Dinner at Jack's

by Rick R. Reed

  “I work, Mr., uh, Beau, and I have to be out of the house every night, Tuesday through Saturday. I’ve got Sundays and Mondays off. I work over at the racetrack? Rock Springs?”

  “Yeah, I know it. It’s been there a long time. My family used to go over for the Fourth of July fireworks.”

  “Sure. Anyway, Jack’s alone, and he doesn’t much care for the food I make.” She blew out a big, frustrated sigh. “The truth is, Beau, he pretty much won’t eat. I don’t know how he stays alive, honestly. Most of the time, he lays in his room and watches that damn TV.” She caught herself. “I’m sorry. I just happened to mention my predicament to a coworker, and she told me it costs nothing to put an ad on Craigslist, so I thought I’d give it a try. Maybe, I thought, there’d be somebody out there who could come over when I’m gone and make Jack a little supper, let him see somebody else’s mug besides his mama’s, you know?”

  “Sure.” Suddenly all I wanted to do was comfort this woman. She’d activated my nurturing gene, which had lain dormant ever since Ross’s betrayal.

  She kept going, and it felt to me like she was saying things she’d kept pent up for a long time.

  “Jack seems to hate everything I make. He has no problem letting me know that too. I have cleaned more messes off his bedroom wall than I care to count. I’m thinking maybe I’m just a bad cook.”

  She let out a little snort that sounded to me like a cross between a hiccup of laughter and a sob.

  “My husband didn’t stick around for it, that’s for damn sure.” Again with the laugh that sounded like a sob…

  “Anyway, now that I’ve good and properly scared you away, I’ll give you the chance to make a graceful exit, Beau. You go ahead and just say ‘Thanks but no thanks’ and be on your way. I’ll bear no grudge. No hard feelings.”

  Truth be told, there was a part of me that wanted to exit through the door Maisie Rogers so graciously held open. This sounded like I’d be walking into a horrible situation, one that might well be beyond my skills as a chef. The truth was it seemed like her son needed more psychological help than the nourishing power of food. He might need a pro, one trained, perhaps, in post-traumatic stress disorder.

  So what did I do? Well, if you think I generally follow my head over my heart, you’d be mistaken. “I don’t know if I can help or not, Maisie, but we won’t know until we try, right?”

  Silence confronted me, and I wondered if she’d hung up. At last she said, “You still interested? I haven’t scared you away?” She paused again, and there was a palpable sense of disbelief hanging in the air between us. “I can’t pay much, as I said. Maybe twenty bucks a meal, and I’ll throw in the food. You can eat, of course, whatever you make for Jack. But, Beau, he’s my son and I love him with all my heart, but he’s not a nice person. Not anymore. He used to be nice. So sweet…and smart!” She stopped again. “But he’s not the same. Not since he got hurt.”

  Again, I thought of just gracefully wishing her well and hanging up, but something compelled me forward. “Look, why don’t we just meet up? I can get acquainted with Jack, check out your kitchen, maybe talk a little bit about what I might make for him, and we can see how it all might work out.”

  I wanted to press her on how Jack had been hurt but figured that was better left to when we met in person.

  “Why are you doing this?” Maisie asked.

  I wanted to answer truthfully, and if I’d done so, I would have said, “I have no idea.” Or “I’m a glutton for punishment.” Instead I simply told her, “Because I think I might be able to help.” Even though I knew, deep in my heart, that I didn’t really believe I could.

  But how do we know a thing unless we try?

  “Really?” I could hear the hope in her voice as she clung to my offer to help. I imagined a woman in a dark hole finally seeing a glimmer of light at the top. And it almost crushed me with the responsibility of it.

  Before I backed out, as almost every rational fiber of my being was telling me to do, I forced myself to ask, “When can I come by? I think this will all go better if we can talk face-to-face.”

  “You’re either an angel or crazy,” Maisie whispered.

  She didn’t wait for a response. If she had, I would have plead the fifth.

  “But are you available tomorrow morning?”

  “Maisie, right now, I’m available every morning. What time? And where am I going?”

  Chapter 7: Meeting Jack

  Maisie and Jack Rogers lived in the part of town called East End, probably because if you followed the main street of the ‘hood—Pennsylvania Avenue—due east out of town, you’d find yourself in the state of Pennsylvania itself.

  East End was a modest neighborhood on the banks of the Ohio River. Some might call it poor, but I knew it had once been thriving, when the steel mill over in the next town was fully operational. Today it was a ghost of its former self, with run-down houses, crooked, weed-sprouting yellow brick sidewalks, and litter blowing along the mostly empty streets like urban tumbleweeds. In front of many of the houses, the hulks of older cars and pickups sat, rusting and dreaming, I guess, of their glory days.

  My fortune would not be made here. I pulled my yellow smart car to the curb, feeling out of place in a Mercedes-Benz product, even if it was tiny. I turned the engine off and looked over at the Rogers’ house.

  It was a neat, well-kept, white brick ranch house with green shutters. A hedge, perfectly trimmed, surrounded the small front yard. Two small trees, maybe cherries, dominated the front lawn. I got out of the car, started up the paved walkway, and noticed that it too was well maintained and free of weeds, even if it was horribly cracked and uneven.

  I wondered who took care of the exterior of the house. Judging from our conversation, I would have to guess Maisie and not her son. Hadn’t she said something about how he spent his days mostly in bed, watching TV?

  A squirrel ran across my path and dashed up one of the trees in the yard, then sat on the tallest branch, scolding me. He distracted me enough that I didn’t notice Maisie opening the front door.

  “Yoo-hoo! You must be Beau.” Maisie wore oversized glasses and was probably in her fifties, with dyed red hair that was a little brittle. She was a few pounds overweight. She wore a pair of black leggings, flats, and a big sweatshirt that had a glittering owl emblazoned across its front. I paused for a moment, and something in my throat caught. Maisie reminded me a lot of my late mother, so much that she could pass for her sister.

  I decided I liked her already.

  I took the hand she stretched out to me and shook it. I noticed she clung to my hand for just a tad longer than what was normal or appropriate and decided this was a woman hungry for contact. If I had any reservations about this, even before I set foot inside, they were already vanishing in the warm light of Maisie Rogers’s green eyes.

  “Come on in! Come on in.” She stepped aside to admit me.

  I walked immediately into the living room. It was like stepping back into the 1970s, and I had to check my impulse to laugh. The laughter would not have been ridicule, but a kind of déjà vu, remembering my grandparents’ place just up the road from here.

  The TV, one of those old big wooden console numbers that probably also contained what folks would have referred to as a hi-fi or even a record player, was on, its snowy color-saturated picture displaying a repeat of an old Oprah Winfrey show. The sound was turned off, though. The carpet in the room was a burnt-orange shag, and the furniture, worn but obviously lovingly cared for and maintained, was a crushed velvet floral pattern in tones of brown and rust. There was a couch, love seat, and matching chair, all part of the same suite. The coffee table in front of the couch, walnut veneer I guess, was polished to a brilliant shine. A spray of plastic flowers sat in its center, and beside the ornamentation was a stack of People magazines. The walls were a kind of rough stucco, painted peach. A gilded mirror and sconce set hung over the couch. I looked for family pictures and was disappointed to find none.


  What struck me, though, was the silence of the house. It was so clean it was almost sterile, but it also lacked any personality, other than feeling dated, as though it had given up the ghost ages ago and now was kind of a memorial to times gone by.

  “I see you admiring my amazing decorating.” Maisie let out a snort. “The house belonged to my ma, and when she passed away in ‘07 from lung cancer, I inherited it, along with all the luxurious furnishings I see you envying here.” She grinned, and I could see what I thought was a plea for understanding in her eyes. “I dream of replacing it all, especially this puke shag carpeting, but the money just never seems to be there.”

  “It’s fine. It looks fine.”

  “Oh!” Maisie cried. “We have a sweet talker here.”

  I was surprised when she reached up and pinched my cheek. “And a liar.”

  She led me through the dining room, which was furnished with a massive hutch filled with china and knickknacks and a dining room table and chairs that were oversized and dark wood. A Venice lace tablecloth covered the table, and I figured this was also a touch left behind by Maisie’s poor departed mother, God rest her taste-challenged soul.

  We then went into the kitchen. “This is probably what you’re really interested in seeing.”

  Maisie smiled at me as we entered a kitchen all done up in maple and harvest gold. There was a breakfast set with a round table and four chairs, and the kitchen counter was some sort of composite stuff, white with gold flecks in it. The walls were wood paneled halfway up, with gold and brown floral wallpaper above it. Again, everything was tidy but worn way past its prime.

  The stove was gas and appeared perfectly functional. I moved toward it.

  “It’s as old as Jack,” Maisie said, “but it works just fine…all four burners and an oven that’s accurate as far as I can tell.” She turned her head to the right and nodded. “Same goes for the fridge.”

  “Knives?”

  “Oh yeah, we got ‘em.” Maisie pulled open one of the drawers beneath the counter. Inside was an array of cheap kitchen utensils, including knives that I suspected were last sharpened around 1980.

  “I can bring my own. Us chefs are particular about knives, you know.”

  “Whatever floats your boat.” Maisie closed the drawer, sensing my disdain. She stooped to open one of the cupboards. “Plenty of pots and pans for you to rattle.” She looked over her shoulder and smiled. “You may want to bring your own cookware too, but these aren’t bad. They’re Calphalon. Got ‘em on special up at the Beaver Valley Mall last Christmas.”

  “Oh, I think they’ll do nicely.” I peered down to inspect the cookware, and it did indeed look to be in good shape.

  We stood there in the harsh kitchen light facing each other again, two strangers running out of small talk.

  Finally I said, “What about Jack? Is he around?”

  A short, bitter burst of laughter escaped her. “Oh, he’s always around. And like always, he’s in his room.” She led me back into the dining room. I hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a short hallway off the room that led to what I assumed were two bedrooms and a bathroom.

  As I entered the hallway, I could hear the low rumble of a laugh track seeping out from behind the single closed door. Maisie paused outside and, for the first time, looked uncomfortable. I mean, she’d been nervous all morning, but this discomfort was different. If I had to guess, I’d say she might be thinking that to open her son’s door would, in all likelihood, frighten me away.

  I was intrigued.

  She stalled. “He might be asleep.”

  I smiled. I didn’t know what to counter. What was I supposed to say? “Wake him up?”

  Maisie turned the doorknob softly. “Hon?” she asked the darkened room, voice barely above a whisper. “You up?”

  The smell that came out of the room caused me to step back a little. It wasn’t horrible, not like a decaying body or anything, but I would say that what wafted out of the dark room was a mixture of despair, BO, and old food. Cabbage? Ground beef? I swallowed and reminded myself not to breathe through my mouth. That would just be rude.

  Maisie vanished into the room, first holding up a finger, indicating I should wait. She let the door close almost completely behind her. I stood outside, wondering if I should simply beat a hasty retreat. Surely, if I wanted a job, I could find something in nearby Pittsburgh or even to the north, in Youngstown.

  From behind the almost-closed door, I could hear furious whispering. The gist of Maisie’s side of the conversation was pleading to just “Give him a chance” and “He seems like a very nice man.”

  The deep, gruff voice in the room sounded stubborn. “I don’t need it!” was what most of his protestations sounded like.

  This went on for a minute or two, and finally Maisie emerged from the room, the door at her back. She held the door closed by the knob. “I don’t know if this is gonna work, Beau. I’m sorry.”

  I scratched my head and wondered why she couldn’t have figured this out before I headed over. But I was here now, and it seemed a shame to leave without at least introducing myself to this Jack person.

  I smiled and hoped the expression was reassuring to Maisie. “Look. I’m here. Can’t we just go in and say hello?”

  The idea looked as though it petrified Maisie. What was going on? Was her son really so threatening?

  “Please. I’m good with people.”

  Maisie sighed. Without a word, she went back into the room. There was more harried whispering, none of which I could make out, but when Maisie reemerged, she said, “He says it’s okay.” She held the door open for me to go in first, and I got a twinge, unsure why I had forced this issue.

  The only light in the room was from a flickering big-screen TV mounted on the wall opposite the bed. Thankfully, the volume was low. Jack appeared to be watching an episode of House Hunters, this one revolving around a home search in the Detroit suburbs. How grim.

  A figure, shrouded in shadow, huddled on the bed, covered with a quilt and with knees drawn up to his chest. It was hard to make out much detail. For a moment I stood, uncertain, at the threshold.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Jack,” Maisie chided. She crossed the room, picked up a remote from the nightstand, and switched the show off.

  “Hey! I was watching that!” Jack snapped in the now-dark room.

  “And you also have it recorded,” Maisie snapped back. “You can pick up right where you left off. Let’s not be rude to our guest.”

  I was beginning to wonder if this entire interview would be conducted in the dark. The shades and curtains were drawn tightly against the feeble sun outside. Maybe Jack and I, like blind men, would feel each other’s faces to get acquainted. The thought incited an urge to burst out into laughter, an urge I had to mightily resist.

  Fortunately, Maisie crossed to a dresser, upon which was a small ginger jar lamp, and switched it on. The room was flooded with a warm yellow light.

  And I got my first look at Jack.

  He stared at me, smirking, his pale blue eyes glinting with indignation. The weird thing was, I immediately felt like I had seen him before. That wasn’t possible, was it? I supposed we could have been in school together, way back when, since we were about the same age.

  But I didn’t feel that was it. Something gnawed at me, telling me I knew this man on the bed, and our acquaintance, although not recent, was more recent than school days at Fawcettville High.

  It wasn’t so much his overall appearance, which was mostly sad, that aroused in me this sense of familiarity. Clad in an old and holey T-shirt, Jack was painfully thin. I could see why his mom wanted someone to try to fatten him up. His arms were like twigs, and I had a suspicion that, if I could get close enough, I could lift the T-shirt and easily count his ribs. His blond hair was stringy and in need of a cut. An unkempt golden beard hid the lower half of his face, which I could see might have once been handsome.

  But no more.

  His nose was c
rooked, just a tad off-center to the left.

  He smelled bad.

  But it was his eyes that drew me, which rang the bell of familiarity. They were icy blue, so pale the irises appeared nearly translucent. Although most of Jack looked very weak, bedridden, as though a strong wind could lift him and carry him to Oz, his gaze on me was strong. There was something in those eyes I couldn’t quite put my finger on, but it made me nervous. Was it amusement? Disdain? A wish that I would simply go away?

  Whatever it was, I had the odd sensation that Jack had the upper hand here, despite his wraithlike and weak appearance. I have to admit, I felt a little intimidated by him.

  In spite of this, I forced myself to move toward the bed, my hand extended. “Hi, Jack!” My voice was full of goodwill, and I hope it didn’t sound too fake. “I’m Beau. Beau St. Clair. Pleased to meet you.”

  Jack glanced at my hand as though I were holding out a piece of rancid meat and kept his hands under the quilt. I was so taken aback, I glanced down at the outstretched hand to see if it was dirty or if there was something unsanitary clinging beneath my nails. But my hands were clean.

  Maisie stood near the doorway, fidgeting. “Jack,” she warned. “Don’t be rude.”

  Jack glanced over at her and then rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mother.” He smiled big, kind of like a death rictus, and drew one hand out from beneath the covers. We shook, and I refrained from commenting that the handshake was akin to grasping a dead fish.

  Awkward silence reigned. Finally Maisie—God bless her—spoke up. “Beau’s here to talk about maybe cooking for you a couple, three nights a week while I’m at work.”

  “Got any experience?” Jack eyed me from the bed.

  I nodded. “Graduated near the top of my class from culinary school, worked in several restaurants, going from sous chef to executive chef, before I started my own business as a personal chef.”

  Jack sat up a little straighter, and as he did, I had that pang of recognition again, but I couldn’t for the life of me think how I might have crossed paths with this man.