Feast! Pure Slush Vol. 9

by Susan Tepper

  “I don’t know if I can convict with what you have Jonson,” District Attorney Earle Bowles had observed. “The blood splatter inside the girl’s car matched her DNA. Tomlinson’s saliva was a match to the cigarette butt. The violence of the crimes committed were close and similarly intense. You reported his actions after the interview, but there were no other witnesses to verify it. You can’t call it a near confession. His lawyer will feed it to you.”

  “Let a jury decide,” I’d retorted and stormed out of his office. I paused from eating my submarine sandwich and listened to the murmur of other customers speak of their income taxes. They were oblivious to the crime surrounding them in the streets. I envied them.

  A man in a dark business suit straightened his glasses and proudly showed a woman across from him photos of his children. “My tax deductions,” he mused. I wasn’t a parent. I couldn’t relate but grimly focused on the Day family and their loss. Gerry loved mechanics and kept her vehicle in pristine condition. A true individual who was happier with tools than a manicure. Her parents spoke of her smile as she worked tirelessly on her car. That car was now evidence.

  I picked up my cell phone. It was the D.A.’s office. Bowles wanted to see me. I finished the sandwich and discarded my trash on the way out. I was ready for an answer of any kind.

  12.35pm

  Cherry Mountain, Texas, USA

  Slice of Life

  by Jonathan Levy

  Welcome back, San Antonio. I am Raymond Rothstein, and you are listening to 90.5 FM, KSAT radio. It is now 12:30 on a Friday, which means it’s time for another ‘Slice of Life’, a short program in which I report live from a restaurant in a rural area outside San Antonio and strike up a conversation with a customer. Together, we learn about that person – his or her past, present, perspective on life and the people in it – and perhaps in the process, we learn something about ourselves, too. Right now, I sit in a red vinyl booth by the window of Al’s Kitchen, a small diner in the town of Cherry Mountain, just northwest of Fredericksburg. Joining me across the table is Howard Fletcher. Why don’t you tell our listeners a little about yourself, Howard?

  “Well, I’m 83 years old. I grew up in the nearby town of Comfort, Texas, where I’ve lived most of my life. I had never been outside of Comfort until I left home to attend Texas State University in San Marcos. But I never finished college because I joined the Army. It wasn’t until I came back from Korea in 1953 that I met Maggie Barnes, the prettiest girl I’d ever seen … No, I mean it. We married in 1955.”

  I noticed the wedding band. You’re still married now, I take it?

  “Of course. In fact, Maggie is –”

  “Welcome to Al’s Kitchen. I’m Al, as in Al’s Kitchen. Two unsweetened iced teas?”

  Actually, I don’t want anything to –

  “You know us well, Al.”

  “Alright. Iced teas coming up.”

  Uh … Howard, how often do you eat here?

  “First time was 17 years ago today. Something is bothering Al. He’s usually much happier.”

  Seventeen years, wow. And what brings you here now?

  “Well, we come every year for breakfast, lunch, and dinner on this day. It’s Maggie’s birthday. And today is extra special – we’re celebrating her 80th.”

  We? I didn’t know she would be joining you. I hope she’ll speak to our listeners as well when she gets here.

  “Actually, she’s –”

  “Two unsweetened iced – Oh no! I’m so sorry, Howard. Did I spill any on you? You look fine, phew! Hi, Howard, how are you? Who’s your friend? Oh my gosh, I’m sorry, I haven’t even – I’m Cara, I work here, of course. What’s that thing in your hand for?”

  I’m interviewing Howard for a radio program.

  “You work for the radio? That’s great! Sometimes I listen to those shows where people call in for advice about stuff. Do you work on a show like that? You know, like relationship advice? Listen. Let me tell you a secret. This morning, Al, the guy who owns the place? He told me he was in love with me. What should I do? I mean, I like him and all – he’s a nice guy. But he’s also my boss, you know?”

  I’m sorry, I don’t –

  “Shoot, here he comes. See ya!”

  “Two veggie burgers, Howard?”

  “Yes indeed.”

  “Alright. Coming up.”

  Howard, when will Maggie be here?

  “Hmm? She’s right here.”

  I’m sorry – Where?

  “Sitting right next to you.”

  Your wife is … where I’m pointing?

  “Yes, of course.”

  Howard, will you excuse me? I need to step outside. I’ll be right … Thank you for listening to this live broadcast of ‘Slice of Life’ from Al’s Kitchen in Cherry Mountain, Texas. I know you cannot see what I see here, so I will do my best to describe it. Moments ago, you all heard Howard tell me that his wife, Maggie, sat right next to me. Now, I assure you, there was no one there – only empty space. Was Howard ever married at all? Is he hallucinating? And if so, why? Let’s see if we can figure … Excuse me, Cara? Do you know Howard Fletcher’s wife, Maggie?

  “Oh. Well, yes, I … just met her this morning. They were here for breakfast.”

  You saw her here?

  “Well, I didn’t see Maggie. I mean she wasn’t here here. It’s just … I’m sorry, Al told me she died of cancer over the last year and he felt bad because they’d spent their whole lives together and now Howard thinks he sees her then Al told me he was in love with me and I don’t know what to do about it.”

  I … um … Excuse me, it looks like Howard is talking to his wife right now … Hello, Howard, thank you for waiting. You know, I don’t believe I’ve formally met your wife yet. It’s nice to meet you, Maggie.

  “Howard?”

  “Hi, Cara.”

  “How long have you and Maggie been married?”

  “It’ll be 60 years in June.”

  Howard, do you ever wonder … um …

  “Yes?”

  It’s just … don’t you … I’m sorry, Howard, hold on one moment. Dear listeners, it looks like love is contagious here in Al’s Kitchen. Our waitress, Cara, has made up her mind, and right now she and Al stand facing each other by the counter, holding hands and laughing.

  “Were you asking me something, Raymond?”

  Yes … no! I … Tell us about your wife, Howard.

  “Maggie? Well, what can I say? She’s the love of my life. Maggie is the kind of person who will make you smile just by looking at you. I knew it from the first moment I saw her. In fact, let me tell you about the day we met …”

  2.30pm

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA

  After-Service Luncheon

  by AR Neal

  Bud smacked Justin in the back of his head as he sank his ample butt into the last free chair in the living room. “How you gonna sit up in my sister’s house?”

  “Don’t you mean ‘my lodge brother’s house’?” Justin shot back.

  “Justin Spirts, don’t you start with me.” Bud shook his hand in the other man’s face. “How you gonna sit up in here and talk about my nephew like that? Jimmy’s got a few issues, but you got no right!”

  Justin snorted. “Jimmy’s got more than issues. He’s out there on that stuff and you know it. That’s why he wasn’t at his daddy’s funeral.”

  “He was, too. I saw him in the back of the church,” Odessa said. “Nancy said he walked to the cemetery from there.” She winked at Justin. “And the boy does have issues.”

  Bud hefted his frame from the chair and stood up. “Odessa, you would take Spirts’ side anyway.”

  They stopped talking as Nancy walked into the room. “What are y’all on about over here?”

  “Bud was messin’ with Justin about –”

  “Nothin’,” Bud interrupted. “We was just jaw-jackin’.” He knew Nancy would be angry if Odessa shared that they had been talking about Jimmy and his habits. �
��You know how Justin and the rest of those stuffy lodge boys are. I was tryin’ to get him to show me the handshake.”

  “Uh-hm,” Nancy looked him up and down. She suspected they had been talking about her oldest son but let it go; it was the wrong day for family to be at odds. She smiled. “How about James?” she said. “He was telling me how well he’s doing these days.”

  “What’s he doing?” Odessa asked. She was always ready for something to gossip about.

  “He’s working at one of those can and bottle recycle places. Some kinda manager or something.”

  “Managin’ to sell cans and bottles to get them drugs, more like,” Justin snickered, balancing a forkful of potato salad. Bud elbowed Justin’s hand and the salad plopped on the edge of the plate.

  Nancy frowned at them. “From the sounds of things, he’s doing better. You know that recession hit young men like him awful hard.”

  “That only happened to people who were actually working, Ma,” Jamal added, slipping past her with a plate full of cookies, cake slices, and a large piece of sweet potato pie. She swatted at him and he dodged her hand. “Where is he anyway? I didn’t even get to talk with him.”

  “Don’t you speak about your brother that way, young man. Anyway, I made him a plate since he had to go. Can you believe they have him scheduled to work this afternoon?” She crossed her arms tightly and hugged her elbows. “On the day of his daddy’s funeral and they wouldn’t let him off. He had to be there,” she leaned around Jamal to look at the mantel clock, “at 3.00 so I gave him car fare.”

  Sighs of disgust filled the room. Nancy looked at them in surprise. “What’s wrong with all of you?”

  “Ma, Jimmy didn’t need car fare,” Jamal answered. “He’s not a manager. He hustled you.”

  Nancy blinked. “Don’t talk that way about James. Don’t let me hear any of you talking that way. Daddy wouldn’t approve.” She frowned, turned, marched into the dining room, and smiled at the Reverend and William, who were deep in discussion.

  Odessa shoved a last spoonful of the Ambrosia into her mouth. She swallowed, looked toward Nancy in the next room and whispered, “She might not think so but Calvin knew all about James. And no, he didn’t approve.” She looked at Bud and Justin and gave them both a dagger-eyed stare. “You two know how she is about that boy. Now leave it alone. Today isn’t about James, anyway.” She turned toward Jamal, who was sitting in the corner, and asked, “Jamal, is that your mamma’s lemon cake you got there? I gotta get me some of that before it’s gone!” She licked her fork, and clutching her plate, stood up, and left in search of another of her favorite desserts.

  Nancy shook her head, wanting to block her son’s words about Jamal from her mind as she joined William and the Reverend as they stood near the punch bowl. William wiped the last of his chocolate cake from the corners of his mouth, and stood up straight.

  “Nancy, how are you?” William asked. “I haven’t seen you sit still since everyone arrived back here from the cemetery. Have you eaten?”

  She waved him off. “I can’t eat a bite just now, but I’m all right. I hope you’re both enjoying the food.”

  Reverend Jones, Nancy’s sister Stella’s husband, shook his head. “Of course. You know I did.” He leaned in. “When you gonna teach your sister to cook like this?”

  Nancy tapped him lightly on the arm. “Stella’s gonna get you for making fun of her cooking!”

  “Ma. I need to talk to you.” Jamal stood by her side, touching her elbow.

  “Not now, Jamal.”

  “It’s important.”

  She turned, saw the frown on his face, then looked past him and saw a police officer stood in the front doorway.

  “It’s about Jimmy, Ma.”

  Jamal took Nancy by the arm and guided her through the groups of family and friends, all quietly pushing food around their half-eaten plates.

  “Mrs. Washington, I am so sorry to disturb you but there’s been an incident involving your son, James. I’m going to need you to come with me to the hospital.”

  Nancy shrugged Jamal’s hand away and replied, “Officer, I don’t know if you are aware but we are celebrating my husband’s home-going today. Now why don’t you just rest yourself there – Bud, move over so the officer can sit down – and let me make you a plate. There’s plenty as you can see. I know James is fine. I gave him car fare to get to work just about a half-hour ago, so what is this all about?”

  The officer touched the edge of his cap. “Thank you, ma’am but no. I can’t give you any additional information here and need you to come with me to the hospital. Your other son – Jamal? – said he would drive you.”

  Nancy wiped her palms down the front of her apron and reaching around, untied the knot at the back.

  “Cora-Lynn,” Nancy said, “get my purse from upstairs, would you? Stella, I didn’t say thank you when I was in the dining room so please give my thanks to your husband for the message today. I know Daddy would have been very happy. Bud, you leave Justin alone while I’m gone and Justin, be sure to tell the brothers how much I appreciate all they did. I’ll bring something nice around to the lodge next week as snacks for the meeting. And Odessa, make sure everybody gets some of this food to take home, especially the Reverend and William. And make sure Bertram doesn’t take all of the macaroni salad – tell him to leave some for other folks.”

  Nancy glanced in the mirror next to the door and patted down a stray hair.

  “I want that kitchen empty when I get back,” she continued. “But save some of those oxtails. I want to freeze them for James because they’re his favorite.”

  As Nancy and Jamal followed the officer down the porch steps, Stella called out, “Should I make you a plate too, Nancy?”

  “No, that’s all right, Stella,” Nancy replied. “This is Daddy’s day. I’ll find something when we get back.” Nancy turned to the officer. “We’re going to the hospital?”

  He nodded.

  “Well,” she paused by her potted flowers next to the bottom step and grabbed a handful of daffodils and pansies. “If James has been hurt or something, I’m sure some flowers will brighten up his room. Don’t you think, Jamal?”

  Jamal glanced at the officer, who shook his head slightly. “Sure, Ma. I’m sure that will be fine.”

  “Of course it will.” Nancy gave Jamal and the officer a shaky smile as they walked toward the curb where Jamal’s rental car was parked. Turning to Jamal as he opened the car door, Nancy asked, “Did I tell you how much Daddy loved daffodils?”

  “Yes, Ma,” Jamal said, “you sure did.”

  2.30pm

  Acton, Massachusetts, USA

  Fabric

  by Michael Webb

  It is the peak of the day, 2.30pm, finally time for the long delayed feasting, when everyone who is coming is here, and the house is as full as it is going to be. The smells fill the house, every breath redolent with the stink of flesh and carbohydrates and sauces. It is hot, not intolerably so, but stuffy, too many people in too small a space, and I can feel tiny areas of sweat drying as I move, the back of each knee and the small of my back damp where the fabric of my clothes presses too tightly. There is noise, children’s voices chattering, male voices talking football, the thump of the video gamers coming up from downstairs, my mother talking animatedly to my aunt and my grandmother, some intricate piece of office politics that, like a traffic story, is interesting only to the teller.

  I straighten all the way up, sucking my belly in as I rise, sliding my stockinged feet into my shoes. It feels heady, almost dizzy, to suddenly rise after being on the floor. I had been lying there, letting my cousin Chandler run his toy train over my legs and feet, the tiny wheels making even, smooth lines on my tights. His mother would occasionally glance at him with alarm, but I didn’t mind. I knew that the tiny wooden wheels might snag and rip the thin fabric, but I had more pairs, and it was vaguely pleasant, the parallel pressures across my skin. Chandler had scrambled off, looking for his mot
her, his train forgotten on the floor. I crouch to pick up the toy, my head swimming again when I straighten. I put it onto a table behind me, hopefully within his line of sight.

  It is distressingly easy to get lost in a crowd like this, and I had divined in the last few years the keys to making people think you had eaten when you hadn’t. Always make sure you are seen with food, and be sure to be around people who are eating. I feel my heart pound inside my chest when I take a deep breath, and I endure a spasm of nauseous hunger in my gut. I wall it off, misusing my therapist’s favorite trick, pushing the hunger into a steel gray safe and spinning the dial, closing my eyes for a moment until the feeling passes. Control, I think, feeling an icy dark thrill as I deny myself again. This, I control. This.

  I watch my aunt, her body still thick with baby weight, making him a plate, small arrangements of white and green and red and orange and brown. I know he won’t eat it, and I know she has to try anyhow, and I try to remember what it felt like, having someone else make all the decisions and trusting that they mean you no harm, and I want to weep with the relief of how that must be, and then I step forward into the space behind her, selecting food that I will carefully pretend to eat. I picture my body as forged steel, hard, carved and cold and inviolate.

  3.00pm

  Belmont, Massachusetts, USA

  Snack

  by Gloria Garfunkel

  A nurse brings me some red jello.

  “Here is something you can eat,” she says. “It’s full of protein.”

  “I’m vegan and jello is full of … um … gelatin. It comes from … um … boiled pig skins and … um … bones. And I’m allergic to … um … food coloring. Don’t they put these things in my … um … chart? Also, I don’t eat sugar. Allergic too.”

  Jello is pure poison. It’s not even food.