The first Saturday I wasn’t in charge of the church meal, somebody wrote my name under ONIONS.
Not June, please advise. Not June, the woman who has kept this kitchen from catching fire since the old stove had a pilot light. Just ONIONS, in blue marker on a volunteer chart.
“I’m good with onions,” I told Imani.
“I know,” she said. “You said you wanted a job.”
Imani had taken over the Saturday Table at Grace Street Church after I stepped down in August. I had offered to show her the supplier list, the cupboard with the wobbly latch, and which oven ran hotter. I had offered, I thought, to remain available. She had heard the part about stepping down.
She was thirty-two, or perhaps thirty-three, and could carry two trays while remembering four people’s names. She had also moved the meal from one o’clock to noon because the bus route changed. That was sensible. I still wrote one in my pocket calendar every week and crossed it out.
At ten, our bread arrived without the vegetables. Ninety rolls, two boxes of apples, and a driver who had no idea where the carrots had gone. Imani checked the order on her phone. It said carrots. His sheet said rolls. The driver said he had another seven stops.
“They sent them to Saint Anne’s,” I said. “They mix us up every fall.”
“I’ll call,” Imani said.
“I know the dispatcher.”
“So do I. You introduced us.” She gave me a smile that was tired before the first guest had arrived. “Please finish the onions.”
I did. I also called the dispatcher from the hall because I could not bear the idea of Imani spending twenty minutes on hold. A woman named Carla answered. She remembered me, laughed about the old mix-up, and said the vegetables were on a van headed across town. She could redirect it to us by eleven. I told her to do that.
When I came back, Imani was telling the volunteers that the menu had changed. We would serve the soup already simmering, bread, and apples. She had sent two people to buy greens with the grocery money. The tables would be ready by eleven-thirty.
“No need,” I said. “The carrots are coming.”
She stopped with a stack of bowls in her hands. “From where?”
“I called Carla.”
“I asked you to let me handle it.”
“I helped.”
“I have people out buying greens because I couldn’t reach Carla. They will be back with food we may not need.”
Behind her, Mr. Ortega lifted one of the tables and pretended not to hear. He had been pretending not to hear us argue for twenty years. He was very good at it.
“We can use greens,” I said.
“That’s not the point.”
She took the bowls into the kitchen. I followed with my chopped onions and no useful idea of what to say. My husband, Paul, used to tell me I could apologize in seventeen different ways without admitting I had done anything. Paul had died the previous winter. The Saturday Table was the last thing we had run together, though by the end he mostly sat near the door and remembered who liked an extra apple.
I placed the onions beside the stove. Imani was looking at the volunteer chart. Three people had been moved to tables because she expected a noon crowd. I had asked one of them to stay in the kitchen to help with the carrots. I had done that before I made the call. There was another mess with my fingerprints on it.
“I told Malik to stay here,” I said. “You had him setting tables. I should have checked with you.”
“I know.”
“Carla will be here at eleven. You can tell her we don’t need the carrots.”
“We do need vegetables. We’ll use both.” Imani set down the marker. “June, I need to know what you’re doing before you do it.”
“I was trying to spare you the trouble.”
“You spared me the call. You gave me three new decisions.”
I wanted to point out that I had made hundreds of decisions in this kitchen while she was still learning to tie her shoes. Instead I looked at the chart. She had left spaces beside every job. No single volunteer was assigned the whole day. Even she had a break scheduled at twelve-thirty. I had never written myself a break. By three, I was usually cross with everybody.
“Tell me what you need,” I said.
“Finish the onions. Then wash the apples. Let me decide what comes in the door.”
I did not enjoy the answer. I did the jobs.
At eleven, Carla arrived with the vegetables. Imani met her at the loading door, checked the boxes, and thanked her. She did not need me to stand beside her. The volunteers returned with greens, and she found another pot. Mr. Ortega set the last table. By eleven-thirty, the soup was ready and the dining room looked almost calm.
Then Mrs. Givens came in with her grandson and six people from the apartments by the bus stop. They had missed the new notice about noon, so they were half an hour early. Mrs. Givens saw me at the kitchen door and headed straight toward me.
“Can you find us a place?” she asked.
I looked at Imani. She was carrying a tray, already turning to see who had come in. For a second I felt the old answer rise in me: Of course, follow me. I knew where every spare chair was. I also knew which volunteer she had put at the door.
“Malik can,” I told Mrs. Givens. “He’s helping people in today.”
Malik heard his name, set down the napkins, and took them to a table. Mrs. Givens looked surprised for perhaps two seconds. Then her grandson found the apples and wanted to know if he could have one before lunch.
We served on time. We ran out of small bowls and used the deep ones from the cupboard with the wobbly latch. Somebody dropped a spoon. Mrs. Givens asked for another roll, and I gave her two because Carla had delivered enough bread to stock a bakery. Nothing happened that would make a good church newsletter headline. People ate, talked, and went to catch their buses.
After the last table was wiped, Imani put a lid on the leftover soup. “You can go home,” she said. “We’re almost finished.”
I could have stayed to check the fridge labels. I could have told her Paul liked to do that part. Instead I asked, “Do you want me on onions next week?”
“If you’re willing.”
“I am. But maybe write my name beside the job this time. I thought someone was assigning me a new identity.”
She laughed. It came out tired, like the smile that morning, but it was hers. She wrote JUNE — ONIONS on next week’s chart and handed me the marker.
“You can have Paul’s old ladle, if you want it,” she said. He had carved a new wooden handle for it after the original one came loose. I had left it in the drawer when I stepped down.
“Keep it here,” I said. “It still works.”
She put the marker in her pocket and went back to the kitchen. I washed the ladle and left it beside the stove for whoever would be on soup next Saturday.
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