L’Enfant left after patting Maurice on his back. Bruce guided him to his new position as shaper.
Maurice started rolling out the batter and putting the small balls on baking sheets. The stuff seemed stickier than it should. Years ago, he’d helped his grandmother make beignets for Christmas. They never seemed this sticky, but home cooking was not the same as industrial cooking. The ingredients had to be different.
The smell of the frying confections wafted toward Maurice. His mouth watered, and he felt aroused. Somehow the beignets were tapping into his sexual instincts, as well as his hunger. He was glad for the apron to hide his arousal.
“Boss,” one of the others yelled across the kitchen. “We’s running low on the shortening.”
Bruce folded his paper and laid it on his desk. “We just got a new shipment in. Isn’t it over there?”
“Nassir, it ain’t.”
“I’ll go get it.”
Bruce disappeared into the soup kitchen. Maurice never noticed a storage locker in that area. He rolled the dough and put it out on the sheets. A few minutes later, Bruce rolled a barrel in on a set of dollies. It was black with no writing on it. The top was off, and he could see into it. The shortening inside appeared too yellow. He’d never seen shortening that wasn’t snow white.
“What is that?” he asked Bruce.
“Shortening.”
“I’ve never seen shortening like that.”
Bruce glared at him, cold and hard. “It’s special shortening. It’s what makes Mr. L’Enfant’s beignets so special.”
When his break came, Maurice hadn’t even realized it. Time passed like a shot while he thought about his missing friend. Bruce pushed him away from the pans and handed him his plate of beignets. His trousers tightened when his thumb brushed one of the pastries, and he hurried into the soup kitchen.
The first bite made him groan. The sugar touched his tongue with an explosion of flavor. The next bite sent him into a full orgasm. The pastries seduced him. Each lounged on the plate like a wanton lover. He satisfied them all, and they he. By the time only powdered sugar remained on the plate, Maurice dripped with sweat. He’d climaxed at least twice. No sex had caused him that much pleasure in that quick of succession. He waited for his hands to quit shaking and his legs to finish wobbling before he went back to work.
The kitchen bustled when he stepped back into its sultry heat. Everything seemed to vibrate with energy. He felt like he’d taken a couple hits of X. The world glowed and shimmered. Even Bruce looked softer.
“What’s your problem?” Bruce asked.
Maurice grinned. “Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s right.”
Bruce clenched him around the arm. “Get back to work and wipe that stupid grin off your face.”
Maurice tried, but it came right back. He felt the small muscles at the edge of his lips stretch and pull. “Sorry, I can’t.”
Bruce pinched the fat on Maurice’s belly and twisted. Maurice quit smiling.
“That did it,” Bruce said. “Getting a bit fatty, aren’t you?”
Maurice wanted to curse his boss, but anger faded fast and his grin returned. He felt too good to let some screw like Bruce bring him down. Whatever had him so high, he needed it in pill form; he could make a million pushing the stuff.
“Whatever.”
Bruce’s expression didn’t change. “I’ve got another shipment of shortening arriving first thing in the morning. I need you to stay behind and help me.”
“Whatever.”
***
Maurice followed Bruce into a stairwell behind the soup kitchen. It wound down to the storeroom below the bakery. Everything smelled like burnt bacon, and he almost wretched. Whatever took him up so high last night was now killing him, and he wondered if Bruce, to get him fired, had laced some of the beignets.
“So they’re delivering down here? I don’t see a door to the street,” Maurice said as they walked into a large empty storage area.
“This is where the shortening arrives,” Bruce said.
A chair sat in the middle of the floor. A plastic drop cloth lay across the floor and under the chair.
“Sit,” Bruce said. “It’s going to be a few minutes before it gets here, and you’ve been on your feet all night.”
“I’m good,” he said, but he wasn’t. He couldn’t seem to shake a feeling of vertigo. Everything swirled around him, and Bruce seemed weirder than usual.
“Nonsense. Mr. L’Enfant wants you taking care of yourself. Sit.”
The world spun. Maurice wobbled to the chair and sat. He figured it was better to give in than fall. Bruce was up to something behind him, but Maurice didn’t move lest be overtaken by the spinning world again.
“Hello, Maurice.”
He looked up to see Mr. L’Enfant smiling at him.
“Good morning.”
“Glad to see you looking so well.” He brought out a plastic cup from behind his back. “Don’t mind taking a pee test for me, do you?”
“What?”
“I’ve had a tip that you’ve gone back to your old ways, Maurice. Ex-cons are fine employees. Current cons aren’t.”
“I’ll pee in your cup, but I’ve done nothing wrong.”
L’Enfant handed him the cup. “Prove it.”
Maurice took the cup and stood. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“Right here.”
He closed his eyes, unzipped his fly, and pissed in the cup. When he felt the warmth of urine touch his penis, he stopped. Opening his eyes, he handed the cup back to Mr. L’Enfant. “There.”
L’Enfant took a plastic stick from his pocket and stirred it in the urine. A short moment later, he studied the dripping stick and shook his head.
“Positive.”
“I’ve not done anything,” Maurice protested.
“You’re fired.”
“I was set up. Was it Bruce? He’s been after me. I’ve even been thinking about it. I think he may have something to do with Simons being gone.”
L’Enfant’s smile grew wider. “I know that.”
Maurice turned and saw Bruce approaching him with an old fire ax. He tried to move away, but the world swirled again. The chair caught him when he fell.
“Simons is still around,” L’Enfant said. “He’s probably under your fingernails. We started using him last night.”
“The shortening.”
“After Katrina, it got hard to find shortening, but we were heavy on the homeless and dead. I rendered some hobo fat one day and used it for my beignets. They were magnificent. By the looks of you, I think you’ll make a good batch,” L’Enfant said. “I make the special ones for my employees. A little hoodoo makes them extra tasty and extra fat.”
“But why us?”
“Less criminals in the world the better,” L’Enfant said.
The last thing Maurice saw was L’Enfant waving his hand toward Bruce. The last thing he felt was the ax in his skull.
***
Jack read the article on L’Enfant’s Bakery in the Times-Picayune. He was set to get out of Angola the next day and planned on heading back to New Orleans. Bruce, his probation officer, told him about the bakery. He read up on it because they hired cons who were clean. It sounded like a great place to work, and Jack was excited. The article ended with the owner, Mr. L’Enfant, talking about how everyone took part in making the best beignets in New Orleans.
There’s a little bit of our cooks in each one.
Jack needed to take pride in something. He looked forward to getting that job.
Vic Kerry lives in Alabama with his wife, two cats, and six dogs (for right now). He’s eaten a beignet or two in his lifetime but has never made one, so far. He’s always looking for new friends on Facebook.
The Vessel
Henry Snider
Jonah Quint stared, along with the rest of the congregation, at the kneeling form of Sister Helena as she laid hands on the fourth crippled man of the night. The split in her wrapped skirt exp
osed the left leg above the knee. His eyes locked on the exposed thigh for several seconds, staring at the glimpse of stocking top before finding the will to look away.
“All cameras,” he said into the mic, “avoid Sister Helena’s left leg. Angle for the cripple or above the waist.” He watched everyone with him in the control room act as a single well-oiled machine.
On cue all monitors showed new angles, each avoiding the innocent exposure with surgical precision.
“Perfect.”
He watched her body rock in time with the speaker’s rhythmic beat. The televised audience was enthralled by the faith healings and him personally by the mane of blonde hair. Several strands fell forward, shielding her face from the camera.
“Camera two, tighten frame on the guy.”
“Gotcha, Jonah.”
One of the fifteen monitors fanned out and the cameraman zoomed in on the thirty-something praying with her wheelchair-bound ward. The man’s twisted legs convulsed as Helena gripped his thighs. Tears flowed and his face screwed into a rictus of pain. One leg straightened, the unnatural angle of the joint hidden by her hand. A breath later the other leg followed suit and jutted forth rigid as stone. He jerked from the wheelchair and fell forward, leaning against the healer’s shoulders for support. She grasped him and stood, lifting the healed man to full height.
“Arise,” Helena shouted amidst a fury of cheers and amens.
Applause rang throughout the chapel and the chorus broke into one of the chosen hymns for the evening. Hands rose Heavenward, then attendees clasped each other as one unbroken chain and joined in the song. Three of the four camera crews paced the aisles catching tearful members in moments of prayer and rejoice while one shot up from waist level to get the inspiring “closer to God” angle. The fourth kept focus on the man, who bore the confused expression seen time and again after a healing. A white curtain, emblazoned with the words The Vessel in reflective royal blue, lowered.
“Roll credits.” Jonah looked over at Karen Finch. “Get me archive footage from tonight’s last fifteen minutes.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“Yeah. Fire the hairstylist.”
Karen pushed back from the console, smoothed her skirt and stood. “I thought you liked Sister Helena’s hair down.”
“I do, and so does every other man out there, but she needs to be seen as the prophet we’ve built her to be.”
“Prophet? You mean healer.”
Jonah closed the distance between them, grasped the assistant producer by the arm and led her back into the sound booth, then slammed the door closed behind them. He jabbed a finger out like a weapon. “Listen…just close your mouth and listen. Sister Helena’s bought out the entire hour and a half following the closing interviews with tonight’s Saved. She’s professed that we’re on the verge of the End Times.”
“Jonah,” Karen took the finger that still jabbed at her and held it in between both palms, “prophets have been saying that for centuries. Many more popular than the great Sister Helena.”
“No.”
“No? What do you mean, no? By simple popularity standings, she has less viewers than the Seven Hundred Club.”
“I mean, no.” He pulled away. “She’s healed the sick, professed—correctly I might add—to nine events in the last month alone.”
“And that means she’s on the level? We bought out two of the three network time slots for this. If she’s wrong, it’s the end for everything we’ve worked for.”
“And if she’s right?”
Karen rolled her eyes. “Speaking of that, the reporter from LQN is waiting on-line for you.”
Jonah humphed a response.
Karen opened the door. “Your career’s on the line, here. Be sure what you’re doing is right.”
“Of course it’s right. We purchased the time just like anyone else is able to.”
Karen smirked. “Not right with the network,” she pointed up with her pen, “right with Him. Are you serving the Lord or are you serving Sister Helena?” Karen stepped out and closed the door.
Below, Jonah watched the masses extricating themselves from pews and folding chairs, clogging the aisles like rainwater through a downspout. Grandparents, adults, teens, and children all wore varying shades of white, bringing to mind a white chocolate drink he’d tried on the last tour. Sister Helena’s “Right Arm,” as she’d dubbed Jonah, flopped down in one of the two seats and logged into his personal account. One small video camera icon flashed red in the upper right corner. He clicked it while running a comb through thinning hair. A shadowy image of himself popped up in a window. A few adjustments later the virtual doppelganger was bathed in light and he clicked the button to connect.
“Hello?” The deep voice came through the speakers just as the monitor showed a young man in a sweater vest.
“Thomas? Hello.” Jonah reminded himself to smile since this wasn’t one of the phone interviews he was used to.
Thomas picked up a legal pad and began scribbling. “Jonah. How’re you doing?”
He sat back and tried to find a comfortable position in the office chair. “Well, the Lord’s work is never done, so ‘busy’ seems to be answer of the day, my friend.”
“Good, good.” Thomas tapped his pen against the paper. “I only have a few questions for you.”
“Whatever you need.” Jonah regretted opening the door for whatever questions the reporter called about.
“Sister Helena’s miraculous healings.”
“What about them?”
“Have you ever done a follow-up on them?”
“On the healings? Why would we do that? It’s been confirmed by seven hospitals that the afflicted were healed.” Jonah felt his plastered grin falter a little.
“No, not the healings. The three tests at John Hopkins we witnessed were enough to concede that there are, in fact, healings being performed.”
“Then what?”
Thomas leaned forward, head appearing too large for his body from the camera angle. “I mean on the people. Have you ever done a follow up on any of the people that Sister Helena’s healed?”
A muffled knock came from the door and he looked up to see Karen, pointing emphatically at her watch.
“If I’ve caught you at a bad time—”
“No, no.” Jonah waved her away and looked back at the monitor. “It’s just a producer letting me know about the time. We do have a special event planned for this evening. I’m sure you’ve seen advertising for tonight.”
Thomas laughed. “How could I not? It seems to be on every station across the country…prime time, even.”
“Then you can understand that I’m a bit pressed for time. So,” he said, taking control of the conversation, “let’s get to these questions.”
“Fair enough. As I said, I’d like to know if you’ve done a follow-up with any of the healed individuals or their families?”
“Not as of yet, but we are planning on doing a follow-up show later in the season. The Vessel,” He smiled seeing the reporter wince at the name, “Sister Helena,” he amended, “may heal the lame so they can walk, but the Saved still need exercise to rebuild their strength.” Jonah made a mental note to have an intern map out an update show.
“You mention the healed as ‘Saved.’ Are you saying that the people who Sister Helena heals are touched by God?”
He clasped his hands together and sat in solemn repose at the desk. The leading question was obvious. “Sister Helena is simply the vessel for the Divine.”
“Sir, that’s not what I asked.” Thomas quirked an eyebrow.
“I know. I’m happy to answer your questions, but let’s not dance around while you grab for sensationalist headlines. My time, like yours, I’m sure, is limited.”
“Fair enough.” The reporter glanced at his notes. “Did you know that four of your ‘Saved’ people have committed felonies since being healed? One of which involved a teenage girl gutting her entire family while on a fishing trip?” An e
xpectant stare waited for him to slip.
Jonah bowed his head, careful not to take the theatrics too far. “The thing about God is free will. At the time of their healing they were touched by God’s vessel and returned whole. What they did afterward may or may not be of God.” He pushed back from the desk and stood. “I really am pressed for time.”
“One more question.” Thomas didn’t wait for a response, “We can’t find reference to Sister Helena’s appointment anywhere, or reference to where she studied.”
“All of that information is on our website.”
“Tonight’s prophecy.” The reporter shifted gears, realizing that he only had another few seconds. “She claims to know the exact date of—”
“I'm out of time, Mister Bradshaw.”
“But, sir—”
“Thank you for your questions.” Jonah clicked the escape key and broke the connection. “Son of a bitch!” He ripped the door open and stormed into the control room. “I need an updated list for Sister Helena’s resume. You,” he pointed at an intern too young for the mustache worn, “get updates on all of the people healed.”
“This season?”
“From the beginning. Church tours as well.” He bellowed, “I want them all! I want them on my desk tomorrow night!”
The eight people in the control booth sat stone-still in his presence, waiting for additional commands. When none came they nervously returned to their assigned tasks of monitoring the hallways, directing ushers to congested areas, and ensuring camera angles were optimum for viewers at home.
“Big J!”
Jonah jumped at the booming sound echoing from his earpiece. He keyed it and replied, “What?” Everyone in the control room looked up, and he turned away, putting a hand over the earpiece.
“Helena wants… ”
“Sister Helena.”
The tech cleared his throat. “Sorry, sir. Sister Helena requests your presence on stage.”
“Ask her what for.”
“Can’t, sir. I have to try to get the parishioners back into the seats.” An audible click sounded as the crew’s newest technician changed channels. “Ladies and gentlemen, please take a moment for the needs of the body, but then return to your seats. Sister Helena has something special for each and every one of you.”
HELP! WANTED: Tales of On-the-Job Terror Page 18