Recipe for Enemies

by P T Winger

  Not that Erin really believed Tiffany would put two and two together and blame Erin for her misfortune, but she felt better for having taken care of the evidence.

  She headed toward the den to monitor the television show, but then paused. Perhaps she should also destroy the bag of chocolate balls in her purse. The coach and his wife needed to pay for what they had done, yes, but after what had happened to Jeffrey and Tiffany, it might be best wait a while. She could always make another batch if needed.

  Erin returned to where she kept her purse in the kitchen, removed the bag, and destroyed the last of the chocolate balls.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  On Thursday morning, Erin sent the children off to school and returned to the kitchen to clean up. David hadn’t come downstairs, and she figured he’d miss work due to his distress. However, when she took a plate of eggs and toast up to him, he wasn’t in bed.

  “David?”

  “In here.”

  She followed his voice and found him before the closet, putting on his pants. “Are you feeling better?”

  “I need to go into work,” he said. “They probably need me there.”

  “Why don’t you stay home today?” Erin touched his arm. “Get outside, breathe some fresh air. Poke around in the workshop part of the shed. Maybe take a walk. ”

  Instead of answering, he sat on a chair and put on his shoes.

  “The marketing department can run without you for a day. Let’s spend some time together.” She held out the plate. “I brought you breakfast.”

  His eyes were still red. “They need me,” he said again.

  “I need you,” Erin said, her throat constricting with anguish. “I know you’re mourning the loss of Jeffrey, but I’ve needed you for months. You haven’t been here emotionally.” She nibbled at her bottom lip. “Look, why don’t we go to a restaurant for a nice lunch today, just you and me. We never did go out for our anniversary two months ago.” He didn’t answer, instead pulling his jacket off a hook on the wall, so she added, “Don’t you think that would be nice?”

  He walked past her. “Not today.” At the bedroom door, he stopped and turned. “Look, it’s just not a good day for that kind of thing.”

  “What kind of thing?” She set the plate on the chair he’d vacated and held up her hands in confusion. “We’re still married. We’re partners. And I love you.”

  Fresh tears came to David’s eyes. “I know. I love you too, but... you know how things are.” After a moment he said, “Just be there for me, for now. Please.”

  “For now, yes. Okay.”

  “I know I’ve done you wrong.”

  “Slightly.”

  His hands disappeared into his pockets. He looked at the floor. “I guess we’ll need to talk about our marriage.”

  “I guess we will,” she said. “I’d like us to stay together.”

  A strange expression appeared upon David’s face. “Erin, you know about me.”

  “I do,” she said. “But Jeffrey is dead. And we both know that you and I need to stay married for the children’s sakes.” She moved toward him. “Even down the road, when the kids are grown and gone, I’d like for us to be together.”

  He shook his head. “For the children. That’s all.” He turned to leave the room. “We can talk more about this later.”

  Only when Erin heard the front door shut did she move to the bed. She stretched out on her stomach, wetting the pillow with her tears.

  Even with Jeffrey out of the picture, David was not hers and likely never would be again. She couldn’t change him. All she could do was hope to retain a sense of family until the children were out of the house. They must not know their father wanted to end the marriage.

  She remained lying on the bed for several hours, sleeping at times, lacking the energy to get up to clean or cook. Finally, acknowledging the need to plan dinner, she rose and brushed her hair, then took the plate of cold eggs and toast to the kitchen.

  Routines must remain normal. Snack and homework after school. Dinner at 6:30. Ryan would be the only one home right after school, since Alyssa had cheerleading practice and Andrew would be wrestling. It was good having the twins in after-school activities again. The more involved they were with school, the higher their chances of getting into a good college.

  Erin mixed a marinade and added it to chicken breasts in a bowl. Tossed salad and leftover biscuits would do fine for sides. For once, dinner fixings were not her priority. She left the kitchen and went to the den to watch for the school bus. When it arrived, she opened the front door for Ryan.

  As usual, her youngest trotted up the driveway, but this time he had a troubled look on his face.

  He came through the doorway and didn’t even drop his book bag before he said, “Mom! Something happened to Jake!”

  Erin’s mouth opened, then closed. She should have known. “What?”

  “He’s in a coma,” Ryan said. “The principal made us go to an assembly and the guidance counselor lady told us about it.”

  Erin shut the front door. “How did he get in a coma? Did the guidance counselor give a reason?” Her voice had risen in pitch, but she couldn’t help it. Surely she hadn’t caused this. No way in hell would she purposely hurt a child. “Did they tell you what happened?”

  Ryan shrugged off his book bag. “Nope. But I heard some other kids talking. They said everyone else in his family is dead. Except his mom.”

  “Everyone else?” Erin sagged against the door, unable to catch her breath.

  “Except his mom.”

  She wanted to question Ryan as to what exactly had happened. Was his family murdered by someone else and his mother spared? Or had she killed her family?

  Erin knew the answer. She’d given the candy to Jake’s mother. The implications were obvious.

  “I was... I was going to ask his mother over for lunch,” she said slowly. “I don’t have her phone number. I think I’ll go over there and talk to her.”

  Ryan was heading to the kitchen for a snack. “She’s probably in jail,” he called over his shoulder.

  Jake’s mother had killed most of her family. Like Jeffrey and Tiffany, Mrs. Fagan had done something unspeakable.

  She must go to Mrs. Fagan’s house to see for herself. She must make sure there was no decorative bag lying around. There had been one remaining chocolate ball in the bag when she left Mrs. Fagan’s house the other day.

  She grabbed her coat, then headed to the kitchen to get her purse from where she kept it on a shelf in the butler’s pantry. Ryan would be okay here alone in the house for a while.

  He was standing at the kitchen window staring out into the back yard, methodically stuffing potato chips into his mouth. Erin paused. Perhaps she should make sure he understood what had happened to Jake before she dashed off to cover her tracks.

  She sat him at the table and explained what it meant for a person to be in a coma.

  He rolled his eyes. “The guidance lady already told us.”

  “But are you...” Erin licked her lips. “How do you feel?”

  Ryan considered, staring down into the chip bag. “A little sad, I guess. But I’m glad he won’t bother me anymore.” He looked up at Erin. “But sad, mostly.”

  “I’m sad too,” Erin said. “His mother said he just needed some friends.”

  Ryan handed her the chip bag and took an apple from the bowl on the table. “I’ll be his friend if he wakes up from his coma.” He left the kitchen, walking a little slower than usual.

  Erin lowered her head. Jake was an innocent child – a bully, but still a child, and he’d grow out of it eventually. If he woke up.

  “I’m going out for a while,” she called to Ryan. “Be back soon. Don’t answer the door. Call if you need anything.”

  “Okay,” he called back. She heard his thumping footsteps as he ascended the stairs.

  “You know the number for emergency, right?”

  “Yes, Mom. Bye.”

  He’d be fine. She
fetched her purse and headed for the back door, guilt settling over her like a heavy cloak. “Great-Grandma Clower, I never meant for a child to be hurt,” she murmured. “Just for my children to have what they wanted. I shouldn’t have given the candy to anyone.”

  She placed her hand on the doorknob. At once, a smothering, floral powdery smell engulfed her. Breath wouldn’t come; her lungs refused to inhale the overwhelming scent. She felt, rather than saw, her long-dead relative standing too near to her, almost within her. Her mind became clouded with memories that weren’t hers.

  A girl stood in this very kitchen – but a newer, fresher kitchen – with her hands in the pockets of an off-white, worn smock. Clunky leather shoes covered her feet. She watched an old, old woman standing at the black iron stove, mixing ingredients in an iron pot with quick, jerky twists of her hand. On the chopping block lay pieces of a blackened carcass.

  “He won’t hurt you again,” the old woman said. She vaguely resembled Rosalyn Clower as an elderly woman, but her dark gray, high-necked dress and puffy sleeves spoke of an older time.

  She began to spoon out small portions of the mixture, her callused hands forming them into flat round shapes.

  Erin felt her mind meld further with the girl’s until she found herself looking at the old woman from the girl’s own eyes. From Rosalyn’s eyes.

  Rosalyn, thirteen years old. Deep in the bloom from child to young woman, small breasts pressing against her smock, tiny womb round with the babe growing there.

  Mr. Randall was a handsome man. Five years older than she, he’d wanted to show Rosalyn something behind the barn amidst the tall grass. Something fun, he’d said.

  Only now, when evidence of her pregnancy was showing, did she tell her mother what had happened that day behind the barn.

  She’d thought she loved Mr. Randall, had wanted him to be her husband. He’d told her he loved her while he spread her legs. Now, she knew what he did was wrong. And after Father confronted him with Rosalyn’s condition, he disappeared from the town since her family had little to offer in marriage.

  The round shapes her great-grandmother was forming were brown and shiny and smelled like chocolate. A wooden tray became filled with them. They looked good enough to eat, but Rosalyn knew they were bad. They would make Mr. Randall pay for his sin.

  “Come here, child,” her great-grandmother said. “Now we will recite the intention.” She put an arm around Rosalyn and held her hand over the tray. “For my enemy, Mr. Randall, for his unholy and filthy liberties with my great-granddaughter. I wish for him to serve penance.”

  “What will happen to him?” Rosalyn asked.

  “What does he fear? What is his greatest pride?”

  Within Rosalyn’s mind, Erin heard her thoughts even before she spoke. “I don’t know what he fears, but he is proud of his muscles. He beat up Mr. Jameson down at the creek and then no one wanted to fight him.”

  The woman nodded. “He will serve penance through either the fear or pride within his heart.”

  If Mr. Randall had left town, how would they give him the chocolate? As if hearing Erin’s thoughts, Rosalyn pointed to the tray and asked, “How will we find him to give them to him?”

  The woman made a cackling sound that may have been a laugh. “No need. The recipe for enemies is complete and the intention stated. That is all.”

  Erin felt a ripping sensation as Rosalyn left her. For a moment, vertigo made her hold the door for balance lest she fall. Then, the kitchen was once again old and worn looking. The iron stove sat cold and unused. The floral smell was gone.

  The effect depended on the person’s biggest fear. Or pride. Jeffrey was afraid of heights. Tiffany had great pride in both her blue eyes and her daughter. Mrs. Fagan feared anything happening to her children.

  Only Coach Dumcas remained unscathed. So far.

  Erin had completed the recipe and made her intentions known. She’d set events in motion. And now it was all completely out of her control.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Yellow crime scene tape was wrapped around the small front porch of Mrs. Fagan’s home. A police car was parked in the drive alongside an old pickup truck. Two people stood in the yard talking – a man wearing a tie and another in a flannel shirt and baseball cap. Erin assumed one of them was Mrs. Fagan’s husband. Clearly the woman was no longer here. Erin wasn’t about to stop to ask questions, especially with the police present. She’d watch the news later to see what she could find out.

  Both men turned to look at Erin as she slowed. Hoping they didn’t glimpse her face, she looked the other way, straight into the eyes of an elderly woman sitting on her porch across the street. Erin looked forward and drove on down the street past a man walking his dog. Thankfully, his gaze was on Mrs. Fagan’s house and not on her.

  She headed back home wondering if the old woman had seen her here a couple of days ago. This, like visiting Tiffany’s house, hadn’t been a good idea especially since Erin could have saved herself the trouble of giving out the chocolate balls. Too bad that little detail hadn’t shown itself in the recipe, if indeed it had been there at all. And why hadn’t Rosalyn Clower shown Erin her vision before she started on the recipe?

  Erin didn’t plan on making the chocolate balls again, but at least she knew she could throw them away afterwards.

  At home, Ryan was still in his bedroom. Erin turned on the television but could find nothing about Jake’s family. On the Internet, she found the website of the local news station, but only a small piece had been written about the Fagans. It was enough. Mrs. Fagan had been seen wandering outside her home with a knife in her hand, her clothes, skin, and hair spattered with blood. Inside the house, police had found four boys, all dead except for the youngest, who was unconscious. Only the dog had been spared. Mrs. Fagan’s husband was out of town and had been informed of the tragedy. The short article concluded by advising the reader to stay tuned for the complete story on the six o’clock news.

  Erin sat back in her chair and covered her mouth with her hand. She stared at the screen until it darkened and screensaver bubbles began floating around.

  She didn’t want to feel guilty; she told herself again that they had made their choices. But this last event shook her to her core. Innocent lives had been lost.

  The truth was that although Erin had intended for her enemies to change, the results had been personalized, subconscious, driven deep into the recesses of their brains until what resulted was a twisted, warped version of the modifications Erin had wished for.

  After a while, she looked at the time and realized she’d be late picking up Alyssa and Andrew from practice at school if she didn’t get going. In a fog, she headed to the car and drove to the school.

  Alyssa came out first and got into the front seat.

  “How was practice?” Erin asked.

  “Good. I love being a cheerleader,” she said. “But everybody said Stacie’s mom is blind in one eye. Stacie hasn’t been back to school, so I haven’t been able to talk to her. But my friends said her mom did it herself. She has really long nails.”

  “It’s terrible, isn’t it?” Erin said. Sadness thickened her voice. She almost considered telling her daughter what she’d done; the words were on her lips, an overpowering need to confess, to let it all out. I made Jeffrey walk off a cliff. I made Tiffany tear at her eyes. I made Mrs. Fagan kill her family. Instead she said, “You never know what the doctors can do. Maybe they’ll be able to restore her sight.”

  “Maybe.”

  A few minutes later, Andrew emerged from the gym door and got into the car. He stank of sweat.

  Erin looked at him in the rear view mirror. “Throw your stuff in the washing machine when we get home.”

  “Yup,” he said. “Then I’m going to take a hot shower. I’m sore.”

  Traffic was backed up at the next stoplight. Stopped behind nine or ten cars, Erin craned her head, trying to see what was going on. Up ahead, a fire truck with flashing lights entered the in
tersection and stopped. Erin heard sirens from other emergency vehicles growing louder as they approached. “Looks like an accident,” she said.

  Alyssa had inserted her earbuds and was looking down at her phone, nodding her head in time with the music. Andrew stared ahead with mild interest.

  Traffic moved at a crawl as drivers attempted to make a wide berth around and past the accident. Erin finally made it to the intersection as an ambulance arrived.

  A police car rushed in and the officer left the car and began to direct traffic around the scene, attempting to keep people from slowing too much and staring.

  But it was hard not to stare. Two cars appeared to have hit each other head on. Erin drove through the intersection, taking in the crushed front end of the white two-door car on her left. The driver’s side door was open, and it appeared the steering wheel and the driver had become entangled. Had the driver not been wearing a seat belt? What about the airbag? A deflated white shape hung from the steering wheel.

  An emergency worker approached with a neck brace. Another carried over a stretcher.

  The man sat unmoving, his head twisted as if he’d been looking out the driver’s side window when he crashed. Blood covered his nose and mouth. His eyes were wide open, frozen gaze fixed on Erin.

  He looked familiar.

  Alyssa had glanced up from her phone and now tore off her earbuds and stared, mouth open. “Holy shit, that looks like Coach D!”

  Erin’s veins turned to ice.

  “It is! It’s Coach Dumcas!” Alyssa exclaimed. She leaned forward to see around Erin. Her voice became a sob. “Oh my God, is he dead? He’s all bloody. Look at him!”