Читать книгу Don't Get Mad, Get Even - Barb Goffman - Страница 6

BON APPÉTIT

Another gust of wind rattled the window frames. I shivered as Jenny pulled the photo album closer and pointed at a wedding snapshot of Dwayne, Larry, and me. Dwayne didn’t have any of the stubble or anger that usually graced his face these days. Grinning widely, like a kid who’d gotten two desserts, he stood in his rented tux with one arm around my bare, freckled shoulders and the other around my brother, Larry’s, broad ones. It was a fitting pose, considering how Dwayne ultimately came between Larry and me. I hadn’t seen my brother in twenty years.

“Look how skinny you were.” Jenny brushed her curly brown hair from her eyes.

I shifted my chair closer to my scarred kitchen table and laughed. “Yep. Those were the days.” Back before Dwayne began hitting me. Before I told Larry about it. Before he nearly beat Dwayne to death and went to prison for it. Hard time up at Macon. Dwayne wouldn’t let me visit him. Ever. At least Larry and I wrote letters, and sometimes he called.

Jenny leaned back, trying to smile, but the corners of her mouth kept tugging down. “I love you, you know.”

My eyes watered. “I love you, too.”

Jenny had been my best friend ever since Dwayne and I moved here to Willacoochee. She lived on a small farm a mile up the road with her husband, four children, and two hound dogs. Nearly every day we were in and out of each other’s kitchens, sharing flour and vegetables and smiles. If I was going to miss anyone, it would be Jenny, though I guess once you’re dead, you can’t miss anyone or anything.

I stood and picked up a ceramic plate off the counter. It had sunflowers on it—Mama’s favorite—just like the ones I grew in my garden. I’d made the plate for Mama for her birthday next month, but that day was never going to come now. “I want you to have this.” I held the plate out to Jenny. “I know how much you like it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep. Besides Mama, you’re the only one who ever supported my crafts.”

Jenny sniffed as she ran her fingers over the sunflowers, their warmth and brightness a sad reminder of better days. “Dwayne’s a fool, you know.”

Oh, I knew. Early in my marriage, I’d dreamed of opening my own shop and selling my work, but Dwayne had made it clear that was never going to happen. Running a store was too costly, he’d said. Too risky. “You don’t have it in you to make a store succeed, Violet. Now focus on what you’re good at and make me a pie.”

“Have you been able to reach your mother?” Jenny asked, bringing me back to the present.

“I finally got through to Aunt Sarah’s this morning. It’s been so hard with the phone lines being jammed all the time. I’ve only received one call all week.” I leaned against the counter and sighed, grateful that Aunt Sarah had taken Mama in when she got sick, after Dwayne refused to let her live with us. “Mama’s Alzheimer’s has gotten worse. She didn’t even recognize my voice.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so glad I got to see my whole family last week. It makes all this easier.”

Her voice started to break. I hugged her.

“Well, at least you won’t have to worry about cooking any more big Thanksgiving meals,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. But it didn’t work. It’s hard to joke when an enormous comet is set to hit the earth in a few hours, ending all life. That’s how they phrased it on the news last night. Ending all life.

I pulled away and turned on the lights, thankful once again for our generator. It had been getting darker all day. The shadows stretching across the floor made it look more like late evening than mid-afternoon.

Jenny wiped unshed tears from her eyes. “What are you making for your last meal?”

“Steaks. I’ve been saving them for a special occasion. I guess the end of the world qualifies.” I swallowed hard. “And I’m making mashed potatoes with lots of butter, just like Mama used to. Everyone’s always loved them.”

“Especially me.” Jenny patted her stomach. “Well, I guess I better get home. The kids want their favorite oatmeal cookies, and they’re not going to bake themselves. Thanks for giving me the last of your brown sugar.”

“Sure. It’s not like I’ll need it anymore.”

Jenny and I had been sharing more and more food these last few weeks, ever since the government confirmed what the scientists had been saying for months and most of the stores had been picked clean and shut down. It made sense. Who’d want to spend their last days selling stuff when they could be with their families?

Jenny stepped toward the back door.

“Wait.” I grabbed one of three pies I had cooling by the sink. “Take this. I made it for you from the last of my pickings.”

“Blueberry. How can I resist?” Jenny lowered her nose to the lattice crust and breathed in. “Mmmm. I’m sure it will be delicious. You should have opened that bakery like we always talked about.”

That had been another dream of mine. But Dwayne had reminded me I didn’t have that in me either. Too much work, he’d said, for a woman who flits around the garden all day.

I hugged my best friend hard, and then, with a smile and a wave, she was gone.

I took a deep breath and checked my watch. Dwayne would be home soon enough, I realized. I’d best start preparing dinner. I turned on the TV for company. Most of the channels had gone dark weeks ago, but CNN was still running with a limited staff of die-hards who said they’d report to the bitter end.

“More and more people keep coming here to Central Park, joining the thousands who’ve been camping and singing songs,” a reporter stationed in New York City said. “It’s a lot different from the reports we’ve been hearing out of Seattle and L.A., where the riots are ongoing.”

The camera switched back to the blond anchor. “Thanks for that report, Mark. In other news, a warden in Oregon released his prisoners this morning after ninety-nine percent of state employees, including prison guards, failed to report to work, leaving the prisons with no way to supervise or provide food to the inmates. This is the third such report we’ve had this week, following releases in Georgia and West Virginia. All three wardens said it would be inhumane to house prisoners under such conditions.”

Outside, the shutters started slapping against the house, and the wind began to whistle. They’d said the weather would continue to worsen as the end grew near. I pushed aside the white curtains covering the window over the sink. The sky was growing darker still. I fretted for a few seconds, then pulled myself together. This was no time to go to pieces. I had work to do.

* * * *

A couple hours later the vegetables were picked, washed, and chopped, the potatoes were peeled, and the steaks were tenderized and ready to go. I stood at the window, glancing at the road as I finished making a cucumber salad using the last of my crop. Then, behind me, I heard the back screen door bang against the frame. My breath caught.

“That’s what I like to see.” Dwayne’s words ran into one another. “My little woman cooking for me, even today.”

I sighed, my shoulders slumping. He must have stumbled in from over the hill out back. I began turning, but Dwayne crossed the room quicker than I expected and squeezed me from behind, rubbing his hands over my chest, and grinding his pelvis into the back of my dress.

“You smell nice,” he said.

“And you smell like a brewery.” I wrenched away from him and turned. “You said you were going to spend today fishing. Looks like you spent it at Gus’s instead.”

Dwayne’s brown eyes narrowed. I shouldn’t have said that, especially not with that tone. Complaints like that usually pissed Dwayne off and made him come after me. But I couldn’t help myself. This was going to be our last night together, yet he came home with the lingering stench of that swill Gus brewed. Did Dwayne actually think I’d want to spend my last hours on this earth having sex with him when he smelled like he’d fallen into a vat of rancid beer? Oh, who was I kidding? Dwayne never cared what I wanted.

“Why’s everything always a fight with you?”

He grabbed my arm and yanked me toward the bedroom. I was thankful it would be the last time I’d have to put up with him. I just hoped he’d be quick as always.

* * * *

“Jesus. Aren’t those steaks done yet? I’m hungry.”

Dwayne had finished his afternoon delight pretty quick and fallen asleep. Now, after an hour’s nap, he’d parked himself at the kitchen table and was two beers into his last six-pack.

“Don’t you like the salad?”

He pushed the plate away. A cherry tomato rolled onto the floor. “What’s the point of eating healthy anymore? We’re all gonna die tonight anyway.”

He had a point there. My frying pan sizzled as I sprinkled minced garlic over the mushrooms. The savory fragrance wafted around me. “Dinner’s almost ready, and I made a nice peach pie for dessert with extra sugar on top.”

Dwayne grunted. Given that this was his last meal, I’d wanted to make a dessert he’d tuck into with fervor, so I’d chosen peach filling—his favorite—and added the sugar to make it especially enticing.

“I was talking with Jenny today,” I said, adding evaporated milk to the potatoes. “She reminded me how much I like cooking for people. I should have opened that bakery when I had the chance.”

Now Dwayne snorted. “Not that crap again, Violet. You’d never have been able to pull something like that off. You don’t have it in you.”

I growled under my breath as I began to beat the potatoes. How many times had I let him discourage me with those demeaning words? The back screen door slammed against its frame again, but it was only the wind. It had really picked up. I blew out a deep breath. Just a few hours left. At least I wouldn’t have to listen to Dwayne’s put-downs anymore.

I dished the mashed potatoes onto our plates, then the steaks, my large frying pan sputtering as I pulled it off the stove for the last time. Then I poured the garlic and mushrooms on top of Dwayne’s steak. I’d never cared for mushrooms, but he enjoyed them.

“Here you go.” I set the plates down on the table and settled into my chair, facing Dwayne. Behind him, the back door rattled. The sky looked black and daunting through the door’s window, but the warm yellow porch light gave me comfort.

Dwayne picked up his knife and fork and dug in.

“I flipped through some photo albums today,” I said. “You remember how much fun our wedding was?”

I got no response other than slurping and chewing noises. You’d think given that it was his last meal, Dwayne would savor the food, but he was shoveling it in.

So I gave up on conversation and sipped my sweet tea between forkfuls of salad, steak, and mashed potatoes. How Larry had loved Mama’s potatoes. He always ate ravenously, too, but at least he told good stories between bites, like the one about the boy who grew up near us who loved to wander the countryside. He came home one day with real bad stomach cramps. Thank goodness his family rushed him to the hospital. Turned out he’d eaten some poisonous mushrooms. You’ve got to be real careful about what you pick in the woods.

Soon enough, Dwayne practically licked his plate clean. He popped open another beer and said, “Where’s that dessert you promised?”

I still had half my dinner remaining, but why should that matter to him? I got up from the table to serve his highness. I sliced an extra large piece of the peach pie and brought it to Dwayne. “Bon appétit.”

I sat back down and decided to make another stab at conversation. “My garden has really come in handy these last couple months. We haven’t had to worry about food, unlike some city folks I’ve seen on the news. Even tonight, with our last meal, everything’s fresh.”

“Another reason why it’s good to live in the country,” Dwayne said while chewing. Then he set down his fork and touched his stomach.

“Everything okay?” I took another bite of my potatoes. They had come out just right.

“A little indigestion. Guess I ate too fast.”

“Well then, take a breather. That pie’ll sit.”

I heard a snap, then the roof shook. Sounded like a large branch had crashed onto it. I went to the back door and looked out the window, but I couldn’t see anything or anyone.

“Dwayne, are you scared?” I asked as I resumed my seat.

“Not worth being scared, Violet. What’s gonna happen is gonna happen. I plan to drink the rest of this beer and be sound asleep when that old comet hits. You remember how my daddy died in his sleep. It’s the best way to go.”

Yes, I supposed it would be.

Dwayne lifted up another bite of pie, brought it toward his mouth, then started looking peaked. He dropped the fork and ran to the bathroom. Soon I heard him losing his meal. A small smile crept across my face as I kept eating mine.

“You sure you’re all right?” I asked when he finally returned to the kitchen. He was pale and clutching his stomach. He tumbled into his chair, grimaced at his remaining pie, and pushed the plate away.

“Jesus, Violet. My last meal and you gave me food poisoning.” He began moaning and put his head down on the table.

“Nope. There is no bacteria in this food. You know how careful I am with my cooking.” I finished the last of my steak. Delicious.

Dwayne ran back to the bathroom. He was in there a while, losing more of his meal from both ends, apparently, as I cleared the dishes. When he finally came back to the table, sweating and breathing hard, he looked like death. Of course, death was a few hours off. I didn’t know if he’d die from the comet or those special mushrooms or the little something extra I’d added to the pie. Either way, before his end came, Dwayne would spend his last hours suffering.

As he should.

He slumped back in his chair and started moaning again.

“Maybe you caught a bug, Dwayne. My meal tasted just right.” I took my seat at the table and looked at the wildflowers I’d gathered that morning, sitting in a vase on the counter. They were so much nicer than Dwayne’s scrunched-up face. “Or maybe it was those mushrooms you ate.” I looked him square on now. “I picked them just for you.”

He stared at me, eyes wide. “What did you do?”

Dwayne lurched at me. I clenched my jaw and scooted my chair back, but before Dwayne could reach me he groaned loudly and fell to the floor, grabbing at his stomach.

“Cramps?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. Just kept lying there, moaning and writhing and gasping for breath, while the wind howled outside and the back porch began to creak.

Suddenly the back door screeched opened. A man with long, messy brown hair walked in. His face was lined and craggy, and his nose was off center, but his eyes were as sharp as ever. Larry.

I jumped up, ran around the table (stepping on Dwayne’s hand—oops), and hugged my brother. Oh, how I’d missed him. And how grateful I was to that warden who’d let him out.

When I pulled back, Larry rubbed my cheek, then looked over my shoulder and began shaking his head and laughing.

“Dwayne’s dinner didn’t quite agree with him.” I smiled. “Would you please carry him out on the porch? All his moaning is getting on my nerves.”

Larry scooped Dwayne up as if he weighed nothing. When Larry came back inside, I was slicing up the second blueberry pie I’d made that morning. Larry looked at the peach pie I’d thrown in the trash.

“Oh, you don’t want that. I made it special for Dwayne. It has some Comet and other cleansers in it, in honor of our impending doom.”

“Nice touch.” Larry chuckled. “But why’d you do it? I told you when I called that I’d get here by tonight and would take care of him for you.”

I paused and let out a deep sigh. “I appreciate that. But after everything Dwayne put me through, I decided I was going to stand up for myself, once and for all.”

“Good for you, Sis. I always knew you had it in you.”

I nearly laughed at his wording. “Thanks, Larry. I just wish I’d known it sooner.”

We sat at the table with our pie and old photo albums. The wind howled again, but I didn’t mind anymore. I finally had my big brother back, if only for a few hours.

\

“Bon Appétit” first appeared in Nightfalls: Notes From the End of the World, published by Dark Valentine Press in 2012.

This story was a bit of a challenge. The editor of Nightfalls, Katherine Tomlinson, asked me to submit to the anthology. Every story in the book would be set on the night before the world was going to end. Katherine wanted to see how people would spend that night, knowing their time was definitely limited. That set-up might prove easier to authors of romance, I thought. I write crime. If the world were ending, certain crimes would become obsolete. Money wouldn’t matter anymore, so that ruled out stories about burglaries and robberies. Terrorism would probably be out, too, since the world already was doomed. I thought and thought, and ultimately I realized that in the end, all you have is love and self-respect. Oh yeah, and revenge. Definitely revenge. And “Bon Appétit” was born.