Feast! Pure Slush Vol. 9

by Susan Tepper

  “Non-compliant,” one doctor mutters to the other.

  “You seem agitated,” another says.

  “You would be agitated, too, in my situation. I have a gigantic belly and look pregnant.”

  They glance at each other like I am psychotic. I can see it through their poker faces. The doctors insist I am too concerned with my weight, which is totally normal.

  “I know that’s a lie,” I say.

  They call me obsessive. Can’t they see how bloated my stomach is, hidden by this hospital gown? Doctors can be so judgmental, ready to accuse you of a diagnosis like criminals with a crime. Eating disorder. God, I no longer have control of anything. At least I should be able to control what I eat.

  8.45am

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA

  The Mortician’s Visit

  by AR Neal

  Bud’s grin spanned his fleshy face. “Come on in, Willy!” He bellowed around the cigar tucked wetly in the corner of his mouth and pawed the mortician into the house. “Nancy! Willy’s here!”

  “I’m back here!”

  “Willy –”

  “It’s William.”

  Bud gripped the other man’s shoulder and lowered his voice. “Willy, William, whatever. Look, man, lemme talk to you.” Bud and William had been in high school together; it was no mystery as to who bullied whom. “You know my sister don’t have a lot of assets. I hope you gave her a square deal on this funeral.”

  William stiffened. “I need to speak to Mrs. Washington.” He stepped around Bud and followed his nose to the kitchen. “Nancy,” he said as took her hand and placed another of his business cards in it.

  “Thank you, William.” Nancy juggled the card from hand to hand as she wiped each against her apron. “Just look at you: ‘Whipper Funeral Services’ – I bet you made your father proud.”

  William had taken over the family business right after college and continued as the seventh generation of Whippers in charge of final arrangements for most of the neighborhood. She tucked the card in an apron pocket.

  “Please,” she moved a tray of deviled eggs off a bar stool, “have a seat.”

  “Thank you.” His eyes moved over plates of chicken, bowls of fruit, and assorted cakes and pies scattered across every tabletop, chair, and stool in the kitchen. “My but you’ve been busy,” he commented, as Nancy handed him a biscuit and his stomach growled appreciatively. “Thank you; you make the best biscuits.”

  She winked. “I always make a few extra just for you when we have socials at the church.”

  He finished the biscuit in two bites and then looked her in the eye. “Are we all ready for today?”

  “Doesn’t it look like it?” Nancy waved her hand around the kitchen and laughed. “Daddy would be happy, I think.”

  William cleared his throat. “You mentioned that you wanted James as a pallbearer.”

  “Where are my manners?” Nancy walked to a cabinet and opened the door, revealing rows of neatly arranged mugs. “Would you like some coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”

  He shook his head.

  “Everything all right up in here?” Bud asked as he shambled in, took a biscuit from a tray on the stool next to where William stood, and shoved it in his mouth. “You need any help, Nancy?”

  “Bud! Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she said, handing him a napkin. “You are nothin’ but a big child. Get out – William and I have business, and it’s none of yours.”

  He took two more biscuits and smiled. “Okay, okay. I just want to make sure Willy’s taking care of you right.”

  “Bud, I hear the doorbell. It might be your catered breakfast.” Bud dashed from the kitchen as Nancy moved the tray of biscuits from the stool to the last clear place on the counter, beside the coffee pot, and then sat down. “I’m not sure James will be able to serve as a pallbearer,” she said with a sigh.

  “Right now we have Bud, Jamal, his friend Sam and three of Calvin’s lodge mates,” William said gently. “We’ll be fine if James can’t make it.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be along. You sure you don’t want any coffee?” William shook his head again. “Well,” Nancy sighed, “I guess this is it, huh?”

  He held her hand gently; it was the first thing he learned how to do as a mortician. “We’ll take good care of Calvin.” He paused as he thought about how much fun he used to have with Nancy, Bud, and Calvin when they were kids and played in each other’s backyards.” Your husband was a very good man, Nancy.”

  She smiled and wiped a tear. “You are a good man, William.”

  “I’m glad you think so, Nancy.” He dropped his professional veneer for a moment as his own tears fell. He pulled a handkerchief from his inner pocket, blew his nose loudly, and said, “You always looked out for me, you know, with Bud when we were in school.”

  She nodded. “Bud really likes you; that’s why he messes with you,” she commented as they walked to the kitchen door. “Thank you for everything, William. Is there anything else you need from me? Daddy did a good job putting his things in order but I don’t want to forget anything.”

  “I have everything,” he answered. “The car will be here by 9.30 to carry you to the church and the viewing will start at 10.00.”

  Nancy walked him to the door, said good-bye and closed the door behind him. Turning around, she stepped backwards as Stella had walked right up behind her.

  “Here, honey,” her sister-in-law cooed. “I made you a plate.” She had pulled together a plate of fried potatoes, scrambled eggs, grits, bacon, and sage sausage from Bud’s order.

  “That’s okay, Stella. You know I’m not a fan of diner food.” Nancy swallowed a laugh as Bud scowled. “Now Bud, I’m not sayin’ anything you didn’t already know,” she said, giggling. She turned to Odessa, Jamal, Cora-Lynn, Stella, and several other relatives. “There’s a casserole on the sideboard.” Everyone except Bud hurried into the kitchen.

  Bud snorted. “Don’t nobody like your old-fashioned breakfast casserole. It’s nothin’ but leftovers anyway.”

  “Why you lyin’, Bud?” Their older sister, Odessa, fussed as she returned with a heaping plate, a half-eaten biscuit on top. “Everybody loves Nancy’s casserole. Hers was the only one Mamma would eat.” She perched on the arm of a chair, swallowed the rest of the biscuit in one bite and continued talking. “And she hated that diner stuff you always get,” she added, licking her fingers.

  “I know that’s right!” Cora-Lynn, their youngest sister, piped up, sitting down on the chair beside Odessa. “And even if Nancy put every leftover in the house in her casserole, I bet it would be more moist than that cardboard you bought.” The two sisters erupted with laughter.

  “Look, you all finish up and don’t make a mess in here!” Nancy ordered. “I’m going to get dressed. The car will be here soon and we need to be right. This is Daddy’s day.”

  The other women stopped laughing and Cora-Lynn wiped tears from her eyes as Nancy walked toward the stairway.

  Bud stepped to the table to pull the aluminum foil covers back over the food he had purchased. He picked up the plate he had left on the arm of his chair and bit into a slice of bacon that crackled across the silence.

  “That bacon is so old, Aunt Jemima cooked it!” Odessa joked, and the sisters broke into laughter again as Bud frowned.

  “I know that’s right,” Nancy added, and laughed despite herself as she started up the stairs.

  9.30am

  East Village, New York City, NY, USA

  Kit and Czarina

  by Kyle Hemmings

  Kit is standing over a mixing bowl beating eggs and farmers cheese then adding the sifted flour, salt, sugar, and baking soda. She is making Czarina’s favorite breakfast – syrniki – which resemble American pancakes, only shrunken. She turns the heat on a non-stick skillet, one she purchased on sale at a store going out of business, and places each log of cut-out dough in the oil.

  It is the morning of Friday, April 24. It is slightly chi
lly and the sky is partly cloudy. That means there’s hope for the sun to break through, thinks Kit, who is nineteen years old and wears her black hair in bangs and her frilly skirts with knee sox. From the window, Kit can hear a young man (who she pictures with curly hair and torn jeans) strum an acoustic guitar while singing a cover of Sam Smith’s Stay with Me.

  Czarina, who is sixty-something and a tattoo artist, hobbles to the small dining room table in the apartment overlooking East 6th Street. Lately, she hasn’t been feeling well and depends on Kit to buy her medications from the Rite-Aid a couple of blocks over. Despite Kit’s pleading, Czarina often cancels her appointments with the specialists. She does not trust doctors. “When it’s your time to go, you are going to go anyway, no matter what they promise you.”

  The two women sit across each other and take the syrniki from the paper towel that has absorbed the oil.

  “It is good,” says Czarina, chewing her syrniki, “I’d hire you as my personal chef any day.”

  Kit takes a gulp of milk.

  “And you can be my personal tattoo lady forever.”

  Czarina winkles her nose then smirks.

  Czarina had taken in Kit because being a runaway from Spokane and with a dysfunctional family that would fight over the slightest thing, she had nowhere to go.

  Kit wipes her mouth with a napkin.

  “Are you still mad at me? I mean what we talked about last night.”

  Czarina dips her tea bag several times in an off-white porcelain cup, slightly chipped near the base. She folds the tea bag around a spoon with painstaking precision, and it must be snug. Kit offers her more syrniki. Czarina refuses.

  “It’s too late for me to get mad or stay mad. People never listen anyway. But you are living under my humble roof. And what you are doing is dangerous. You know, I have adopted you, more or less. Maybe more.”

  Kit’s face flushes pink. She runs a finger around the rim of the empty glass, then pulls it up to her face to see a part of her reflection. She can’t.

  “Look,” Kit says opening one hand out on the table as she speaks, “it’s just something temporary. It’s helping us pay the rent, helping to put me through dance school, helping to buy you medications. Maybe you forgot but you have no insurance.”

  Czarina plays with some flakes of the syrniki then pushes the plate away. She turns her face. The corners of her lips press deep into her chin.

  “But you don’t have to sell yourself like …” She looks down at the remaining syrniki in the paper towel. “Like hotcakes.”

  Kit is tempted to giggle.

  “It is my body and I’m only in it for the money and it’s helping the both of us survive.”

  Czarina lowers her head, shoots Kit a piercing stare. A smile slowly makes it way across her face.

  “We could get by without you exposing yourself to all kinds of dangerous men.”

  “I told you it’s only temporary. And what’s so funny?”

  “I was thinking of this old boyfriend I once had when I moved to the East Village. He taught me this ancient method of tattooing. It used to be practiced in Japan. He used this bamboo stick like a pool cure and he stabbed my back with ink.”

  “Did you like the tattoos?”

  “I was never sure. But I was in love with him, he was dangerous.”

  Kit rests her chin on her palms. Her eyes twinkle. “Let me guess. He was a Japanese gangster.”

  Czarina laughs with a raspy sound.

  “Yes. Yes he was. But he was good to me. Taught me a lot about tattooing.”

  Kit and Czarina stare at each other across the table.

  “Are you sure you’re full?”

  Czarina rubs her belly. “Oh, very much so, dear girl.”

  “Well, listen. I’ll promise you something if you promise me something.”

  Czarina’s rolls her head to one side. Her dark eyes glisten. “Is it a bribe?”

  “Sort of. I’ll give up hustling if you tattoo my back.”

  “You not hustling would be the best thing you could give me. What would you like me to tattoo on your back?”

  “Every dish you taught me to make since I’ve been here.”

  Czarina offers a slow wide grin. “And why?”

  “So in case one of us has to leave, I’ll have something to remember you whenever I look over my shoulder in the mirror.”

  “The menu might make you hungry.”

  Kit gathers the plates and silverware and washes them in the kitchen. Czarina hums a song that Kit does not recognize.

  Later, in the back room, she removes her shirt and lies face forward on a long red cushion. Czarina begins the precise lettering.

  “Do you know what I want to tattoo on your skin?”

  “What?” says Kit, craning her neck back.

  “Bad girls need love.”

  “And more doctor visits.” Kit giggles.

  It takes Czarina most of the morning to complete the menu. She is fanatical about spacing and correct spelling. When she is done, she says, “Your menu is ready.”

  Kit reaches out with one hand and takes Czarina’s.

  “You’re a good mother,” says Kit.

  “You’re my only child,” says Czarina.

  3.20pm

  a suburb of Manchester, northern England

  Tea for Two

  by Gill Hoffs

  “A pot of Earl Grey for two, milk on the side – in a jug if you have it, not those fiddly plastic things, and a slice of chocolate cake with two forks.”

  The order’s familiar, the café less so. He doesn’t come to town that often, not this part of it anyway, but the place seems nice enough and the wipe-clean menu sheets have indeed been wiped clean and there are other old farts at Formica tables avoiding April showers or the loneliness of home. He doesn’t feel out of place here like he does in the logoed coffee shops with their surly speed and expectations of you picking up a new lingo just to order. If he wanted to speak Italian he’d bloody go there.

  The place smells of fried onions and bacon, well done toast and instant coffee. It’s long past lunchtime but is it teatime? His stomach could do with a little something but not a full plate. Nothing savoury yet. He looks across the table at her wrist, trying to read the face of the gold watch she wears for ‘going out’, the one he gave her for their fiftieth, but of course it isn’t there. She isn’t there. And her absence crushes his throat all over again so when the waiter lays a serviette and fork at his elbow he can’t speak to say, “I’m sorry, I made a mistake, there’ll be no-one joining me.” The sorrow swells his tongue and his eyes blink.

  When the teapot arrives, white and nothing fancy, he’s recovered enough to mumble “Thanks” to the boy without adding any kind of comment on his tattoos. The lid slips as he pours them both a cup though she isn’t there and never will be, steaming his glasses and scalding his fingers, and since she’s not there to tell him off he mutters “Fucker” then feels guilty. The chocolate cake arrives as he swirls milk in their cups with a flourish, more in his than in hers, and he resolves to drink them both and eat the lot even if it makes him queasy.

  Most people in here have bags beside them on the table or chair or knocked over on the floor at their feet. He can tell who’s been to the library (crumpled carrier bags showing signs of regular re-use and sometimes the straight creases of folding), who’s been to the library for something they’re a bit embarrassed about (flimsy zipped carryall in black or navy), and who’s been shopping “for bits” as Marie called it.

  He has a letter in his coat pocket beside the folded Kleenex she insisted he carry at all times, and half a pencil. Or perhaps it still counts as just ‘a pencil’ even when it’s whittled down to a stub? So long as the ratio of core to covering is the same it must still – he is prattling, and even when it is entirely internal, it irritates him. He directs his attentions to the cake.

  Instead of forking the thin end of the wedge and leaving Marie to attack the icing he inserts the fork between the
layers and levers the slice in two. Does he really need to eat it with a fork? Does anyone care? He picks up a layer and bites into it, the chill of refrigeration spreading through his tongue and teeth. Best not to think of the cold, or refrigeration.

  The solicitors’ office had been cold, too. A secretary had been complaining to the receptionist about the heating going off at Easter when he arrived for his appointment. He’d tried to join in with the banter, get back to normal like, but she exited the room without a word when he remarked, “The cold should help you burn off all them Easter eggs.” The red in her cheeks should keep her warm for a bit at least.

  He hadn’t considered Marie leaving a will, they’d both assumed since he was the older and unhealthier that he’d be going first. They’d had life insurance sorted since his forties and he’d given her his blessing should she want to flirt or even remarry. After today’s meeting and the solicitor – the senior partner, no less – shaking his hand and solemnly assuring him his wife had left him well taken care of (she always did), he could have gone somewhere fancier for a cup of tea. Somewhere with bone china and fabric tablecloths and the menu in a leatherette folder and a fresh carnation on the table. Maybe even a sign near the door telling patrons ‘Please Wait To Be Seated’. But a lifetime of careful enjoyment cautioned him to stick to what he knew, at least for the time being. And without Marie, there would be no fun in such extravagance.

  He watches the waiter as he wipes a nearby table, lifting the salt and pepper pots and menu and checking the chair-seats for crumbs. A proper job of it, no cutting corners. He’ll leave him a right good tip, a proper cash one, not a note telling him to get his hair cut or owt like that.

  After he finishes the first cup of tea, the one with extra milk, he tries more cake. The stodge is sickening but he hasn’t the stomach to try her tea yet so he carries on. Waste not, want not. Or waste not, waist not, as Marie would say with her hand on his belly. He’s crumbling the cake into a smeary mess when the waiter appears at his side.