My Private Wobegon

stories from home

Casserole Ladies
By Lana Book

Tears rolled down Helen's face as she chopped the big purple onion. When the phone rang, she knew it was Sophie. Sophie called every Sunday morning after reading the obituaries.

"Helen, have you read the obits yet?"

"Yes, Louise Kemper, God rest her soul," Helen answered as she stirred the chopped onion and minced garlic into the hot olive oil.

"Survived by her loving husband, Theodore Kemper. I'm making chicken in red wine sauce for this one, Helen. Pick you up at two-thirty."

Helen got out her blue china casserole dish. A disposable foil would be more convenient but then there would be no need for its return. It was an important strategy she learned from Sophie. She taped labels with her name, address, and phone number on the bottom of the blue dish and inside the lid then put the spaghetti casserole in the oven to stay warm until Sophie arrived.

Sophie knocked on her door at exactly two-thirty. "Timing is crucial, Helen. One day too early and you're too aggressive. One day too late and you're beat out by the competition."

"Sophie, I've been widowed by two husbands. I'm not looking for another one."

"Nonsense. What are you going to do with the rest of your life? Play bridge once a week and sit alone in this big house waiting for your children to make their token visits twice a year? We're still young, Helen, barely sixty-five. We've paid our dues over the years. Life owes us a little fun and companionship toward the end."

Helen put her spaghetti casserole in the styrofoam chest in the back seat next to Sophie's chicken with wine sauce. Sophie checked the address in the paper before starting the car.

"It's on the other side of town. We'll have to use the freeway," said Sophie.

"Maybe we should take the streets through down town."

"The traffic is even worse down town," Sophie said as she backed out the driveway.

"Sophie, doesn't this seem a little premeditated? I mean, aren't we taking advantage of a man when he's most vulnerable? When he's still grieving for his wife? We hardly knew Louise Kemper."

"It isn't premeditated. It's planned. There's a difference. For Christ's sake, Helen. We aren't the CIA on a covert mission. We're just two old ladies paying our respects. Delivering casseroles and condolences. Besides, he may be grieving now but give him six months and he'll have a sweet thing half his age on his arm. How many times have you seen that happen?"

"A few I guess."

"More than a few I'd say. Look at Murry Gletz. Doris wasn't in her grave a year when
he married that red head. She can't be more than forty. Now she's eating off Doris' china, sleeping in Doris' bed and he's had two heart attacks. The old fool."

Sophie slowly eased into the traffic of the freeway as cars backed up and honked behind her.

"I told you we should have driven through down town," said Helen.

"I know how to drive, Helen. I didn't spend two hours making that casserole to have it end up all over my back seat because some jerk is in a hurry. Just watch for our exit."

They drove in silence until they reached the Windsor Blvd. exit. Sophie pulled off the exit ramp and turned right. "It shouldn't be much further," she said.

"Don't you think it's funny, Sophie, when a man dies and leaves a spouse she is suddenly a threat to the wives of couples she has known for years. The invitations stop and she becomes socially isolated. But when a woman dies and leaves a spouse he immediately becomes fair game, available, desired at every social function in town. It seems to me, society supports the widower and pities the widow. It isn't fair. Aren't we just promoting that behavior?"

Sophie stopped the car in front of a red brick house. The sign above the mailbox read, 621 Windsor Blvd., The Kempers.

"I can't believe you're this age and still expect life to be fair. We aren't perpetuating anything. We didn't make the rules, Helen. The way I see it, we're just adding balance to the scale."

Helen and Sophie walked toward the house carrying their casseroles.
"I don't know why I keep coming with you," said Helen.

"You keep coming with me because you know I'm right. Because, like me, you're tired of being alone. Because the silence makes you crazy. Because you lie in your bed alone and can't remember what it feels like to be touched. Now, how do I look?"

"Lose the smile, Sophie. It doesn't look sincere," Helen said as she rang the doorbell.

---

Lana Book
"This story arose when I told my mother-in-law that there was a sophisticated elderly gentleman who had recently been widowed that I wanted to introduce her to-since she is a single sophisticated senior lady herself. She told me I better hurry up before the casserole ladies got to him and told me that they do not waste any time zeroing in on the new widows in the community.

I wrote my first story when I was twelve years old. I have been in three anthologies and have had essays published in the Kerrville Daily Times and the San Antonio Express News. I enjoy hosting writing workshops and literary readings at my home, The Hill Country Sculpture and Meditation Garden in the Texas Hill Country. Most of my writing comes from life experiences, people I have met and things I just overhear. I enjoy humor as I feel most people just take life too seriously. I am a Hospice nurse, have a great husband and three grown daughters. I was raised in the country and near a very small town rich in literary resources."