Recipe for Enemies

by P T Winger

  He glanced at her and shifted his legs. “Yeah, almost. I’ll have to work late for the next two days.”

  She forced her lips into a smile. “This has taken a while.”

  “It has.” He gave a dramatic sigh. “You know how it is.”

  Yeah, she knew how it was. David’s shirts smelled like some kind of citrus and sandalwood perfume. His underwear had a musky scent. Not that she habitually dug her nose into his underwear, of course.

  Just to test the waters, she approached him and straddled his lap, her knees on either side of his hips. “Want to fool around?”

  No reaction. His hands remained where they were – one resting on the recliner arm, the other clutching the remote.

  Sex with David was an in-and-out affair, five minutes of her life better spent flossing and brushing her teeth. Erin had tried to liven it up. She’d read that book everyone raved about, the one where the guy ties up his girlfriend and they have all kinds of kinky sex. David hadn’t appreciated the red plastic handcuffs and fake whip Erin had bought. He’d just grunted a laugh, said she was crazy, rolled over and said good night.

  Clearly, he was spending all his energy having sex with Jessica. Erin tried again. “Maybe have a glass of wine, light some candles?”

  David’s eyes shifted to the left and then back to her. “I’m a little tired.” He shrugged and offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry. Maybe tomorrow?”

  “You’re tired from work? Or is it something else?”

  “Just work. It’s been a little stressful lately.”

  She moved her hips on his lap, a smooth glide across his pelvis that made him grunt. “You’re spending a lot of time at the office. With Mark and Jessica, and your new assistant, Jeffrey. You should be at home with your family in the evenings.”

  He frowned, pursed his lips, and shrugged. “Jeffrey’s not so new. He had his six-month review last week. Anyway, the project involves almost everyone. There’s a lot of work to be done. We really need to nab the Jones account.” He leaned to one side. “I can’t see the television.”

  Erin sighed. “The television. Is that all you care about?” She lifted herself off him and stood. “Do you know your son is being bullied in school?”

  “Andrew? He can take care of himself.”

  “No, not Andrew. Ryan. You know he’s small for a sixth grader. There’s a boy named Jake who keeps picking on him. Gets him in a headlock and rubs his knuckles into Ryan’s head.”

  This elicited a laugh from David. “A noogie. We all got those in school. Gave them, too.”

  Erin placed her hands on her hips. “It’s not funny. Ryan feels helpless. I’ve been to the principal and it’s still happening.”

  “Listen.” David dragged his gaze from the television to meet her eyes. “Ryan’s going to have to either take it or learn how to fight.”

  “That’s not the point. No one is helping him. No one cares but me, apparently.” Her voice cracked. “I don’t want to see him suffer.”

  David shrugged again and returned his attention to the television. “He just needs to man up. It’s all part of growing up.”

  Erin wanted to kick the television screen until it broke. She wanted to slam the remote onto David’s head. Instead she said, “Fine. If you feel that way, that’s your business. While your son is getting beaten up, you’re working late for some project that’s taking weeks to finish.” She stomped to the door and looked back. “You just don’t care!”

  If he gave one more shrug she’d scream. He did. Gritting her teeth, Erin crossed the hall and went into the kitchen to finish cleaning up.

  She would do something about Ryan getting bullied. And she’d regain her husband’s love.

  She’d set things right.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Recite the intention.

  Erin woke abruptly at a voice in her ear. Or maybe it was spoken directly within her head, she couldn’t tell. As soon as she opened her eyes and stared at the cracked white plaster ceiling in the moonlight, she forgot the words. Something about… being attentive? Having intentions?

  She glanced at the clock on the side table. A little after 2 a.m.

  Whatever it was, now she found she couldn’t go back to sleep. For over an hour she rolled onto one side and then the other, hoping to drift off. Finally she sat up and rubbed her face. Normally she slept well throughout the night. The problem wasn’t her.

  The problem was the people screwing with her family.

  And this pissed her off. She couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  Knowing that remaining in bed wouldn’t settle her mind, she put on her slippers and robe and descended the curved oak staircase, keeping to one side to avoid making the old boards squeak. In the kitchen she turned on the light above the sink, then brewed a cup of chamomile tea and opened the cookie jar. Taking her tea and a couple of cookies to the kitchen table, she sat.

  On the table were magazines and newspaper circulars, plus some grocery items she hadn’t yet put away, most of them snacks for the kids. Ryan liked his chips when he got home from school. Andrew inhaled popcorn by the pound. Alyssa preferred pretzels. One of the bags of chips had been opened and then closed loosely. Ryan must have snuck down and had himself a snack after bedtime.

  She made a dismissive sound, reaching in to grab a few chips for herself. Then she rose to look for a chip clip in one of the kitchen drawers. As she lifted the bag to clip it closed, her gaze fell upon an old wooden box in the center of the table.

  She stared at it, cocking her head. Was that the old recipe box? The one Mother would get out for Great-Grandma Clower to sift through?

  Yes, that was it, about the size of a toddler’s shoebox, the wood dark and rough with age. There was its broken left hinge shining dully in the dim light.

  Erin stood transfixed, the potato chip bag forgotten in her hand. She inhaled, and a floral, powdery scent filled the kitchen and took her back thirty years.

  Great-Grandma Clower had given a strange, excited squeal. From among the dozens of recipes spread on the table that Mother had dumped from the box, she plucked up a wrinkled yellowed paper in triumph. “Here it is!” she’d croaked, her voice sounding like sandpaper against old wood. “Here it is.”

  Eight-year-old Erin had backed against the refrigerator in fright. Her mother shook her head in exasperation and continued assembling the casserole.

  “Come here, girl.” The elder woman beckoned Erin to approach. Erin came and stood as close as she dared. She’d always felt revulsion when she was near her. Perhaps it was her smell.

  Trembling, Erin looked down at the recipe written in faded ink, the writing old-fashioned and swirly.

  The woman peered at her through rheumy eyes and spoke in a raspy whisper. “Passed down through generations of our women.” She grabbed Erin’s wrist, further frightening her. “Family secret. No one else knows it exists.”

  “So she says,” said Erin’s mother. “A big family secret. Right. I don’t know why I’ve kept it. I need to go through that box and throw most of those recipes in the trash.”

  Great-Grandma Clower ignored her. Her bony, veined hand hovered over the paper, the clawlike index finger pointing to each ingredient in turn as she explained the process of creating the dish. Erin could only stare at the brittle yellow fingernail as it scratched its way down the page.

  The ingredients had to be in a particular order. There was chocolate, and wax, and some kind of plant. Erin tried to pay attention as the woman’s sweet powdery talcum smell invaded her nostrils. Finally, Great-Grandma Clower finished going down the page, then looked back up at Erin and said, “Do not ever make this for your loved ones. It is for one’s enemies only.”

  Erin’s mother had laughed, and at that, the old woman had pressed the recipe into Erin’s hand.

  “Hide it,” she whispered, her withered eyes piercing and dark. “You will need it someday.”

  Erin had nodded, but when the woman looked behind her to see if Mother had heard her w
ords, Erin dropped the paper back into the empty wooden box and ran out of the kitchen, heart pounding in fear. She didn’t know why she’d been shown the recipe and couldn’t imagine ever wanting to use it. Her great-grandmother frightened her terribly.

  Erin had forgotten about the incident, forgotten the words of warning. Until now.

  Curious, she set down the chip bag and picked up the wooden box, and opened it. Its lid hung askew on the one working hinge. Recipes filled it to the brim, and some fell out and floated to the table. Apparently her mother had piled them back in and never got around to sorting through them.

  Who had removed the box from the storage cabinet in the butler’s pantry? Not Erin. She and her family had lived here barely a year, moving in after her mother died and the house passed on to her. Although she’d done a lot of cleaning and organizing throughout the dwelling, the butler’s pantry remained largely untouched. Erin hadn’t felt a need to look thorough the china and crystal and fancy serving dishes in there. She had no reason to use them. Several old and raggedy cookbooks sat alongside the wooden box in a cabinet next to the china, but she’d given them only a cursory glance months ago and dismissed them as out of date.

  Now, she pulled out the items within the box – handwritten recipes on cards and scraps of paper, and torn pages from old magazines – searching for the recipe that Rosalyn Clower had handed to her with a warning all those years ago.

  There it was, at the bottom, likely unmoved from where she’d dropped it in as a child. Great-Grandma Clower hadn’t had the chance to poke through the box again. She had died in her sleep two days later.

  Erin pulled out the recipe and held it up to the light. The paper looked almost like parchment, thicker than average, yet yellowed with dark blotches.

  The writing was the same as she remembered – swirly and old fashioned, perhaps penned with a quill dipped in ink. Some of the words were bolder than others where the ink was thickest; others had faded to a brown, some almost to the point of vanishing. Almost invisible. Invisible ink. Maybe if she sprinkled lemon juice on the paper, the words would show more strongly. A laugh escaped her, then a yawn. She should get back to bed.

  But instead, she peered at the ingredients. There was the chocolate and wax she remembered. The rest – now, where were the rest of the ingredients? A moment ago she thought she’d seen a list, but now, the words appeared smudged or too pale to read.

  She yawned again. The recipe wasn’t worth keeping. Leaving the remaining pile of recipes on the table, she tossed the single paper into the trash and headed back upstairs.

  Three hours later she shuffled back to the kitchen to start breakfast. The pipes in the old Victorian clanked and knocked, water rushing through them as someone showered. The home had been fitted with water pipes in 1930, the first in this rural area to be updated. Back in its day, the indoor plumbing gave it the status of a grand home.

  The house had had other updates through the years but still retained most of its history. The pipes running from the well out back had been diverted to get water from the local water tower. The peeling wallpaper in the dining room and parlor had been replaced with paper of a similar design to retain the home’s Victorian flavor. In the large kitchen, Erin had replaced her mother’s avocado-green refrigerator and stove with new appliances, and had refinished the wood floor. She’d had a handyman come out and replace the aging wooden cabinets her mother had installed on one wall. Other than that, she’d made no further changes. The kitchen contained the original sink and cupboard, plus a cast-iron stove that was too charming to get rid of.

  Erin was happiest in her kitchen, she decided as she turned on the light and headed to the coffeemaker. David had his den, the kids had their bedrooms, and Erin had her kitchen. Everyone needed a space in which to relax.

  She readied the coffeepot, then opened the cabinet overhead to get out a mug. She drew in breath, startled, as a piece of paper drifted out and downward to the counter top.

  She lifted the paper. A note from David or one of the kids?

  The paper was old, with familiar swirly writing. Chocolate. Wax. More words below, smudged or faded.

  Her fingers lost feeling. The paper fell and floated back to the counter top.

  She’d thrown this away last night, she was sure. She’d put it in the trash on her way out of the kitchen when she had returned to bed.

  Hadn’t she?

  The hour had been late – or early, depending on one’s outlook – and maybe she’d been too tired to remember her actions. Maybe she hadn’t thrown it away after all.

  But how did it end up in the cabinet?

  On the table sat her full mug of cold tea and the cookies. She’d forgotten about both when she’d spotted the recipe box.

  She’d removed the recipes and found the paper Great-Grandma Clower had shown her. Then she’d thrown the paper away and went back to bed. She was sure of it.

  No, she must have put it here in the cabinet for some reason.

  The brewing coffee gurgled and wafted a comforting aroma, bringing her back to the moment. It was morning, and she must get breakfast ready for David and the kids. Still, she gave the paper another look. Now the smudged and faded words under chocolate and wax appeared to be just a bit clearer than they had last night. She could almost make out an L and an O.

  The coffeepot gave a final gasp of steam and went silent. Erin tossed the paper onto the counter and fixed her coffee, then set about scrambling eggs and making toast.

  After everyone had left, with David reminding her he wouldn’t be home until after dinner, she showered and put her robe back on. In a little while she’d get dressed and go to her Thursday morning book meeting. David had encouraged her to get out and join clubs, be with other people instead of staying in the house all day, so she had found this little group at the library. They drank coffee and talked about books, and gossiped about people in the town.

  For now, she went back to the kitchen to clean up and plan dinner. She turned on the small television mounted on the wall beside the window and watched the news while she loaded the dishwasher and then checked the thawing pork chops in the refrigerator. At nine o’clock she turned the television off. It was time to go upstairs to dress.

  The coffeepot caught her eye. She’d forgotten to clean the carafe and empty the grounds. Reaching for it, her gaze fell on the recipe.

  The word beginning with L now looked to be showing more letters. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her reading glasses. Yes. Laven. Lavender? She hadn’t had her glasses on last night, but was sure Laven hadn’t been showing. Strange.

  She’d seen the herb in recipes before. So far, nothing seemed unusual about this particular recipe. It didn’t seem like some big ancient secret to her. Chocolate, wax – paraffin, most likely, used to coat chocolate and give it a shine – and lavender.

  The other listed ingredients were illegible. Beneath them, close to the bottom of the paper, was written only one instruction, but it, too, was indecipherable, faded almost to the point of invisibility.

  One line of instruction? Perhaps the rest of the ingredients included individual instructions for preparation.

  Curious, Erin decided to take just a few minutes to see what else she could decipher. Perhaps she’d recall the items on the list she’d seen as a child, and that would help her. She sat at the table and held up the paper between her thumb and index finger. It caught the light from the window and looked almost transparent. A word, maybe two, was written under the word wax. Erin peered closer but couldn’t make it out.

  Another word seemed to be written under chocolate but was unreadable.

  She needed to get dressed for her book club meeting. Sighing in impatience, she almost crumpled up the paper. Instead, she set it on the table and stared at it some more. What was that word written under chocolate?

  She glanced at the cat clock. If she hurried once she got upstairs to dress, she could give herself a few more minutes to look at the recipe. Maybe a magn
ifying glass would help.

  She went to the desk in the den and opened the drawer that held scissors, tape, and other craft items, and found what she was looking for toward the back. Returning to the kitchen table, she sat and again held the paper up to the window light, then held the magnifying glass close to the paper and examined it. The word listed under chocolate began with a C. She smiled in triumph.

  Carrots? Curry? Cinnamon?

  Likely cinnamon if, as she suspected, the recipe was for candy.

  Erin set the paper on the table and bent toward it, looking through the magnifying glass, her head so close she could see the scratches the pen had left in the ink. Her stomach rumbled but she barely paid it attention as her gaze roved over the scratches, looking for patterns that could be letters. Eventually, she thought she saw part of a letter, but then dismissed it as another scratch from the pen. A moment later, she changed her mind. This was perfectly rounded, not a random scratch. Yes. Yes! O.

  Oranges? Oats?

  And... look! Two more letters, or parts of them. The thrill of her find quickened her breathing. She could barely make them out, and she stared hard, moving her lips, trying to figure out the letters and the words they formed.

  Her heart pounded and her eyes burned. She squeezed them shut and rubbed them with her index fingers. Then she opened them again, blinked rapidly, and studied the paper some more.

  An urgent, compulsive need to decipher the words had her completely absorbed in her task. She had to know what the words were. Nothing else mattered. If she didn’t figure this out, she would go mad.

  She stared, squinting and then widening her eyes, pulling the magnifying glass close to and then away from the paper, trying to find just the right distance.

  Was than an n showing? Yes, definitely. And maybe this other letter was an e. Excitement made her dry lips stretch into a grin. Her hand holding the magnifying glass trembled in anticipation. Another letter had appeared now, or maybe she was imagining the blotches of ink slowly swirling, separating, fading bit by bit so that the letters seemed to grow stronger as she stared—