Dinner at Jack's

by Rick R. Reed

  She shook it with a strong, hearty grip, and her freckled face burst into a smile. “Daisy. Daisy O’Connor. I share this beautiful abode with my three cats.”

  I noticed then all the feline eyes staring out at me from the big picture window over Daisy’s shoulders. The trio jockeyed for position on the back of a couch. They were all Siamese. If I lived here, I would never be able to tell them apart.

  And I wondered how they’d feel about Ruth.

  “I have a dog. A pug,” I blurted out. “Her name’s Ruth.”

  “Ruth? Ha! That’s a stupid name for a dog.”

  I couldn’t take offense when Daisy was smiling so kindly.

  “We may have to keep Ruth away from my pussies.”

  Yes, she said pussies.

  “Believe me, it’s been a long time since either Ruth or I have been anywhere near a pussy.”

  “Okay, then.” Daisy smiled, but this time it was a little more brittle. She turned on her heel. “Just let me dash inside and grab the key. You’ll have your own entrance.”

  She hurried inside and shut the door behind her while I thought this particular housing option was not going to work out either. I turned and looked beyond where my smart car was parked.

  In front of the house was a two-lane road that ran alongside the Ohio River. After the road, there was only a narrow riverbank sloping sharply down to the water. Today it looked brown in the dull light, a little sluggish as it headed, without much interest, to its eventual meeting with the Mississippi. Across the water, the hills of West Virginia rose up, covered with mostly bare trees waiting patiently for spring.

  I was already beginning to long for this view I was certain I would never have. You know, on account of my go-cart and aversion to pussy. There was something tranquil and quiet about it. A tugboat came into view, pushing a barge filled with gravel. Whorls of mist swirled just above the water, and the craft broke through them as it glided by.

  “Here we are!” Daisy was back. She jangled the keys she held in one hand. “You ready to see your new home?”

  Her putting it that way filled me with a kind of stupid joy. I hadn’t even seen the place yet. For all I knew, it could be all cinder blocks and milk crates with a Confederate flag hanging over the sofa. I didn’t care so much. I could look out the window.

  I followed Daisy off the front porch and around to the south-facing side of the garage, where a set of rickety stairs led upward.

  “Be careful,” she called over her shoulder. “The steps ain’t exactly new.” She trudged onward, appearing confident, and said to the air in front of her, “Not sure a little dog like a pug will be able to manage these.”

  I frowned. “She’s quite spry. And I can carry her up and down, if need be.” I paused halfway up, gasping and thinking I needed to start running again, and asked, “It is okay that I have a pet, right?”

  She shrugged. “If you consider a dog a pet.”

  “I get it. And I don’t. I consider a dog to be a gift from God, and my child.”

  Daisy didn’t say a word. Surely she felt the same about her cats.

  We had arrived at a small back porch with a low black wrought iron railing. It was tiny, but there was room enough for an aluminum café set, which consisted of a little round table and two small chairs. The set was a little corroded from sitting out, but I knew a can of spray paint could have it looking good as new in no time at all. All the porch needed was a couple of pots of flowers and a Weber grill.

  From up here, the view was amazing—the curve of the river, the tree-crowded hills lining its shores, and even the bridge that took us all over to wild and wonderful West Virginia. A chilly wind blew out of the north, and on it, a few snowflakes danced.

  Daisy opened the door with her key, and we stepped inside.

  Have you ever had the feeling, especially when you’re seeking out a new place to live, that you’ve arrived home? If you have, you know what I felt. It was kind of like love at first sight, only for a place instead of a person.

  Wisely, Daisy kept her mouth shut, leaning against the door with her arms folded across her ample chest.

  “I love it!” I didn’t see much point in downplaying my enthusiasm. After all, I wasn’t so hard up or cheap as to try and negotiate downward from a measly three hundred bucks a month. No exaggeration, this same space in Seattle might run as much as a thousand dollars more.

  Golden light streamed into the one big room from a pair of large uncurtained windows that faced the river. I think it was the light, falling in almost celestial slanted shafts, that sold me. Something told me I could be content simply staring out of those windows for hours, watching the traffic on the river and the seasons change on the hillside on the other side.

  But Daisy had done a good job with the rest of the place. While it wasn’t sleek, or modern, or elegant, it was homey. The kind of place I could already see myself in, curled up on the chintz sofa with a cup of Darjeeling and reading the latest Stephen King. The floors were hardwood, large tongue-and-groove planks, and looked worn smooth rather than polished. A big oval braided rug in hues of chocolate and cornflower blue took up most of the floor space. The aforementioned couch, with a very subtle floral pattern, was positioned opposite us, along the longest wall. Above it hung not a Confederate flag, but to my surprise, a framed David Hockney print of a young man swimming underwater in a sun-dappled pool. A figure in a red sport coat stood at the water’s edge, watching the swimmer.

  My gaze moved from the picture to Daisy. “I love David Hockney, and that one in particular. There’s just something so calming about it. I love the way the light plays on the water.” I left out the part about it being erotic as well. I didn’t know if I could go there yet with Daisy, although the act of her simply hanging this particular piece made me pretty confident I could.

  “It belonged to my late husband.” Daisy’s eyes glistened for a moment, and she looked away. When she looked back, her nearly ever-present smile was cemented firmly back in place. “It was one of his favorites. I’d have it down in my place, but it reminds me too much of him. You know what I mean?”

  “I do.” I nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss. Has it been long?”

  She shrugged. “A couple years. He’s the reason I live here in this hopeless little burg. He wanted to come home to die.” She smiled sadly. “And I came with him and somehow haven’t found my way back home to West Virginia. We weren’t exactly a conventional couple, but we loved each other. Oh boy, did we!” She laughed, but there was a little catch in it, and I had a feeling Daisy would allow herself a good cry once I drove away.

  I continued to walk around the room, taking in the wall-mounted flat screen above the maple bookshelves, already filled with horror and romance paperbacks, most of which I’d read, the blue corduroy recliner in one corner, the glass-topped coffee table. Pushed against another wall was a double-size four-poster bed, a little worse for the wear, its mahogany stain scratched and dull, but looking so comfy with its patchwork quilt that I was quite tempted to lie down and take a nap. I could already visualize myself waking up there with the sun streaming in and Ruth curled up at my feet, snoring like a trucker, as she did.

  I flicked on the light in the tiny bathroom—shower stall only, toilet, miniature sink—and noted the “kitchenette” with its also tiny sink, motel-room-size refrigerator, and its two-burner cooktop with a small oven underneath. There were two shelves above the fridge and not much counter space to speak of. It would be hard, but I could be creative. I could make do. I supposed I could use the tiny drop-leaf table, shoved against the wall, as a prep surface as well as a place to eat.

  “No dishwasher?” I was kidding, but Daisy took me seriously.

  “Sorry. But you can use mine if you need to. As long as I’m home, no worries, hon. Same goes for the washer and dryer in my basement. I’ll give you a key to the main house if you move in.”

  We fell silent as I stared for a moment out the window. A flock of birds soared upward above
the water, and I noticed a train traveling on tracks near the water on the opposite shore.

  I envied the birds their freedom and what I imagined was a life free of care, free of want.

  When I turned back to Daisy, she appeared lost in thought, still staring at the Hockney print. I could imagine her wanting to dive into Hockney’s shimmering pool herself.

  “He passed away from AIDS. Philip, my hubby. You don’t hear of that happening much more these days, but it does. Obviously. For whatever reason, the drugs just up and stopped working for him. He used to come up here and write, back when he was able.” And then she shook herself, almost as though she didn’t realize she was speaking to me. Her smile returned. “So? What do you think?”

  “As long as you’re okay with me bringing Ruth along, I’m in.”

  She chuckled. “As long as you’re okay with guarding against a cat trying to scratch her little bug eyes out, I’d love to have you here, Beau.”

  “I’ll be careful. No one’s losing an eye. Not on my watch.”

  We stood facing one another for a moment or two. There was so much I wanted to ask Daisy, but I didn’t feel I had the privilege, not yet anyway. “Do you need me to fill out an application or something?”

  “We could go through that. I have a form I downloaded off the Internet. But I trust my gut. As long as you got the money, honey, I got a place for you.” She grinned, beamed really, and this time it was genuine.

  For the first time in a long time, I felt an odd sensation. It was something I just might call happiness. I got out my checkbook, which I’d optimistically brought along.

  * * * *

  Daisy said I could move in “whenever,” and I think I surprised her a little when I said I would bring my stuff over that afternoon. Hey, I could languish in a teenage girl’s bedroom, with a teenage girl’s things, or I could be here by myself, with a river to look out on and a place to call my very own.

  Which would you choose?

  It took me, with Mary Beth’s gracious—and perhaps relieved—help, all of about two hours to move and settle in.

  And now I found myself on the couch, Ruth snoring at the other end, laptop where its name intended it to be, perusing the Help Wanted ads on Craigslist. I wasn’t so sure I wanted a job anytime in the near future but thought it couldn’t hurt to look, to see what was out there when I was ready.

  Besides, Fawcettville was lumped in with all of greater Metropolitan Pittsburgh, so once I applied Fawcettville as a search term, I saw exactly how limited my options would be. Most of the area jobs were at the racetrack, Rock Springs, across the river, at the Walmart—I accepted the fact that I was too grumpy in general to be a greeter anywhere—and general labor positions at the lone remaining industrial pottery in the east end of town. I didn’t think I was suited for any of that.

  I was about to give up and move on to “Casual Encounters.” Hey! I’m allowed to fantasize or even have a hookup. After all, I am single. But I almost dreaded looking at those, because I feared the offerings would be even less promising than the ones in the jobs section. Nonetheless, I was just about to click on the personals when an ad jumped out at me.

  It was for a personal chef.

  Really? Why, that’s what I used to do, back when I was a young and happy husband in the Emerald City! And the folks looking for their chef were right here in Fawcettville. Honest to God? Someone here wants household staff?

  There had to be catch. I read the short ad again.

  Seeking someone to cook two to three nights a week for my shut-in son. Meals need to be nutritious, appetizing, and wholesome, i.e. comfort food. Pay is minimum wage and start date is as soon as possible. Call me at 330-555-8408 evenings if interested and want to hear more.

  I gnawed at a hangnail. This could be something. I nudged Ruth with my foot. “What do you think? Should I give them a jingle?” The part about the shut-in did give me pause. I had plenty of experience with food but none at all being a caregiver, which I worried was what was really at the root of the ad.

  Ruth looked up at me as only she could with those intense brown pug eyes and asked, “What have you got to lose? Beats sitting around here beating your meat and watching porn.”

  “Ruth, honey, you always did have a way with words. And you need to mind your own business.” I patted the dog on the head and reread the ad.

  Are you sure you want to get yourself into something again so soon? On the other hand, it would be nice to have a little income so you don’t have to whittle your savings down so fast. Even if the pay is minimal, it might be enough to at least cover the rent.

  Still, it seemed too soon. I’d barely had time to catch my breath, mourn my failed marriage, and settle in. But the voice of reason, the one I most often imagined Ruth speaking in, told me the job prospects here in Fawcettville were so grim that I might regret it if I didn’t jump on this because its like might take a long time to appear again, if it ever did.

  I picked up my cell and called the number in the ad.

  A woman answered, and even from her hello, I could hear the twang of a West Virginia accent. I could also tell she was a smoker from the scratchy, velvety quality of her voice. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought I was speaking to Miss Brenda Vaccaro.

  “Hi, my name’s Beau St. Clair. I just saw your ad on Craigslist and thought I’d give you a call. I might be interested.” The truth was I was uncertain, but no point in bringing that up. It’s all about being positive. I could be uncertain when and if there was an offer on the table.

  “Well, hi, Beau. This is Maisie Rogers. Thanks for calling.”

  And then we immediately fell into an awkward silence that grew more awkward as the seconds ticked by without her saying anything.

  Finally, she burst into laughter. “I’m so sorry!” she said, reining in her mirth. “I’m not laughing at you, really. I’m laughing at myself. It’s just that I’ve never done this before. Truth is I have no idea what to ask you or even, really, what the hell to say.” She chuckled some more.

  “You haven’t done what? Hired a cook?”

  “Right! Exactly! I’m not the kind of person who looks for ‘staff,’ if you know what I mean.” She tittered. “I’m usually the one who’s on staff.” She sighed. “Oh, I almost feel silly. I didn’t really even believe anyone would respond. I placed the ad on kind of a lark. A friend urged me to do it.”

  I scratched my head and tried to sound amiable as I asked, “So, what? This is a joke? Putting out a feeler, maybe?” I thought I might as well be forthright, especially if I was dealing with a nutcase, as I suspected. “Um, so are you looking for someone to cook…or not?”

  “Well, yeah. If I can afford it. And there’s the rub—I don’t have much to spend. I was thinking I could buy the groceries myself and then pay you a few bucks an hour.”

  “Maisie, if it’s okay to call you that, I have to tell you—you’re really tempting me here.” I chuckled, and she joined me.

  “I guess I’m not really ‘selling’ the job, am I? But I’m not sure you can even call it a job, not a proper one, anyway. With benefits and stuff like that.”

  “There you go again—tempting me with outrageous promises. How you’ll make all my dreams come true. Low pay and a job that’s not really a job.” I chuckled. “How can I resist? Listen. I grew up here in Fawcettville, and I’ve been gone a long time. I just moved home. And—” I paused for effect. “I actually used to be a personal chef, back in Seattle, where I lived for a long time.”

  “Seattle, really?”

  Maisie expressed more interest in the town I was from than my prior cooking experience, and I wondered why.

  “Did you live there long?”

  “Ah, a good many years. I kind of expected to live the rest of my life there, but life threw me a curveball. Anyway, getting back to my experience, I’m a trained chef and have worked in restaurants as well as the most recent gig, which, as I said, was with a family as their personal chef. I did menu planning
, nutrition research, and of course, the cooking for daily meals and their parties. They were very pleased,” I added. “I could put you in touch with them if you want a reference.”

  Maisie didn’t say anything again for a while. At last she spoke. “Wow. I’m impressed.” She paused again, briefer this time. “But mister, I think you’re overqualified, to be honest. I could never afford you. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

  “Now, now, don’t do that. Let’s just talk a little more. Okay? At this point, I’m mainly just looking for something to keep myself busy, you know, to get out of the house.” I had no idea why I was trying so hard for this unknown quantity of a job. From the way she was looking at me on the couch, her head cocked, I could tell Ruth wondered too. “Tell me a little bit more about what you have in mind, and let’s just explore that a little bit. I really am intrigued. Then you can rule me out if you want to.”

  “Well, and this is really more of my pipe dream than a job posting, Mr. St. Clair, it’s important you understand that.”

  “It’s okay. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?”

  “Right. Anyway, um, I have a son, an adult son, who’s had a rough road, let’s say, and he lives with me.” She sighed. “My son, Jack’s his name, is kind of a shut-in. He’s, uh, young, only in his thirties, but, uh, as I said, he’s had more than his fair share of bad luck.”

  She went quiet again, and I could just about hear her casting about for the right words. I imagined, God forgive me, a fat mama’s boy in a recliner, eating pizza and cereal out of the box and watching a lot of reality TV.

  “I’ve tried to get him some help, you know? But he won’t leave the house. And that’s my problem, Mr. St. Clair.”

  “Please, call me Beau.”

  “Oh? Okay, Beau. I just need a break, you know?” She let out a quivering breath. “I’m about at my wit’s end here.”

  And suddenly I could hear, behind the woman’s stumbled-over words, real desperation. There could, I thought, be some tears being held back.