Cookery
a short story
by
Rosalyn Wraight
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© Copyright 2012 Rosalyn Wraight
a Don’t Waste Daylight publication
Smashwords Edition
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Cookery
The car clunked just as Nora Butler shoved it into park. She removed the keys from the ignition and punched the garage door opener. After getting out, she immediately dropped to her knees to peer under the car as she had done a hundred times before. Maybe this time she’d figure out where the clunk came from, before whatever it was fell off. With her luck lately, though, she felt certain it would happen while she was going 70 on the freeway. Soon, it wouldn’t matter. Soon, nothing would.
Giving up, she rose and headed into the garage to retrieve the wheelbarrow. As she pushed it around the house, the late afternoon sun stung her neck, making her skin feel as tight as the muscles it concealed.
A moment later, she approached the lemon trees lining the back of her property. Again, she dropped to her knees, this time to gather the fruit that had fallen since the day before. She ignored the neglected yard and focused on the task at hand. It took her 15 minutes to fill the wheelbarrow and another five to get it back to the garage where she dumped the harvest into the large heap inside. Then, she opened the back of her car, removed the numerous bushels of lemons, and chucked their contents into the pile. Except for one, the fullest one, which she set just inside the door to the kitchen.
She hit the garage door button and made her way to the kitchen sink. After washing up, she removed the third to the last hotdog from the pack in the nearly empty refrigerator, placed it on a paper plate, and put it in the microwave. Thirty seconds later, dinner was served. She leaned against the counter and unhurriedly ate as she stared mindlessly at the wall clock.
Then, she began what had become the daily ritual…
She got seven five-pound bags of sugar from the pantry that contained nothing but sugar—a hodgepodge of brands, whatever was on sale. Next, she dragged the bushel of lemons to the far counter. Afterward, she stooped to get the Ensign Juicer 6000—a steal at $45 from a going-out-of-business sale. But, her short stature did not provide for enough leverage to produce the 2,000 pounds of pressure the apparatus promised to exert. With no chairs or stools in the house, the bushel basket had to suffice. She dumped the lemons onto the counter and turned the basket upside down. After climbing aboard, she grabbed a knife and halved 15 lemons. She slapped a half onto the strainer cone, and then with all her might, she pushed down on the handle and rotated it. She could hear the juice trickle into the drip cup, and she wished it was a gush. With 600 more halves to go, she repeated the process.
She had never been very adept in the kitchen, but her math skills assured an easy arrival at the totals necessary to make 220 gallons of lemonade. There were 3,520 cups in 220 gallons. Six stingy lemons or five well ripened yielded a cup of juice. There were 11¼ cups of sugar in a five-pound bag. Forty-five lemons, three gallons of water, and five pounds of sugar produced a batch she could carry. Numbers and conversions and formulas, she could do all those, and she figured—she prayed—that if she made seven batches per day she’d be done in ten days. This was the seventh day.
Slap on the lemon. Push the handle. Twist like hell. Don’t fall off the rickety bushel basket. Fling the eviscerated half to the trashcan. Repeat. She had it down to an art. She was even becoming tolerant of the sting of citrus in a hangnail or the inevitable cuts that came from all that halving. Slap on the lemon. Push the handle. Twist like hell. Don’t fall off the rickety bushel basket. Fling the eviscerated half to the trashcan. Repeat.
And repeat.
And repeat.
And repeat.
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Promptly at 7:30 PM on the tenth day, the doorbell rang, and she took a deep breath before heading to answer it. After wiping sweaty palms on her pant legs, she opened the door. “Evelyn,” she greeted. “Come in, please.”
The brown-eyed, brown-haired woman’s athletic build carried her into the foyer. She came to a halt and spun around. “I must say, Nora, your invitation surprised me.”
“Well, I think it’s important to move beyond things.”
“That’s big of you. I imagine you were quite peeved.”
She simply smiled at her. Then, she said, “I’m sorry I can’t offer you a comfortable place to sit. How about the living room floor?” Without awaiting an answer, she led her down the unadorned hallway and into the empty living room. She watched Evelyn’s eyes scan the area that had been so meticulously decorated, once upon a time.
“Why, Nora?” Evelyn asked, doing little to mask her shock. “Why don’t you have furniture anymore?”
“This is what a house in foreclosure looks like. I sold what I could, but it still wasn’t enough.”
“Foreclosure?”
“Yes, that’s the technical term that means I couldn’t make my mortgage payments. The bank now owns what I worked so hard for all these years.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I wish you would have…”
“Asked for help?”
“Yes. Something. We could have figured out something.”
Instead of replying, she gestured for her to take a place on the floor, which she did, in the room’s very center. She took her own spot, leaning against the wall, several yards from her. She bowed her head and distractedly picked at the beige carpet.
“So, Nora, any job prospects?”
She feigned a laugh. “Not in this economy, and certainly not without references from my last employer.”
“I’d be a reference.”
Her head shot up to peer at her. “Would you? Would you really?”
“Of course, I would.”
She smiled at her, letting the moment linger before asking, “And what exactly would you tell them, Evelyn? Would you tell them I was a hard worker, good at my job? Or would you tell them I sexually assaulted a coworker and stole office supplies?”
“I thought you said you were moving on.”
“You’re right. I am,” she said as she enthusiastically jumped to her feet. “All this time off has given me some perspective, and I’ve perfected the art of homemade lemonade. Would you care for a glass?”
“I’d love one,” she replied, and when Nora was almost out of the room, she called her name. As Nora turned to look at her, she said, “I am sorry. I didn’t see any other choice.”
She nodded. “I know you didn’t.” She sympathetically smiled, adding, “It’s not a good feeling to have such limited choices.”
Several moments later, Nora returned with two glasses—the last two glasses in the house, and they were grossly mismatched. She handed the taller one to Evelyn and then lowered herself to the floor. This time, she sat pretzel-legged only a few feet away from her. With great interest, she waited for her to take a sip. A pucker would acknowledge her lack of culinary skills. A smile would prove that cookery was nothing more than mathematics.
“Mmm, very good lemonade,” she said, a smile giving Nora the proof she needed. “Although, pink lemonade is my favorite.”
“I know it is. I still have that silly keychain you gave me.”
She quietly laughed out her nose. “Do you really?”
“All keychains should be that pink,” she said with a chuckle. “It makes them impossible to lose.”
“I’ll remember that when Breast Cancer Awareness Month rolls around again.” She patted the floor next to her. “Come sit by me.”
Without hesitation, she did so and smiled when Evelyn’s hand came to her thigh.
Evelyn said, “I was hoping your invitation meant you wanted to get back together. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too,” she admitted.
Her hand stroked her leg. “So, does that mean we can start seeing each other again?”
Despite telling herself not to, she recoiled. “Let’s just see how this evening goes. Let’s make sure I’ve really moved beyond things.”
Wincing, she asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”
She shook her head. “I’ve tried very hard to forget it ever happened.” With a raise of her glass, she instructed, “Let’s just enjoy the lemonade.”
“Whatever you want,” she said and took a hefty drink.
As though strangers and not ex-lovers, they awkwardly chatted about the recent heat wave, the price of gas, and new car models.
Evelyn’s glass was more than half-empty when she released a yawn. Despite obvious resistance, her eyes began to blink very slowly.
“Are you tired, Evelyn?” After watching a bobble of a nod, she suggested, “Finish your lemonade and then lie down on the floor. I’ll rub your back.”
She brought the glass to her lips, drained it, and set it down. Then, she seemed almost to melt into a blob on the floor.
“Stretch out a bit,” Nora told her as she scooted closer and extended her hands.
“I don’t know what’s come over me,” she said with another yawn.
“Probably just the aftereffects of a case of nerves,” she assured and began to rub her back lightly through her green polo shirt. “I imagine it was nerve-racking coming here, not knowing what you were walking into.”
“It was,” she said. “Very.”
“Well, let’s see if I can help you relax.” She rubbed deeper into the muscle and listened to Evelyn’s barely perceptible moans. Several moments later, she asked in a hushed voice, “Is it still okay to talk about it?” After receiving an affirming mumble, she said, “I really have tried to get beyond it, Evelyn, but I just can’t seem to do it. I keep seeing the boss’ face when he walked in on us. He never goes into the copy room.”
She offered a sleepy concurrence.
“But worse than his face, Evelyn, was yours. How did you think that fast? I was completely stunned, and you had enough wits about yourself to haul off and slap me. How did you know he’d merely put me on probation and not fire me when he dragged me into his office? Those office supplies you shoved into my locker were what forced his hand. How the hell did you think so fast? And how did you know he’d find theft worse than what you called sexual assault?” She shook her head in disbelief. “And why, Evelyn? Why? Why not just tell him the truth—or not say anything at all? Big damn deal we loved each other. Big damn deal we kissed. So, why, Evelyn?” She tilted an ear for the reply, but all she heard was slow and heavy breathing. “Well, since you don’t seem very talkative, I’ll tell you what I think.” She drew a deep breath. “I think it’s because your cleavage gets you further than your supervising skills. The guys might not be so easily swayed if they suddenly think you’re a dyke. Is that why you did it? Is that what you were thinking? Is that why you could so easily throw me under the bus like that?” She paused for a response that never came. Her mind replayed the events of that dreadful, painful day, and she asked, “Did you do all that just to protect yourself, or was it to make certain they’d can me?” Again, she paused. “Well, they canned me, Evelyn, right there on the spot. And what? I’m somehow supposed to be grateful that you talked him out of calling the police? Like you did me a favor?”
Once more, her questions met nothing but silence.
She stopped rubbing long enough to sense Evelyn’s utter stillness. “Evelyn?” She shook her, and when that didn’t rouse her, she rolled her over. Fearfully, she sent her hand to her neck to feel for a pulse, finding it slow but definitely there. Her heart still beat. That was important. That was very important if cookery truly was nothing more than mathematics: 8½ ounces of lemonade plus two 2mg tablets of Rohypnol equals unconsciousness, not death. She checked her pulse once more and felt confident her formula was correct.
“How about some more lemonade, Evelyn?” she asked as she rose to her feet. “I think you need more lemonade.”
She moved to stand at Evelyn’s head. Bending, she grabbed her hands and began lugging her into the adjacent dining room. She opened the sliding glass door and did a quick scan of the backyard. Seeing no evidence of any neighbors afoot, she pulled her onto the patio. The muscles in her arms stung, and she rued not having thought of the wheelbarrow. She heaved her a few more yards, until she was right next to the 220-gallon hot tub.
She let go of Evelyn’s arms, hurried to the wall, and set the 15-minute timer to the halfway mark. Knowing time was now of the essence, she dashed back to the hot tub and forced her small frame to hoist Evelyn’s dead weight … up … up … up … onto the hot tub’s side … over … over … but Evelyn’s hips wouldn’t go. She grabbed the back of Evelyn’s pants, and with a groan of overexertion, she pulled and then pushed as hard as she could. Finally, Evelyn’s body slid unencumbered into the hazy pool of ten days’ worth of lemonade.
Hastily, she rounded the tub to get closer to Evelyn’s head. Her fingers splayed across her scalp to hold her under the surface. This was a moment she had fearfully imagined a thousand times. Despite being unconscious, would her body instinctively resist? She prayed it wouldn’t. A thousand times, she prayed it wouldn’t. With an intense wince, she waited to find out, and after a minute, she relaxed, knowing she would not have to fight her.
She leaned closer to the surface and said, “It’ll take seven minutes for your arrogant brain to die, Evelyn. How should we pass the time?” She expected the silence that followed her question, but she did not expect the massive air bubble that suddenly roiled to the surface. Reflexively, she jerked back, losing her grip on Evelyn’s head. But in a way, it was a godsend. The fear made her angry. She shoved her head further down and spat, “You’ve got this coming to you, Evelyn. We both know you do. See, but what you didn’t know, you selfish bitch, is that I was cooking the books at work. I slowly and methodically embezzled a shitload of money, and your little stunt shined a light on me. Everything I ever did for that company is now being scrutinized. It’s just a matter of time. We can’t have that, Evelyn. We just can’t have that. I worked too goddamn hard.”
As several more air bubble blurted to the surface, she thought of the new identity waiting for her, complete with a brimming bank account. Screw the company. Screw foreclosure. Screw Evelyn. Screw it all. Soon, she’d have a clean slate.
When she heard the click of the timer knob, she let go of Evelyn. Momentarily, she stared, unsure if her body would float or sink. It seemed to do a combination of the two, and she reasoned that as long as she remained face down, her mission had been accomplished.
Except for one more thing, the pièce de résistance, the crowning touch.
She returned to the timer switch and grabbed the Ensign Juicer 6000, sitting beneath it on the patio, waiting for its one last occasion to exert pressure.
With one hand wielding the juicer, she raised Evelyn’s head, holding it as firmly as she could. She brought the juicer down as fast and as hard as she could possibly manage. And then, she waited. Nothing. Not a damn thing. Dead bodies didn’t bleed, she reminded herself. They leaked—at least until the blood coagulated. There were 1¼ gallons of blood in the average body, and Evelyn was average, very average. But even still, without a pumping heart, the most she’d add to that 220 gallons was a tablespoon or two. In cookery, that was a mathematical garnish, but an important one, nonetheless.
Again, she raised the juicer and brought it down full force, aiming for an area more fleshy than the skull.
Blood trickled into the lemonade. She watched it curl and then disperse. “Enjoy the pink lemonade, Evelyn. I know it’s your favorite.”
Now, it was done.
She quickly washed the sticky evidence from arms and headed for her car. Propping herself against the floorboard, she retrieved her keys from her pants pocket. She looked at it and could not help but laugh. When life gives you lemons, make lemonade: the pink thing read.
Sick to death of lemons, she started the car and aimed for the freeway, the one that would take her to the border, into the land of $2 margaritas.
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About the Author
Rosalyn Wraight is the author of the Detective Laura McCallister lesbian mystery series: Woman Justice, Secrets and Sins, Corpse Call, and The Watson Evidence.
She is also the author of the ongoing Lesbian Adventure Club series. Thus far, the series consists of thirteen titles: Scavengers, Ledge Walkers, Savages, Loose Sleuths, Sisters, Leakers Ignited, Scraps, L-Word C-word, Spiders, Likely Suspects, Stalemates, Laura’s League, and Sutures. A backstory prequel, The Queen of Terrified & The Newly Brave Landowner, is also available.
On the Web
Author Blog: LesbianWriter.com
Author Bookstore: LesbianAdventureClub.com