by Jon McDonald
◘ ◘ ◘
Sgt. Kincaid walked over to Capt. Donaldson’s desk.
“Get anything on that John Doe from the park?”
Donaldson shook his head, “Nah, Somebody musta picked his pockets clean before we found him. All we have is this.” Donaldson indicated a metal 8 by 12 inch box sitting on the corner of his desk. “He was clutching it so tight we had to pry it from his hands. Poor, shmuck.”
“What is it?” Kincaid asked, picking up the box and examining it.
“Hell if I know.”
Kincaid weighed it in his hands and shook it. “Very light huh? How do ya get in the damn thing?”
“I da know.”
“Shall I put it with his personal effects? I’m going down to booking,” Kincaid asked.
Donaldson looked up. “No need, he’s a gonner. He’s never coming back. Just toss it.”
“Whatever.” Kincaid tossed the box into a large trashcan by the office door, as he was about to leave for lunch. “Want anything from the deli?”
How to Eat an Artichoke
Whoa , wa-a-ay too many vodkas with those Russians last night, Clifford figured, as he struggled to right himself into a seated position. And it was so very bright. Oh yes. He realized he was outdoors. He was sitting on a bench by the side of a country road. Must be early morning. Motor bikes, Vespas, and scooters of all kinds were whizzing by.
Clifford tried to stand, but could not quite manage that yet. He rubbed his eyes to see if he might be able to improve his vision. Boy, I guess I really tied one on last night. He looked around at his surroundings now that he was able to see a little clearer. He was by the side of the road on a stone bench. Actually it was more like a block of stone. And all these scooters…? Now where was he? Oh yeah, he vaguely remembered he had been filming an episode for his television cooking show here in Vietnam - one of his favorite countries. He recalled that when he first came here, probably ten years ago, there were a lot more bicycles than scooters. Now the ratio was reversed and the acrid stench of petrol filled his nostrils as the scooters flowed by like swarms of noisy wasps.
He rubbed his chin. Hadn’t shaved in several days it seemed. Where the heck was his crew? Christina, his producer, was usually so attentive and on top of things. He tried to stand again but that was not about to happen - just yet. He looked around for his bottle of water and found it tumbled down behind the stone. He took a couple of swigs and that eased his raspy throat a little. How could he have fled the little village where they had been filming yesterday without anyone noticing? Who were those Russians anyway? He searched in his pockets for his phone. Nope. Then he noticed he didn’t even have his sandals on. Barefoot. Ouch. Then how the hell did he get here? Were there any buses on this road? He looked around for some indication of a bus stop but couldn’t find one.
His thinking began to clear a little now and he remembered they were in day three of a five-day shoot. Surely Christina and the crew would be out looking for him by now. He had no idea how far he was from the hotel. But it couldn’t be far, and he thought it best to stay put till they found him, as he was still too unsteady to walk barefoot any distance. He took another swig of water.
Who was that kid? There was a young boy of about five or six standing a few meters down the road just staring at him. He was awfully close to the busy road and seemed to be alone.
“Hey,” Clifford called out in Vietnamese, “Come here.”
The boy crept closer but not too close. He had on a shirt with bunches of colored balloons flying against a cloudless sky-blue background. Clifford was puzzled. What did that remind him of? Hmmm. Oh yes, he’d had some favorite pajamas exactly like that when he was a kid. So favored were they, that when the bottoms had worn out he had snagged a piece of the soft flannel material and hid it under his pillow. He would pull it out at night and hold it as he sucked his thumb, rubbing it rhythmically against his nose. It gave him no end of comfort and he would soon drift off to sleep.
“Hi, I’m Clifford.”
The boy took a few steps closer. “I know.”
Clifford, for some time now, had been considering a vacation home here in Vietnam. He was so enamored of the people, the countryside, and the food that it seemed to be an ideal place to spend his precious down time. He had visited many times before, and had been studying the language in preparation for locating here part of the year. He was pleased he had been able to speak to the boy in Vietnamese and to understand the boy’s brief replies.
The boy seemed to lose his shyness when Clifford spoke to him in his own language, and he came over and sat on the stone next to Clifford. He was holding a bamboo spoon.
“Whatch ya got there?” Clifford asked.
“Poon.” The kid held it up for Clifford’s inspection.
“I’m a chef.” The boy nodded. “I’m on TV. You ever seen my show? They show it here on your television - Saturday’s I believe.” The boy nodded again.
They were both silent for a moment, then the boy looked up with great earnestness and asked, “How do you eat an artichoke?”
Clifford was a little surprised by that request. He wasn’t even sure they had artichokes in Vietnam. He didn’t remember seeing them in the markets. He stared into the sky for a moment before responding. He was puzzled that he couldn’t exactly see where the sun was. The sky was filled with light, but there was a haze today that diffused the light, sending a warm glow over the surrounding rice fields all the way to the bamboo grove bordering the paddies.
“You’ve never had an artichoke before?” Clifford asked the boy. The boy shook his head as he sucked on the spoon in his mouth. “But you’ve seen one? Because it’s hard to explain how to eat one if you haven’t seen one.” The boy nodded again.
But before he launched into his explanation, Clifford thought back to the time he had first encountered this strange thistle flower himself. He was probably not a lot older than this child. And strangely enough, he now realized, that was the moment he had decided he wanted to become a chef.
Clifford’s grandmother suffered terribly from arthritis, yet even with her bent and twisted hands she produced the most delicate and delicious treats. She ran a small catering business from her home. Mostly holiday baked goods and ladies luncheons with molded aspic salads, crustless finger sandwiches, and soft pillowy meringues filled with sweet or savory interiors.
One afternoon Clifford was staying with his Grandma as she was preparing for a party. She had boiled a dozen trimmed artichokes, and after they had cooled, was scraping out the chokes to be filled with a Greek recipe of ground lamb, rice, feta cheese, cinnamon, mint and rosemary. The aroma captivated the young Clifford and he begged to be shown what she was preparing. It was the smell of food even more than the taste that entranced Clifford ever after. And yes, it was at that very moment that Clifford Cranston decided that food would become his life’s passion.
But it was not to be an easy journey at the beginning. Clifford was apprenticed to a major chef in New Orleans at fifteen. His family did not have the money to send him to a culinary school. So he washed dishes. He scrubbed floors. He peeled and chopped vegetables and cleaned fish. He took out bags of dripping garbage. It was hot and sticky and thorny work. But he persevered, always with the memory of the delectable scents wafting from his grandmother’s kitchen to keep him motivated. And in time he became Number Two - until Number One was beginning to feel threatened by the hot young chef and he was tossed out of the master’s kitchen.
Best thing that ever happened to him, though. New Orleans being the food capital that it was, he’d garnered a following of his own, and he was soon head of his own kitchen, sponsored by a group of wealthy foodies that had trailed after him.
The boy slapped his wooden spoon on Clifford’s knee to get his attention. He looked up at Clifford as Clifford came out of his reverie.
“Oh yes, artichokes,” Clifford acknowledged, “Well you know how the outer leaves are tough with little spikes on the end of the leaves?�
� Clifford looked at the boy to see if he understood. The boy nodded. “Well you gotta cut those off. You take a really sharp knife and cut off the top of the globe. Then you peel the tough outer leaves all the way down to the tender inner leaves and the base. You also trim the base and the stem down to the core. You scoop out the choke – the prickly bit in the middle - and then steam the whole trimmed artichoke till it’s tender to the knife.”
Clifford’s head seemed to be clearing. The scooter traffic was receding. Clifford stretched his legs out straight in front of him. It felt good to stretch. He lifted his arms above his head and turned side to side to twist his spine. He stopped his narration for a moment and felt the soft breeze on his face. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again he noticed the sky was now a creamy lemon yellow like beaten egg whites with a single yoke folded in. There were streams of violet, high, high as though the sun was just beginning to set to add its brushes of color to the palate. But instead of it getting darker the sky seemed to be getting even brighter.
Clifford’s restaurant grew with astonishing speed. He expanded into the next two adjacent buildings and paid off all his investors. He took a year off. Traveled around the world studying herbs and spices and how they interconnect in the various world cuisines. He came home and wrote a book, Spice Trade, about his adventures before going back to his restaurant.
He married his sous-chef, a ravishing red haired woman named Sally, and they had had a boy and a girl. After his book was published he was offered a cooking show that had run seven very successful years so far and was still going. Yes, everything was sweet and tender.
He returned to his narration. “So now, you’ve got this cooked artichoke. You can serve it warm or at room temperature. But then you make a sauce. Just melted butter with a little salt is sublime, or a nice mustardy vinaigrette with some finely chopped shallots. Those are your classic and basic sauces. But these days you can invent almost anything.” Clifford looked down at the boy who was intently following every word. “And then comes the best part. You remove each leaf of the artichoke, dip the stem end into the sauce, and with your teeth and the end of your tongue slip off the soft flesh into your mouth. What a treat. But the greatest joy is when you get down to the base – the heart. You cut it into small bites, dip it in the sauce and enjoy the very tenderest bits.” Clifford put together all the fingers of his left hand and shook it gently in the air to indicate how sublime the experience was. Beyond words. “And that’s how one eats an artichoke.”
Clifford had lost all track of time. He stopped and leaned back on his hands supported by the stone. For some reason all the traffic had disappeared. No scooters. No bikes. No pedestrians. He looked up again at the sky. The lemon flavor of the light had increased. But instead of smarting his eyes, the light seemed to bath him in what he could only describe as a type of liquid music. Once again he closed his eyes and surrendered to the experience. He had lost all thought of his crew and the show. His head was now completely clear and his mind sharp.
With just the gentlest of tugs, the boy took hold of Clifford’s hand. Clifford opened his eyes and looked down at the child. “It’s time,” the child said.
Clifford nodded and understood. He looked around him and all there was now was the light.
Tru North
It was accepted as a universal truth - the population of North Fork thought Truman North was a bit of a wacko. He lived alone in the North family home out the Old Post Road. As the only remaining child, he had buried his parents at least ten years ago. Since then, the fields had gone to seed, the house and barn had never seen another coat of paint, and his only companion was a scurrilous red dog, named Rabble.
No one had any idea how he made a living. Did his family leave him money? Had he made a fortune in the city before he moved back to the farm? Had he married a wealthy widow, whom he had dispatched for the inheritance?
What they did know was that he hadn’t sold off any of his land. He didn’t hold a job in town. He never spoke to a single soul. And he spent part of each day on the roof of his house, waving a Jolly Roger when cars past by – thus his nickname, the Pirate.
◘ ◘ ◘
Pirate Pete growled, “Arrrh. Shiver me timbers.” Six-year-old Tru ran around the living room, plastic sword in hand, patch over one eye. And it was still three days till Halloween. What was a mother to do?
“Truman Jefferson North, you stop that right now - this very minute. You’re driving me crazy,” his mother pleaded. His three-year-old sister Beth jumped off the back of the sofa, having just walked the plank under Pirate Pete’s strict direction. She struck her head on the side table, turned sideways, bounced off the magazine rack, and landed in such a manner that she broke her neck and died instantly.
◘ ◘ ◘
The ducks glided like a stealth convoy across the still pond. Cattails stood sentinel along the north edge where the spring fed the pond. The ripples from the Mallard’s passage rocked the leaves newly fallen from the yellow ash. Magnetic lines traced through the memory of the flock as they steered towards southern marshes. The sun was a bloody disc setting through the teeth of trees lining the road from North Fork to Simpson. Tru lay belly down at the pond’s edge at duck eye level, marveling at the consistency of water. The dark was approaching. A dragonfly buzzed by, like a Kamikaze scouting targets - then disappeared - a bullfrog’s dinner. Tru rolled over onto his back, desperate for a sight of the first star light, star bright. His hair touched the moist earth at the margin of the pond. He spread his arms straight out to the side – a crucified pirate.
◘ ◘ ◘
His mother’s drawer – a treasure cave. Soft fabrics like bedtime kisses. Silk caressing the skin like a snake slipping into a pond. Fabric packets tied with purple string. A blurry photograph – frozen couple – black, white, and grey - burned onto the face of yellowed paper. On the back – ‘Mom and Dad, Aunt Thelma’s birthday, April 26, 1948.’ A jar of smelling salts with a violet nestled amongst the crystals. A cinnamon crayon. A pair of eyelashes fluttered like a mutant butterfly when Tru buried his face in the drawer’s interior, turning from side to side – mother, mother.
◘ ◘ ◘
Tru started in the exact middle of the field. He had measured it precisely – fence to fence. He turned left and stared walking a small square, one foot at a time, expanding outwards like the road map for a square snail. First one side then the other – outlining the square in wider and wider strides, until he covered the whole field. It took him three hours. The crows watched from a fence.
◘ ◘ ◘
Oh no, it was coming again - the blood. Tru held his head back, and stuffed the Kleenex up his nostril. What caused it? The dryness? A thin vein in his nose? His mother had the doctor cauterize the nasal passages, but it didn’t help. It could happen at any time. In the bath – a sanguine drizzle turning the bathwater pink. At school assembly, when he would have to scoot by the snickering girls to get to the bathroom. At baseball practice. At breakfast, splashing crimson into the orange juice. In bed at night – his pillow a scarlet Rorschach inkblot. Hacking and spitting up blood clots. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus your blood at the cross, in the cup, pierced by the thorns, a stained shroud. Life draining. The gift.
◘ ◘ ◘
The barn was a cathedral. The interior of a ship. Jonah’s journey in the whale. The sun shot though the slats of the barn - dust motes dancing and swimming like a shoal of minnows. Twelve-year-old Tru took a deep breath. He’d seen his father smoking a pipe. It must taste just like this, he thought. The barn harbored the essence of the land. The farm lived in its guts. The barn was a large mother cradling her children. Tru climbed to the loft. The hay was scattered about like a broken field. He fell back into its trusting arms, and pulled the grassy blanket up around him. This must be what it’s like to be buried. He thought of Beth, wrapped in a sheet, and lowered into the hole. The earth piled on top of her, pressing her down. He wondered how she could breathe with all that clay on top of her, p
ressing her down like a mountain, pressing her closely like the sea.
Tru rose from the forgiving hay - releasing him from a lover’s arms with a warm rustle. He stared down from the loft. The vastness of the barn surrounded him, but did not protect him. From the beam to his left he released the rope used to lift bales and swung it to the center of the loft where it was suspended by a pulley. He wrapped the rope around his neck, making sure the other end was securely fastened to the support post. He walked to the edge of the loft. His toes griped the smooth beam. He leaned forward, his body rigid. He passed his center of gravity, and would have tumbled from the loft, except the rope around his neck kept him from falling. He let the rope slip a few inches so he was leaning forward at a sharper angle. His face was turning purple. He could barely breathe. He closed his eyes. He began to lose consciousness and was slipping into a dream of smoke. Suddenly his feet slipped from the edge of the loft. He tumbled forward. Instinct led him to fling his arms out to catch his fall. But by doing so, he released the rope, and it untangled from around his neck, and he fell forward in a spiraling summersault, landing on his left side and breaking his wrist, atop his father’s horse, Ranger. Ranger was started, and reared, nearly striking Tru with a crushing hoof blow to the head.
◘ ◘ ◘
There was a halo around the candle flame. Tru walked into the light. It was blue and green with a center blast of yellow. It radiated outwards like an exploding stained glass window. “Tru, Tru,” it spoke to him. “Tru, Tru.” He leaned forward, grasping the candle in his hand, and lifting it towards him. Walking into the flame, he forced himself not to blink. The light seared his brain. He lay back on the bed, tipping the candle towards his naked chest. The hot wax tumbled down, creating a new landscape on his skin. The light and the pain were one. But he would still not close his eyes. The aura borealis danced around his head. The North Star sent a poignant beam into his skull. His head radiated the magnetic pole. Migratory birds followed the lines of his limbs. Forests sighed. Oceans forecast storms upon his coasts.
