Chunks of dates, batter-coated raisins, streaks of cinnamon and clove swam atop the thick mixture. Operating an antique hand sifter, Meg coated individual pudding tins with a dusting of flour. She didn't look up when Edwina entered.
"Fanciful. I call it plain fanciful. Imagine having a dinner party when we're forced to live in such reduced circumstances." She sneezed delicately. "You're going to have a mess to clean up. There's always a mess to clean up when you're in charge. Well, you can't say I didn't warn you. No one will appreciate this little soiree, the work you've invested in it. I shouldn't think anyone wants to attend. It's really not fair of you, Megan. None of us are that well-acquainted." Edwina left, leaving a trail of sneezes behind her.
Relieved by the sudden stillness, Meg proceeded to ladle batter into the tins. She immersed the bottoms of the tiny pans into a large baking sheet half-filled with water. From a cavernous apron pocket, she withdrew a small velvet jeweler's box. Springing the lid, she studied the contents.
The charms were no bigger than the nail on her pinkie finger. Each was over a century old, intricately designed. The rotund little pig symbolized good fortune; the sculpted acorn kept illness at bay; the tiny bell protected against danger. There was also a grouping of individual porcelain dolls. A doll could mean a long voyage, a pending marriage—they were open to interpretation by the finder.
It was imperative each guest discover the charm intended for him/her. Mentally alphabetizing the guest list, Meg selected a token for Charlie and dropped the bell atop the batter. It stayed afloat—the pudding was a selfcontained quagmire. Using a fork, she buried the bell beneath the surface, went on to the next tin. A thimble for Edwina, a cherub-faced baby for Lorene, the pig to Lost Boy. She paused at her own name, then plucked a horseshoe from the box to submerge beneath the lumpy ooze. Patty was the recipient of the acorn.
She held a half-dozen bisque dolls in the palm of her hand. No two were alike; all were exquisitely molded, glazed in a soft shade of pink. The tallest was a half-inch in height; all were frozen in upright positions, arms at their sides.
Megan positioned the dolls in the final tin, chanting, "Ring around the rosie, pocket full of posie..." As the tines of the fork sank each porcelain caricature beneath the surface, she repeated, "All fall down, all fall down."
Hot air hushed from the oven door as she slid the baking sheet inside. Anticipating the spicy fragrance, her guests' expressions of surprise, she hummed as she tidied the kitchen. For the first time in months, maybe years, she was looking forward to an event with something other than dread.
She was twenty-eight years old, divorced, and her former husband had custody of their five-year-old child. He was a very wealthy man, the son of an even wealthier man, and family money had robbed her of the child.
In court, his witnesses had testified she was psychotic, schizophrenic, a manic depressive. After listening to the testimonies, she'd almost come to believe she was insane. She'd felt like a prisoner of war. Defenseless, she'd emotionally withdrawn, leaving behind only the shell of her former self. Afterwards, THAT man had attempted an apology, saying he regretted his actions but that it was for the best, that she needed psychiatric help. Even Vlad the Impaler had shown greater mercy by executing his victims!
Eventually she'd sought therapy to overcome the pain, grief. She was not psychotic, schizophrenic, or manic depressive. Instead, she was a pale, slender woman who often bit her lip to keep from crying, a woman who finally realized that laws are not impartial or fair, that the mercy of the court was synonymous with contempt of court.
If not for her companions, she couldn't have survived. That's why she was determined, over Edwina's protests, to hostess a dinner party. It was true; her guests were not well-acquainted. But after tonight, they would know each other intimately. Or, as Lost Boy was apt to say, "Together 'til the end."
Charlie had requested pot roast with "them new potatoes on the side. Now don't go and overcook them. They got to be a might firm with taut skins."
Easing aside the heavy lid, Meg nudged the roast with a fork. It simmered quietly in its own broth. Two bay leaves, like bark canoes, rode the bubbling juices. On the back of the stove, a battered kettle held the new potatoes. Anxiously, she checked to make sure the tight skins remained whole. Nothing threw Charlie into a rage like a carelessly prepared meal. Sighing with relief, she replaced the lid. There hadn't been a crack or a puckered seam in a single potato.
She removed the faded apron, slung it over a chair back and escaped the kitchen. The dining room table looked like an arrangement from "Better Homes." Mismatched bone china from garage sales gleamed in the muted lighting.
The napkins were starched into knife points, the dime-store silverware toweled to remove water spots. Although Christmas was a month past, she'd saved back fragile tree baubles, filling a clear plastic bowl with them. Silk poinsettias and gaily colored velvet ribbons were intertwined among the ornaments. It added color to the dreary little room. It was too early to light the green tapers that cast long slender shadows across the white tablecovering.
Megan bit her lip. She'd tied sprigs of curling ribbon around the necks of baby food jars. She hoped Charlie wouldn't comment upon the homemade candle holders. His observations were often sarcastic to the point of cruelty.
In her bedroom, she searched through the few clothes in the closet. Edwina chose to enter when she'd decided upon a favorite blue knit dress.
"I wouldn't wear that if I were you. Remember what happened last time you wore that particular frock? I wasn't there, but you confided the vile things Patty said. As if Patty has any room to talk. I can't believe you invited a whore to dinner. Heaven help us if Charles learns what she does for a living."
Silently Meg extracted a grey jumper and white blouse from the closet.
"Much better," Edwina approved. "After all, you are the caretaker, the provider. Though what you see in these people is beyond me. Imagine knowing someone with a name like 'Lost Boy.' Probably an unkempt hoodlum who abandoned his birth name to protest a Christian upbringing and god-fearing parents." She snorted.
"I don't know why you've invited me to this gathering. But, don't worry, I'll be there. One of us needs to keep a level head and keep up appearances. If you'll excuse me, I must tidy my hair, find the brooch Papa gave me. He was such a good man," she sniffed, "so attentive, so anxious to please me with little tokens of his affection. So gentle, so loving," Edwina disappeared, still spouting sentimentality.
Meg envied Edwina. She had no memories of her own father. After her marriage, she'd moved cross-country and, for reasons she couldn't fathom, she and her father had never corresponded, visited. Her mother had been dead for...
Meg stopped struggling with the buttons on the blouse to think. She was twenty-eight, her mother had died the summer she'd turned twelve. Subtracting, she deduced her mother had been dead sixteen years. It didn't seem possible. Why was it she could remember her mother's crooked front tooth, her wide smile, the bunion on her left foot but couldn't recall her father's face?
Shaking her head, she put the puzzling question aside for later. She had to make cream sauce for the peas, warm the dinner rolls.
The puddings were brown, the tops split and oozing sauce. Meg lowered the oven temperature. The final half-hour was the most critical. The interior of the pudding had to be firm but moist. She imagined the charms rising from the bottoms of the tins to gradually become encased within a wall of crumb.
A little before six, Lost Boy arrived, untypically on-time. Meg ushered him into the dining room and a seat at the table. She'd reserved the foot of the table for herself, the head for Charlie, because he expected it.
She studied the table decorations through Lost Boy's eyes, waited for his comments.
"Ya did a fuckin' good job decking out the table. But I got to ask myself 'why?' Why go to all this trouble for a bunch a losers ya really don't like. Don't deny it, Meg. Only reason ya keep me around is ta see what I'll say or do next, right?
If you wasn't so fuckin' scared a your own shadow, ya wouldn't need me. I see the way you look at me when ya think I'm not watchin'.
"I got needle holes trackin' both arms. I got 'em a'tween my toes. You're wonderin' where I got this."
Unconsciously, Meg raised her hand to trace a finger over her right eyebrow, mimicking Lost Boy's actions. The cut was livid, jagged and purple with swelling. Stiff suture threads criss-crossed the wound.
He grinned wickedly. "Didn't know about the latest, huh? Ya know how it is when ya don't have two dimes to rub together, and ya gotta have a fix? Found me a John, said he'd pay me in 'H.' Only I didn't know 'H' meant hell. When I asked for a deposit, he opened me up here," the finger slid over the brittle threads. "He nearly tore me open trying to..."
"No more," she cried, clapping her palms over both ears. "I don't want to hear it." She removed her hands. Lost Boy was silent, uncommunicative.
"Charlie's coming tonight. If you dare talk like that, he'll kill you. I mean it, Lost Boy. He'll slice you, and you know he can do it."
Edwina entered the room. "Since it appears you have everything under control, I think I'll take my place at the table." Ignoring the boy, she sat as far from him as she could across the table. It would've been beneath her dignity to offer to assist in the kitchen. Edwina had never cooked or served a meal in her life and wasn't about to start now. She did, however, suggest that Megan light the candles.
Humming tunelessly, she watched Meg strike a table match and touch it to the wicks. She clapped her hands excitedly. "Oh, how charming, how utterly charming. Now it's like a real dinner party. I recall the time Papa invited his business associates home for supper. He'd bought me my first pair of high heels. They were red kid leather with tiny bows on the toes. I practiced walking in them the entire week before the dinner. Up and down stairs, over the kitchen linoleum, across the thick carpet in the den. After our guests left that night, he hugged me ever so sweetly, said I'd proved myself to be a grown-up woman." Staring into the past, Edwina didn't notice Megan slip from the room and into the kitchen.
Edwina was Megan's age, but to hear her talk, she lived in some by-gone era. It was always Papa said this; Papa did that; Papa gave her this and that. It drove Megan to distraction that she could picture Edwina's father so clearly—a man she'd never met—and couldn't dredge up one detail about her own.
As she removed the puddings from the oven, she felt another's presence in the room. The cloying perfume identified the caller: Patty. Smothering a groan, Meg placed the baking dish atop the stove, covering it with a tea towel to hold in the moist warmth. As she poured peas into a serving dish, Meg inclined her head in greeting.
"Sure smells good, honey. Hope it tastes as good as it smells. I haven't had a decent meal in ages, and tube steak don't count, if you get my drift. Say, who's the kid with the banged-up face? Don't sit me across from him, could ruin my appetite. Bad enough some of the things I gotta put in my mouth to make a few bucks, but I was counting on a nice, leisurely meal tonight. You cut your hair or somethin'? You look different for some reason. Nah, it ain't your hair. Wish you'd let me have a go at it. You got great hair, if you'd just do something with it. The long, straight look went out with yesterday's cum rag." She giggled.
"Trade joke, sorry. Anyway, you do look different, almost pretty. Must be the excitement of having company. You ought to get out more. I could introduce you to a great bunch of guys. You wouldn't have to put out for them; they're gentlemen. I do, because a girl's got to earn a living, especially if she can't cook or type. But you, why they'd treat you like a lady. Buy you mixed drinks, take you to dinner, maybe even a movie. You can't shut yourself off from the world, honey. There are a few decent men out there," she paused, listening.
"Oh hell, did you go and invite Charlie? Did you? Ah hell, I'm gonna sneak down the back hall and get to the table before he runs into me. Whatever possessed you to invite that son-of-a-bitch?" Her heels tapped a staccato message as she hurried across the tile floor to the door leading down the hall.
Mechanically, Meg forked the roast from the pan, centered it on a platter for Charlie's cutlery expertise. Straining to hear his voice in the next room, she spooned potatoes into a bowl, slid tendrils of parsley between the steaming jackets—just the way Charlie liked.
Without warning, he was at her side. She didn't think he touched her, but still, she shuddered at his proximity.
"Looks delicious, Megan," he growled. "But looks is deceiving. Who the hell did you invite to supper? Was that Patty I seen sneaking down the hall? Was it?" he demanded harshly. His hand closed over a serving fork.
"Yes," she whispered. "Patty and Lost Boy; Edwina, you know; um, Lorene should be arriving shortly."
"Lorene's here, sitting next to Edwina with that weepy look in her eyes. I told you a'fore I don't like the people you keep company with. I told you a'fore I don't want to be around them. So what do you do; you invite them to eat with us. I won't have it; you hear me? I won't have you going against what I say."
The fork penetrated the back of her hand before she was aware of his intent. Immediately three pricks of blood formed below her knuckles. "Please Charlie, don't hurt me. Not tonight, not now. We, I, have guests, and dinner's ready to serve. It's special, you'll see. Everything you like, cooked just the way you like it. Go in and sit down. You can cut the roast while I bring in the rest of the dinner. Please."
The fork smoothed over her forearm, pressing but not puncturing the soft flesh inside her elbow. Abruptly, he picked up the platter, fitting the meat fork on the rim of the dish. Without another word, he left the kitchen.
She fought tears, her eyesight blurred as she loaded a tray with entrees. When she entered the dining room, it was awash in silence. Charlie had that kind of effect on people. Megan didn't look up as she placed the bowls on the table, retreating to the kitchen for rolls and deviled eggs.
Finally she was forced to join her guests at the table. At the other end, Charlie intoned, "Bow yer heads and we'll give thanks for what the Lord has provided." He waited until his orders had been carried out. Even Lost Boy's natural tendency to rebel remained in-check in Charlie's presence. "Lord, we thank you for the food we are about to eat. I ask you to forgive the sins of those sharing this bounty with me and to lead them in thy redemptive ways. Amen."
He glanced down the table at Megan. "Start passing the food a'fore it turns stone cold." He glared at Lorene. "Quit that sniveling or I'll backhand you a good one. It's right you should suffer for what ya done." He stared around the table, daring anyone to speak in Lorene's behalf. No one did.
He burst out laughing. "My, don't this beat all. Never thought I'd see the day I'd be sitting at the same table breaking bread with the likes of you. That Geraldo fella would have a heyday with this one. Got Miss Prim and Proper to my left who won't let a man touch her 'cuz her dead Daddy was and still is the love o' her life. Next to her is a lady who paid money to have her unborn child sucked outta her belly and now she can't forgive herself. Then we got Megan, our hostess. She's like one of them cruise directors, always planning activities, trying to keep our lives on a steady course. But she's a female and the job's too damn big for her.
"I can't help but noticin' that Lost Boy's got hisself another set of stitches. What happened, boy? Some guy try to bugger you without paying first? Then there's Patty, who's got a lot in common with the boy. Only she ain't a whore; she's a high-class tramp. Just out to make the gentlemen happy, right Patty?
"How old are you, anyway? Must be close to Megan's age, but damned if you don't look all dried up and juiceless. Must be damn hard competing against all that prime pussy walking the streets. I see we got a no-show tonight, Megan. Who else you invite and forget to tell me about?"
Megan swallowed the tasteless bit of beef in her mouth, sipped from her water glass before answering. "I invited Keeper, but he can't come until later. I put a plate out for him just in case, to be polite."
The silence around the table was a pall
. The only sounds were of silverware clinking, a cup scraping across a saucer. Finally Patty spoke. "Why'd you go and invite Keeper? He's worse than..." she glanced at the head of the table. "That man gives me the creeps. Never says a word, just sits and watches, like he's waiting for something. Only you never know what he's waiting for. None of us here knows one another that well, but I lay odds we'd all agree Keeper is... well, he just doesn't belong."
There was a sudden shriek as Lorene's tumbler slipped from her fingers. Water spread across the tablecloth like a creek overrunning its banks.
Charlie reared back in his chair. "Goddamn it, you stupid little bitch. Shoulda knowed, shoulda 'spected this from you. I don't tolerate clumsiness at my table, girl." He seized a serrated knife from his table setting, started to stand.
Edwina shrank back as he loomed over her, trying to reach Lorene. Blubbering, Lorene mopped at the spill with her napkin. She didn't attempt to protect herself from attack. She expected it, willed as punishment for her sin.
"NO." Megan shouted. "NO, Charlie. This is MY house, and you will not assault a guest. Sit down!"
There was a long, horrible silence before Charlie unexpectedly complied. But not before he buried the tip of the knife into the table top. It quivered, the wooden hilt shivering with the force of the blow.
Shocked by her show of strength, Megan sat back, wondering where courage had come from. Trying to put on a show of normality, she looked around the table, finally settling on Patty, who appeared the least likely of her companions to instigate trouble. Patty was a whore, but she had street-smarts, an instinct for survival. She'd been up against men as vicious and cruel as Charlie in an assortment of cheap motel rooms but had managed to survive.
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