Scones

Rose sat in a king-sized bed in a Comfort Inn somewhere on the outskirts of a city. She had driven for hours. To hell with the car-for-sale ad. No one knew where she was. Fed up, she had decided to take a road trip, popping in a Cole Porter CD, the only CD she could find in the front seat. She stopped at a motel when she ran out of gas. She hadn’t called Ben. She had not told him about puncturing her bicycle tire in the slum and wheeling the bike past the the thugs who had laughed at her. After walking from Dorrie’s slum to her own neighborhood, she threw the bike down in the hall, intending to fix the tire later. It wasn’t as though she couldn’t fix a tire. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t encountered broken glass before.

Sitting at the kitchen table, envisioning a life spent designing ugly industrial parks, she had begun to revise her resume. She planned to apply for a job in a rival firm.

She tapped the computer keys, wondering whether she dared innovate or should submit a traditional resume. But the phone rang repeatedly. She couldn’t get anything done.

It was Dorrie. Then it was Dorrie again. Then again. Calling from a pay phone. She wasn’t sure she could play Queen Margaret. The part was bigger than she remembered.

So? thought Rose. I’m not your social worker. I tried harder than anyone else would try for her husband’s ex-.

Then Dorrie called again. She had changed her mind. Playing Queen Margaret meant a lot to her. Suddenly it was all clear. She knew what Queen Margaret felt....She would be at the rehearsal tomorrow.

Rose picked up. That’s great, Dorrie. Someone will pick you up.

Rose would have to organize it. No, leave it to Ben. She had baked scones to solve Ben’s Queen Margaret problem (and so she wouldn’t get stuck playing the part herself), journeyed into a slum, and wasted a morning with the indifferent Dorrie. And for what? For Dorrie? It would be good for Dorrie, but what did Rose care? Why be magnanimous? Rose was sorry about Dorrie, really very sorry for her, but they weren’t friends. No, she had done it to impress a man who spent very little time with her. A man so good he made barely enough to pay his part of the mortgage.

A man who might be using her. No, there were other richer women he could use. But something was wrong.

Did she want a divorce?

No. She wanted to quit her job. She couldn’t afford to quit the job. Not unless Ben went back into medicine.

He was burned-out, too. They would both work forever.

At the motel she cried in the shower. She washed her hair with motel shampoo. Then she climbed into bed and opened her laptop and revised the resume. Away from home, it took half an hour.

Suddenly she was calm.

But where were her scones?

Dorrie would never bake Rose scones. Nor would Ben. Rose was not the kind of person people baked for. Nobody said, Poor Rose. She was always the one who baked. Or made the hot dish for the potluck. Or flipped the pancakes for the impromptu gathering at her house.

Where were the scones? Why had she given them all to Dorrie? She didn’t have the energy to leave the motel and buy a scone at Starbucks or Barnes & Noble. She wanted, yes, her mother. She felt an urge to call, Mom, come and get me. I’m in a motel. We could explore the city together. I’ve been crying because, and this is ridiculous, I always take care of everybody. Her mother, a widow, would just laugh and say, I always had to do everything for others. Nobody took care of me, either.

She flipped on the TV. After half an hour of reruns of STAR TREK, she pulled herself together. That was the trouble. She always pulled herself together. That’s why nobody baked scones for her. She could damned well bake scones for herself, they thought. She called Ben.

You’re where? he asked.

I’m in a motel in X, she said. I got fed up with interruptions. I was procrastinating my resume. I even persuaded Dorrie to play Queen Margaret for you.

Well, are you coming back now? I miss you.

Maybe tomorrow.