinner on the table, my dad took half my savings. His hands moved slowly at first, but then he closed his fists on the money and withdrew his hands as quick as lightning. That felt worse than a million wasp stings, but I stood straight and tall. The power would stay on.
At Mrs. Larrimore’s, my mom put me to work, cutting the tiramisu and serving tea. Mrs. Larrimore patted my cheek, called me such a fine young man. “I remember babysitting you, you know,” she said. “You were such a joy to watch. Then you started getting older and going to school. I helped you learn your addition and subtraction tables. It wasn’t long before you needed help memorizing your multiplication tables. Remember that, Jake?”
I breathed out, remembering. “Yes, Mrs. Larrimore, I do. You helped me with math, and that’s where...that’s where my love of numbers came from. You taught me to add and subtract with chocolate chip cookies.” I smiled. “Those are my favorite.”
“That’s a lovely memory,” said my mom. “Loretta, you should see how complicated his math is now. Trigonometry and pre-Calculus. I can’t even keep up with it. He’ll be ready for college in no time. Thank you for all the times you kept an eye on him.”
“It was my pleasure. He was the grandson I might have--” she cut herself off and a ghost of sadness came over her eyes. “Well…”
My mom closed her mouth tight and looked at my dad, ever so slightly shaking her head.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Have you found work yet?” Mrs. Larrimore asked my dad.
“Still looking. I’m sure something will open up soon.”
“I could make some calls for you. I worked for a big technology firm for fifteen years. I know a lot of people,” she offered. “A lot of higher-ups who can make hiring decisions.”
“I’d appreciate that a great deal, Loretta. Thank you.”
My mom winked at Mrs. Larrimore, but my dad didn’t notice.
We played a few rounds of cards. My mom had me help Mrs. Larrimore clean up the dishes and teacups, and then we headed across the lawns back home. A hot humid breeze rustled through the oak leaves and wrapped around us, without a shred of comfort.
“Dad?” I picked up a twig and peeled the bark off.
“What’s up, son?”
“Why does she like me so much?”
“You mean Loretta? Your mother would be the one to know.”
My mom sighed and put her arm around my shoulders. “Honey, she’s always had a soft spot for you. It goes back to before you were born.” She glanced back over her shoulder toward Mrs. Larrimore’s house. “You know she makes her lemonade from lemons on her own tree, right?”
“Yeah, so?” I tossed the naked twig.
“When she was younger, she had two kids of her own, twins, a boy and a girl.” She gripped my shoulder.
“I’ve never seen kids visit her.”
“Oh, honey, they were killed in a car accident when they were about thirteen years old. It’s maybe thirty years gone by now. Their graves are under her lemon tree. Some people know how to make lemonade from life’s lemons, and Loretta is one of those people. When you were born, she took right to you, like she was recovering a chance at motherhood.”
“That’s… that’s ridiculous,” I said.
“Maybe it’s silly, maybe it’s impossible, but she always loved to shower you with affection. I was grateful for that, so I could go back to work part time. You were in good hands.”
At bedtime, I stared out at the unlit windows of Mrs. Larrimore’s house, pondering the mysteries of life, death, and the power of borrowing second chances from neighbors. I’d recover my money from my dad, maybe soon if Mrs. Larrimore’s connections landed him an interview. Mrs. Larrimore would never recover her real kids, but she had some kind of hope in me. She gave me a gift: love for mathematics by way of chocolate chip cookies. Despite looking like a witch, she was the kind of woman who kept her children close, even in death. I could practically taste her love and sadness in the lemonade. I wonder if it’s a combination of love and sadness that makes it so perfectly tart.
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