by Sarina Bowen
I was like Dorothy in Oz, seeing the familiar transformed into something odd. But in this musical, I was clearly cast in the role of the scarecrow. If I only had a brain, I might be able to stop staring and start serving chicken.
“Denny,” I said, dragging my attention back to the matter at hand. “Would you take charge of the biscuits? Don’t let the kids take a handful.” I put him at the opposite end of the table from me, so he wouldn’t be able to ask me questions.
I served chicken all through the early rush. Father Peters flitted around the dining room, greeting everyone. Then he joined the line, and when he reached me he asked for two plates. “One is for our newest helper.”
My flinch was involuntary, and Father Peters saw it. “Sophie, I’m sorry he gave you a surprise today. But the church belongs to all God’s children. And it’s a small town, sweetheart.”
“I know.” But really? When had Jude ever been to church? And there was one problem. “My dad would freak if he knew.”
The priest sighed. “Perhaps. Though your father is quite welcome to volunteer on Wednesday nights if he wishes.”
I looked up into Father Peters’s sharp blue eyes and knew that he had a point. After my brother died, the church allegiances in my family had all flipped like coins. These days, my mother sat through Sunday service in a trance and never volunteered for anything anymore. My father never set foot in the place.
And me? I’d become the family churchgoer. It wasn’t because I’d found religion. It was because Father Peters was one of the few people in town who understood what had happened to my family after our tragedy. Three years later, he still visited my mother once a week at home.
So when he’d asked me to help out on Wednesday nights, I’d said yes immediately. And I’d recruited Denny to help, too.
Father Peters heaped two plates with chicken and vegetables. At the end of the line, Denny added biscuits. Then the priest disappeared into the back to serve dinner to my ex-con ex-boyfriend.
If the night got any trippier, I’d probably start clicking my heels together and singing Judy Garland tunes.
“Would you like a breast or a leg?” I asked the next person in line.
To Jude I said nothing at all that night. By the time the last food had been served, he’d cleaned up his prep station and disappeared into the night.
I didn’t tell my parents that Jude had showed up at church that night. I decided that it was a fluke, and there was no chance that Jude Nickel had gotten religion. Furthermore, there was no chance that he’d turned up because of me. My brain turned this thought over and over like a hamster running on a wheel.
The following Wednesday, I got to church around four-thirty, and he was nowhere in sight. I put the earliest arriving volunteers to work prepping chili with all the fixings, cornbread and salad.
Sneaking up on Father Peters’s office, I heard no voices inside. And when he waved me in, I found that he was alone this time. The twinge I felt was relief, right? It couldn’t possibly be disappointment.
“Evening, dear. Did you find the beans and spices? Mrs. Perkins dropped them off but could not stay.”
“So we’re down a man?” I asked. That left Denny and me and Father Peters. And Mrs. Walters on the dishwashing machine.
Father Peters stood up. “It will be fine. We’ll dish out the chili, but the rest can be self-serve.”
I led the way back through the hall. Just before we turned into the kitchen, I saw a stream of people climbing the stairs from the basement and exiting onto the street. The paper sign that pointed toward the basement was one that I’d seen before, yet never paid much attention to. “NA Meetin.”
Jude appeared at the end of this trail of people, and that’s when it clicked. Now I knew exactly how Jude had come to appear in this building on Wednesday nights. Narcotics Anonymous.
Oh shit.
Backing up hastily, I ducked into the kitchen and made a beeline for the walk-in refrigerator for a moment alone. Maybe I was an idiot, but there was something shocking about Jude sitting in a room full of people and saying, I have a problem. It wasn’t something my Jude would ever have done.
It was a good thing that Jude was getting help, right? I should feel nothing but happy for him. Standing there in the chill of the fridge, a shameful wave of anger pulsed through me. Because…now he was getting help?
When we’d been together, I ached to hear him say, “I’ve got to kick this little habit that I try to hide from you. I’m going to do something about it.”
But those words never came. And then suddenly it was too late.
I stood there, my hands on a tray of ground beef, wishing Jude had chosen to get healthy somewhere other than Colebury. But he was here in this building whether I could handle it or not. So I put on my game face and headed back to the kitchen. When I passed Jude, he was already dicing onions with the finesse of a cooking-show host.
Without a word, Denny got to work browning ground beef in two giant commercial-sized pots, whistling to himself. Two weeks ago I’d assumed that our friendship had been permanently damaged by our worst date ever. But somehow that hadn’t happened. Instead, he’d asked out a girl from the accounting department. And she’d said yes. They were going out for a second time tomorrow.
I was happy for Denny. At least one of us had a plan to move forward.
“Incoming,” I said, tipping a quarter cup of chili powder into the pot. I’d given myself the task of measuring the spices. It was a simple job, perfect for someone whose brain fled the building every time Jude walked into it.
Not simple enough, evidently.
I’d neglected to remove the white butcher’s paper from the counter. It sat there while I finished up with the cumin and coriander. And when I walked away to return the spices to the closet, I didn’t pay much attention to a slightly acrid smell in the air.
Ten seconds later I heard Denny gasp. When I turned to look, I saw him leap back from the stove. Orange flames licked the butcher’s paper. Old Mrs. Walters gave a shriek from the dishwashing station.
Before I could even work out what to do, Jude slid from behind the prep table, moving across the room with the easy grace of a cat. He grabbed the narrow, unburnt end of the paper, and with a flick of his wrist, he dropped the burning mess onto the tile floor. Then he lunged for a sodden dishrag on the counter and tossed it onto the flames.
I heard the sizzle of steam and saw more gray smoke. But I was still glued in place.
Jude grabbed another damp cloth off the dishwashing station and dropped that, too. Then he stepped on it several times.
Before I’d even processed that the fire was out, he’d slipped back behind the prep station, picked up his knife and resumed cutting onions.
Over my head, the smoke detector began to shriek, its piercing sound giving voice to the panic I’d felt since Jude appeared.
Father Peters ran into the room. “What’s happening?” When he saw the remnants of the former blaze on the floor, he didn’t say anything. He simply walked to the side door and propped it open, allowing the smoke to escape.
If only my troubles could be vented so easily.
Chapter Seven
Jude
Cravings Meter: a solid 6
Coming back here tonight was a bad idea.
Sophie was rattled, and I didn’t like knowing that I was the cause. Maybe that sounded vain, but I knew my girl. She was the kind of person who could get up on stage in front of hundreds and rock a complicated vocal solo without a single quavering note. She was a rock.
But both times I’d worked in this kitchen, she’d come unglued. And a kitchen fire? I didn’t want to be the cause of loss of life or property. Me, who’d already done damage enough.
But they were shorthanded tonight, so I wasn’t about to just walk off the job. And, if I were being honest, I wanted to get another look at the guy who seemed to be stuck to her side. He was the same guy I’d seen plant one on her in the parking lot two weeks ago. Tonight he�
�d traded his turtleneck for a button-down.
God, it was none of my business. But if Sophie wasn’t living the life she’d always planned, I wanted to know why. And if there were people in it that didn’t treat her right, I wanted to know that, too.
So I prepped vegetables and I watched the two of them, even though it was clear that my presence made everyone nervous. Mr. Buttondown kept sizing me up from the corner of his eye. So when he came over to fetch all the onions I’d chopped, I couldn’t help myself. The moment he approached, I raised the knife and brought it down with unexpected vehemence.
The top of an onion was severed from the body with the force of a guillotine removing someone’s head.
Mr. Buttondown startled, and I had to hold in my chuckle. He nearly turned tail to run for it. But he recovered, shoving his hands in his pockets, dropping his chin and asking for the onions.
I stared him down for a second. After all, what was the use of being a convicted killer if you couldn’t scare people once in a while? There weren’t any other perks, that was for damned sure.
Using the big chef’s knife blade, I scraped a heap of onions in his direction. “Here.”
Without a word, he scooped the pile off the cutting board and into a bowl. Then he hurried away.
I moved on to the garlic and then the avocados. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving, so I’d imagined the church supper would be dead tonight. But that wasn’t the case at all. When they opened up the doors, I had a partial view of the serving line where Sophie stood dishing up bowls of chili. It smelled amazing, too. My stomach grumbled as I worked.
The next time Mr. Buttondown came by, I made sure I was sharpening the knife. Christ, I was about as subtle as a Saturday morning cartoon, but he practically quivered anyway. Maybe I’m an asshole, but I still couldn’t figure out what had happened that night in the parking lot. And if this dude thought nobody was paying attention to his actions, I wanted him to know that somebody was.
But the joke was on me. Apparently I wasn’t as attentive as I thought, because while washing my knives, I looked up to find Sophie standing right beside me, her green eyes burning a hole into me.
Startled, I dropped the knife with a clatter into the sink.
“Jude,” she said. My chest ached just hearing that word on her lips. “Thank you for putting out that fire earlier.”
I swear it took me an awkwardly long time to answer. The fact that she was speaking to me at all was an unexpected gift. “You’re welcome,” I said eventually. “No big deal.” I grabbed the knife, shut off the water and reached for a towel.
She sighed, and I heard the weight of a hundred unanswered questions in it. “Where did you learn to cook?”
“Prison kitchen.” Her eyes got so huge that I had to chuckle.
Sophie swallowed. “Ask a stupid question…”
“Yeah.” I grabbed the sponge off the back of the sink and began washing the sink itself, just to keep busy. It was either that or stare at her.
“Jude, there’s something I need you to do for me.”
My heart tripped over itself, and I couldn’t look her in the eye. Don’t come back here. Those were the words I thought she’d say next.
“Lay off of Denny, okay?”
“What?” I looked up in surprise. Then I realized that Denny must be Mr. Buttondown.
“Denny. My coworker.”
“Your coworker,” I repeated, trying to do the math.
Her lips pursed with frustration. “You heard me. Be nice.”
Nice. “When have I ever been nice?” Except to you. That went without saying. I was always nice to Sophie, because she’d treated me like I mattered. There were precious few people who did, and that was before I went to prison.
She gave me a tiny Sophie eye roll, the one I’d always received when she was trying to show me that my bullshit didn’t fly. I missed being schooled by Sophie. She was a straight shooter, and twice as smart as I’d ever be. Ignore her at your peril. “Jude, go get some chili.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She gave her pretty head a shake. Then she walked away whispering something under her breath that I didn’t quite catch. But it sounded like “Wizard of Oz.”
Chapter Eight
Sophie
Internal DJ tuned to: “Satisfaction” by the Rolling Stones
Thanksgiving at the Haines household was not a cheery affair.
Before noon I put a small turkey in the oven. My mother was nowhere in sight, of course, so I settled in to cook an entire Thanksgiving meal by myself.
As I set the cutting board on the counter, I realized that I had no idea why I even bothered. It was a pointless charade. My mother didn’t care about Thanksgiving dinner. My father didn’t care about anyone.
Before Gavin died, we’d had a real family holiday. In the morning, I’d watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade to see which Broadway actresses would sing solos. But my father and brother would eventually win the remote control away from me so that they could watch football. It wasn’t exciting, but it was normal.
These days I lived in a tomb.
As I pulled the vegetables out of their drawer in the refrigerator, I heard the strains of an announcer’s voice coming from my father’s den. He still watched football. But his son—a promising athlete—wasn’t sitting beside him anymore. And he was never getting over it.
Dad still blamed me. My penance was pretending to enjoy cooking a turkey dinner. And my father would pretend to enjoy eating it.
I chopped celery for the stuffing. Then I opened a bag of potatoes and began to peel them. The task sent my traitorous mind straight to Jude and the scene in the kitchen last night. Goddamn him. I couldn’t believe that I’d been foolish enough to ask him where he’d learned to cook. In prison, he’d answered. Then the corners of his mouth had quirked up, as if I were an amusing child who couldn’t help asking stupid questions.
Standing there in the kitchen, I groaned aloud. Nobody was listening to me, though. Nobody ever did.
By five o’clock I’d done it all.
Sure, I took a few shortcuts. Cranberry sauce from a can. A pie from the bakery. But a real Thanksgiving dinner was on the table. I fetched my mother from her spot staring into space in the living room. I fetched my father from the football game. Taking my seat, I stifled a sigh.
My father stood at the head of the table, carving pieces of turkey onto our plates.
For a few minutes, we passed dishes around, and conversation was unnecessary. But after the silence became heavy, I thought of something to say. “I have a new case at work. The cutest toddler who’s deaf. She can’t hear a thing, but she likes it when her mother sings. She puts her hand right here.” I covered my chin and my lower lip with my hand. “It’s like she knows her mother is making noise.” I’d had them in my office on Tuesday, and it was fascinating to watch.
“Poor kid,” my father said.
“Not for long. The doctors think cochlear implants might restore her hearing. And she’s only eighteen months old.”
“Can they do that for a child so young?” my father asked, heaping stuffing onto his plate.
“It’s better to do it young. Older patients sometimes can’t get used to them. We just have to figure out how this family can afford it. They have health insurance, but the deductible is five thousand dollars.”
My father nodded slowly. “That’s good work you’re doing.”
A rare compliment from my father. Who knew? “What’s new with you at work?”
He gave a chuckle and shook his head. “Just keeping the peace, trying to improve the neighborhood. Can’t believe the Nickel kid is getting any business at his father’s garage. I had one of my boys write him a ticket for putting his new sign on the public sidewalk.”
Just like that, the food in my stomach turned to wet concrete.
“Gave him a ticket,” my father said, stabbing a piece of turkey with his fork. “But I plan to shut that place down.”
“How?” I
asked, hating the sound of the question. If I sounded interested at all, my father would fly into a rage.
“That lot is in a residential neighborhood. He shouldn’t have a garage there.”
I swirled mashed potatoes around on my plate. This was dangerous ground for me. But the legality of Jude’s father’s business had been challenged before. “Wasn’t that tried before? They won, though,” I pointed out.
My father only chuckled. “They won before a murderer and a drug addict lived there. I can get them off that property. One of my officers wants to buy that lot and build a duplex there. That will take a bite out of them.”
I set down my fork. “That won’t bring Gavin back.”
My father set his wineglass down slowly. He liked to make me wait and squirm before the outburst that we both knew was coming. “Really, Sophie? You’d take his side? You disloyal little bitch.”
As the word hung there over my homemade meal, my mother got up from her chair and drifted out of the room. Hanging onto my own calm by a thread, I watched her go. “Daddy, I wish Jude hadn’t come back to town. But that doesn’t mean I’d cheat an old man out of his home.”
There was a silence while my father stared me down. I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. Old Man Nickel had barely said three words to me during the years when Jude and I dated. I knew he wasn’t exactly a pillar of the community. But I’d defended him out of anger at my father.
God, I was such a hypocrite. But that was the effect my father had on me.
“You are to have no contact with that man or his son,” my father said.
“I don’t think you have a thing to worry about,” I lied. “I wrote Jude in prison and he never answered.”