by Geonn Cannon
“Right,” Shane said. She’d worked with Molly long enough to sense her tones. “Sure thing, babe.”
“Okay, hon,” Molly said.
Shane moved to the other prep counter and out of Molly’s line of sight. Molly threw herself into her work. She ground the basil leaves into the mortar and, as she twisted the pestle, felt the familiar burn in her shoulder that told her she was cooking. By the time the restaurant opened, she had forgotten all about the funeral, the pain of April’s passing, and the woman at the cemetery.
She had her food, she had her stainless steel kingdom, and all was right with the world.
##
“I before E, except after...”
“C...”
“Shuffle, boom,” April whispered. She kissed the hollow of Robin’s throat and slid her hips forward.
Robin’s grunt turned into a chuckle. “God, if the kids knew the real way to play Shuffle, Shuffle, Boom...”
“I play the real way in class,” April assured her, nibbling Robin’s earlobe. “This is just a bastardization of the real thing.”
Robin shifted under the blankets. The touch of April’s thighs against hers sent shivers down her spine. “If we don’t get out of bed soon, we’re going to be late.”
“So we’ll be late.”
“Both of us? Come on, April. The school board is a bunch of old fogies, but I think even they could figure it out given enough clues.”
April groaned and reluctantly separated herself from her lover. “Okay. Spoilsport. But if I’m getting up, you have to, too.” She shoved Robin’s shoulder and said, “Wake up, sleepyhead,” even though they were both wide awake.
As if cued from the dream, Robin’s eyelids fluttered and she rolled onto her side. Her arm swept the empty side of the bed, the place where until recently April would have still been asleep. “Wake up,” she whispered against the pillowcase. “Wake up, sleepyhead.” It was their routine; Robin always woke first and was in charge of making sure April was up in time for work. After the first couple of months, April had gotten used to the routine and would frequently nudge Robin before Robin could nudge her. They would say, “Wake up, sleepyhead” in stereo. The memory brought a tear to Robin’s eye as she squeezed the pillow.
Since April's death, Robin couldn't bring herself to sleep in their bed alone, instead falling asleep in an armchair or on the couch. And even though she had now awoken in an empty bed for the past three mornings, she still couldn’t break the routine. She ran her hands over the empty mattress next to her before she opened her eyes and faced reality. She pushed the unfamiliar sheets away with her feet and sat up. She closed her eyes and let the sunlight warm her face.
Her rented room was cozy, she had to admit that. The walls were painted the yellow of a baby’s blanket, gentle and understated. Her bed was large (large enough for two, but that thinking would only bring her pain) with a lace dust ruffle along the bottom edge. A red apple-shaped phone stood on the night stand, next to the schedule noting that the kitchen would be open for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She briefly considered eating lunch with her hostess, but she’d always hated the feeling of eating meals in a bed-and-breakfast. It felt too much like you were in someone’s home, eating their food, imposing on their morning.
Robin got out of bed and dressed in casual clothes. She didn’t yet know if she was going to leave the island that day or wait until the next. She had plans to meet with April’s sister...God, I’ve forgotten her name already. It couldn't be Polly; that was April’s middle name. She checked the card the woman had given her the day before. Molly, Molly Page. She tucked the card into the pocket of her blouse and, after taking one last look at the ferry schedule, left her room.
Outside, the quiet streets and laidback manner of the people she passed reminded her of being back home in Canada. As close as the island was to the border, she wouldn’t have been surprised if she had found out some of the people she passed were Canadian. She wandered away from the ferry lanes to the kitschy tourist ships. She didn’t go into any, knowing they were black holes for time, and contented herself with window-shopping.
After a few minutes of meandering through the streets, she found a string of tiny shops that held the heady title of art galleries. Paintings of local attractions and landmarks, many versions of a lighthouse on the opposite side of the island and seemingly thousands of orca representations were represented in splashes of bright pastels.
Robin was eyeing a watercolor of a kayak riding into a sunset when her stomach started to rumble. She tried to silence it with a hand against her coat, smiled to a few nearby people who may have overheard the noise, and began to look for a place to eat breakfast. Or...she checked her watch and decided brunch might be a better name for this meal. God, April, why did you let me sleep so late? she thought.
She retraced her steps to Spring Street and headed back towards the ferry lanes. The closer she got to the water, the more restaurants she began passing. She could smell pizza, but she didn’t need anything quite that heartburn-inducing this early, thank you. There was an ice cream stand, which she decided wouldn’t be substantial enough. But the large restaurant on the corner definitely looked promising.
The ground floor was made of dark, weathered wood. There was a small deck with a couple of tables covered by a green awning, and windows lined the side of the restaurant that faced the harbor. It hardly mattered what kind of food they served; the place had to have an amazing view. Anything could taste good looking out over such a panorama. She crossed the mostly empty ferry lanes -- it was over two hours before the next ferry left for the mainland, but there were still a few cars already waiting -- and went up the stairs to the restaurant’s front door.
“Gail’s Seafood Shack” was written in white cursive letters on the glass. The restaurant had just opened for the day, which she hoped meant they weren’t too busy. She pulled the door open and went inside. What was the fun of coming to an island, she thought, if you didn’t at least try their seafood?
##
Lloyd leaned against the pass-through window between the kitchen and the dining room. “Molly, I need those grilled oysters.”
Molly glanced over her shoulder and saw that the stove was currently unmanned. “Tatum is working on them,” Molly said, and scanned for the errant chef. Shane was standing to Molly’s left at the other prep table, and Lilly was just returning from the walk-in with a fresh order of halibut. Tatum was nowhere to be found. She arranged the french fries on a plate next to an order of cod and handed it through the window to Lloyd. “This is the fish and chips,” she said as he took the plate.
He took the order and turned to walk away. “Okay, but Dana says Table Four has been waiting for the–”
“I know, I know,” Molly cut him off. She wiped her hands on her apron and turned away from her station. Shane was putting the finishing touches on her order, and Lilly was sprinkling the halibut with salt, pepper, and paprika. Everyone was where they were supposed to be, doing what they were supposed to be doing, except for Jim Tatum, who was nowhere to be seen. Molly left the prep table and said, “Take over, hon.”
“Okay, babe,” Shane said.
Molly glanced at the grill and saw that it was utterly devoid of any oysters. “Lazy son of a...” She went around the center island and finally spotted him standing over the sink. A bag of oysters sat on the lip of the sink next to him; he was apparently still washing them off in cold water. Molly yelled, “Tatum!” He spun around, saw her, and then went back to what he was doing. “You’re just getting started? Lloyd’s been asking for those for ten minutes!”
“I had to finish another order,” he said. He gathered the oysters on a tray and tried to brush past her.
“Unacceptable, Tatum,” she said as she fell into step behind him.
“The sea scallops for Table Eight took longer than I thought.”
“When the oysters order came through, you took it. Knowing you didn’t have the time to get it started. And why did the scallops take
so long?”
He shrugged and put the tray down next to the grill.
Molly could see Shane and Lilly both struggling not to turn and watch what was happening. “I know exactly what happened,” Molly said. “You didn’t have the truffle cream prepared, so it took twice the time it should have, right?” He didn’t answer so she put her hand on his shoulder and pushed him away from the stove. He glared at her. “When you get behind, you delegate. You don’t take more orders than you can handle just so you can pretend you’re the head chef. There were plenty of people here who could have taken over for you when you saw your orders were stacking up.”
He shrugged his shoulder out from under her hand, muttered under his breath, and turned back to the stove. He took an oyster off the tray and picked up a knife to open the shell.
Molly snatched the knife from his hand and used it to point at the kitchen door. “Get out.”
He recoiled. “What?”
“You’re fired, Tatum. Get the hell out of my kitchen.”
He scoffed. “You’re crazy. I take a little extra time on one order...”
Molly swung the knife back around so that she was aiming the blade at Tatum. “One order?”
Shane had given up the fight and was watching the debacle from her station. When she saw Molly waving the knife, she held up her hands and stepped forward, “Whoa, hey, Molly...”
Molly snapped her eyes over to her sous-chef and said, “You wanna be next, Sanborn? Finish that fucking tilapia and mind your own business.” Shane blinked at her boss’ vitriol, but obediently turned back to her own meal preparation. Molly turned her attention back to Tatum. “It’s not one order; it’s just your latest screw-up in a long string. I’m sick of it, and I’m sick of you. Get the fuck out of here.”
Tatum pulled at the ties of his apron and said, “You know what, fine. I’m sick of working for a crazy bitch anyway.”
Molly turned and followed him, leading with the knife, as he stalked towards the kitchen door. “Say that again, Tatum.”
He saw the knife in her hand and scurried through the door. “You’re crazy,” he said as he rushed through the swinging door. He nearly ran into Lloyd, pushed him aside, and then continued his flight towards the front door. Molly bumped into Lloyd’s shoulder as she came out the door.
Lloyd looked at the knife, looked at Tatum and then said to Molly, “Oysters?”
Molly ignored him and watched as Tatum pushed through the line of people waiting at the hostess podium. “They’re still a little raw,” she said. She waved the knife at the front door and called after Tatum, “Go! Go on, get out of here!”
Clifton intercepted Molly before she ran across the dining room brandishing the knife. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked at Lloyd. The expediter shrugged and held his hands up in a “don’t look at me” gesture. Clifton frowned and asked, “Molly, what the hell?” He tried to angle her back into the kitchen, but she was immovable. She craned her neck to peer over his shoulder, watching to make sure Tatum was really leaving.
Only when Tatum finally shoved through the front door and disappeared into the sunshine did Molly relax. She looked at the knife in her hand, turned to grip it by the blade, and casually handed it to Clifton. “You should probably comp...uh, Lloyd, who had the oysters...?”
“Table Four,” Lloyd said.
“Table Four,” Molly said. “You should comp their meal. They’re not going to get their oysters for a while.”
“Jesus,” Clifton muttered. “Okay. My office, when have a few minutes. I want to talk about this.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“No, not ‘yeah, okay.’ We need to find a replacement for Tatum. Preferably before tonight’s rush.”
“Right. Can I get back to work?”
Clifton nodded and waved her off. Without really meaning to, Molly glanced towards Table Four to see whose meal she had probably just ruined.
She couldn’t even find it in herself to be surprised when she saw Robin Fraser staring back at her.
##
“They’re sensual.”
“They’re slugs,” Robin said.
April rolled her eyes and used the flat of her knife to spread the halves of the oyster’s shell. She stood up and rounded the table to lean down behind Robin. She wrapped her arms around her lover’s shoulders and nestled the oyster between her thumb and index finger. “It’s all in how you eat it,” April said. She pressed the smooth edge of the shell against Robin’s lip and tilted it back.
Robin closed her eyes and took the slimy mussel into her mouth. “Don’t try to swallow it whole. Kind of massage it across your teeth.”
“This is so gross,” Robin said through tight lips. She forced herself to swallow and reached for the glass of Riesling. She took a drink and then sagged back, turning her head to look at April over her shoulder. “The things I do for you.”
April smiled and tightened the loop of her arms. She kissed Robin’s cheek and said, “Well, you did your best.”
“I did.”
“So I suppose now I should try something you want me to eat...”
“Oh, really?” Robin said.
April chuckled and moved her lips to Robin’s. “Oh, please, oh, please,” she said against Robin’s mouth.
“Happy anniversary, baby,” Robin whispered.
Robin was sure she hadn’t paled when April had mentioned her favorite snack food was oysters, but it had been close. On their first anniversary, April had surprised her with a fresh order of raw oysters and begged her to try just one. Robin had been touched by the effort she’d gone to, especially on a teacher’s salary, and had consented to at least try one. To her surprise, it actually hadn’t been bad.
That night, after making love in the living room, they had returned to the kitchen and Robin had forced down three more of the bivalves. By the time they retired to bed, Robin had admitted she was willing to eat them again, but she was glad they were cost-prohibitive. They’d stick to Robin’s favorites, chocolate and Goldfish crackers, when it came to snacks.
But here she was, on April’s home turf. She’d just buried the love of her life, and what better memorial was there than to have an oyster meal in her honor? Unfortunately, while cheaper than she’d expected, the meal seemed to be a long time in coming. Maybe they had to go catch some more...Really, really fresh seafood. She took in the view, smiled politely at the other diners, and received two refills of her ice water before she heard someone shouting. She realized it was coming from the kitchen door and turned just as a man exploded out into the restaurant.
A man wearing a fish-shaped necktie -- the owner, she assumed -- hurried to intercept the fleeing chef, but he was too slow. The owner stood, stumped, in the middle of the room until the kitchen door slammed open again.
And April stormed into the dining room carrying a long, thin knife.
Robin’s breath caught in her chest. A quiet voice at the back of her mind chanted, Not her, not her, it’s not her, damn it!, but the louder voice was telling her that it was her. Somehow, someway, it was April, back from the grave. She was red-faced, her hair caught in a bun underneath a tall white hat. She and the owner exchanged a few words as she glared after the other cook. As the owner guided April -- no, it’s Molly -- back into the kitchen, the chef glanced over and they locked eyes.
There was a look of exasperation on Molly’s face, a look that said, “Of course it’s her...,” as she disappeared back into the kitchen. The owner pushed the swinging door shut with his hand and turned to the restaurant. “Sorry for the display, folks. Call it dinner and a show.” There were a few chuckles as the man made his way over to her table. “Pardon me, ma’am. I’m Clifton Gail, the owner? Your oysters are taking just a...little longer than we expected. May I offer you an appetizer? On the house, of course.”
She picked up the menu from the edge of the table and quickly scanned down the list. She found the most expensive item and consciously avoided it; there was no reason to be tac
ky when the man was being so polite. “Um...I’ll take one of the mixed greens salad, if it’s not–”
“That’s fine. House vinaigrette, sherry Dijon?”
“Vinaigrette is fine.”
“Fantastic. Let me get that out of the way for you.” He took the menu and tucked it under his arm. “Very sorry about the delay, ma’am. We’ll get the salad right out to you.”
As Mr. Gail returned to the kitchen, Robin sagged back in her seat and stared blankly at the wall. She wasn’t even entirely sure what she’d just ordered. Her mind had stopped working properly as soon as she saw April -- no, she corrected herself once again, April’s twin sister -- come out of the kitchen like that. So sudden, so enflamed. She looked down and saw her hands were trembling. She tucked them under her arms and turned her head to look out the window again.
She wanted to say she’d been shocked to see Molly’s anger, wanted to claim that she’d never seen April lose her cool like that. But it wasn’t true. The fact was, April had looked pretty much that same way the last time Robin had seen her.
The night April died she had been just as furious as her sister.
Chapter Five
For the first four years of their lives, Molly and April had lived in a sort of self-induced ignorant bliss. From the time they were old enough to play outside, they only spent time with each other. Their parents put up a swing set and a slide, and the girls spent hours going from one to the other. Molly would only swing if April was in the next seat, just as April had only played on the slide if Molly was coming down right behind her. They didn’t see the need for a third playmate, unless it was Mommy or Daddy coming out to supervise.
The summer after they turned four, little Molly and April Page, in their identical pink-and-purple plaid dresses, had walked hand-in-hand up the sidewalk to the Tiny Angels Pre-School. They walked into the classroom and had been instantly terrified.
Everybody in the class was one-of-a-kind, unique. Somehow, the idea that not everyone was born with an instant playmate hadn't occurred to either girl. Now, here was the awful, unavoidable truth staring back at them in forty dissimilar gazes. They were the only twins. They were different. April eventually started to refer to their twin-less classmates as “singletons,” whereas Molly’s name for them was a bit less tolerant: “interlopers.”
