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By coujeaux Date: 2003 Apr 27 Comment on this Work [[2003.04.27.04.18.23386]] |
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If you wish to spice what you serve properly, you must be able to taste each component of your concoction as it simmers. Barbara Reynolds wasn't thinking so much of that as she sampled her chili this Sunday evening. The first thought that crossed her mind at that moment was that Wick Fowler was a lying weasel for labelling his chili mix as "three alarm" or some such nonsense like that. The spices were off a bit, the sauce a bit soupier than she would have liked, but she chalked that up to this new sort of chili meat she incorporated into the mix; it was a rougher cut than she was used to, but as always she was an inventive if not expert cook, willing to try new recipes and ingredients if she thought the possibility of a better dish existed. Barbara grasped the chili powder container in her right hand and sprinked the eyeball equivalent of a teaspoon into the pot, stirring it into the sauce with the wooden soup spoon in her left hand and watching carefully to ensure her latest addition to dinner was incorporated evenly and thoroughly. Satisfied that her swirling was complete, she again sampled her wares and decided this was close enough to work; perfection wasn't her aim, merely edibility, and this worked. She turned the silver knob of her stove's rear burner to low and replaced the crimson cover of the pot, ensuring an even fit. Thirty minutes and we're there, she thought to herself. Just enough time to get myself ready. Her eyes moved above the stove to the reasonably elegant West Bend clock she'd hung here ten years ago, right after she and Chuck had bought the house and decorated. 7:15 p.m. Moira was due for dinner at eight, and since you could set a funeral by her punctuality, there was not a moment to waste. Barbara set the soup spoon down on the stove in the porcelain holder and turned to walk towards her bathroom to prepare herself for her best friend's visit. As she walked through the living room into the hallway that faced the master bath, she realized that in thirty-five years of knowing each other, this was to be the first time the two of them sat for a meal together alone in Barbara's house. The thought crossed her mind how that sort of thing could occur, and then she remembered the children, their jobs, involvement in the church, summer trips, family get-togethers and Moira and Harry's two-year separation that only ended the year before. Their closeness had kept them together in all these years, while the effects of living their respective versions of the American Dream seemed to truncate enjoyment the entire time. It seemed odd to Barbara that she never realized what a barrier to personal freedom being a wife, mother, and upstanding citizen of Rutherford, TX might be, but she also knew that her life wasn't unsatisfying, really, just not as permissive as it had been before Katie and Joe had been born. But sometimes you sacrifice things you love to have what you think you want. If only she as sure of that at this moment as she had been 22 years ago at her marriage day. Barbara flipped the light switch and looked at her hair and makeup in the vanity mirror above the sink. Reaching for her makeup organizer, she refreshed the sienna on her lips and primped and prodded her hair until it reached the proper body and curl. She took off her grey sweater and replaced it with the maroon suede vest she'd bought just for the occasion of having Moira for dinner. Probably an unnecessary expense, but you can't be responsible every day of your life, and when your best friend is coming to eat with you alone for the first time in your respective busy lives, you celebrate with something new, something different, something unexpected. She wondered if Chuck would appreciate the fit of this blouse and the tan slacks she'd also purchased for the evening. Probably not, though surely he would bitch about his retirement going for something she'd wear once and never again. Once and never again. She repeated those words in her mind as she straightened the top and slid her gold herringbone hieroglyph necklace over her neck. There are some things you can only do once and never again, and if you're lucky and wise enough to realize the singularity of events or moments such as those, they become frozen in your mind as might images of life-changing events such as Kennedy's assassination. She was 47 now, six in '63 when the assassins took the President down, and she remembered asking her mother why everyone seemed so sad. Mama explained to her that sometimes people go away when noone expects it and we just have to accept God works in mysterious ways. She had finished her preparations now, and took a step back to admire her handiwork. Five seven, 130 again with the backbreaking aerobics and diet regimen she'd undertaken last year. Hot damn, not bad for a old broad, she thought. The boobs were still pretty firm, and she still got compliments on her ass here and there from men either interested or condescending enough to think she gave a shit about their opinion of her body. Hard work and perserverance always had paid off for her at everything she did, the one constant in her life through the days of fights, grumbling about money and her children going in and out of her home from mild drug abuse and bad relationship choices. They had finally clued in enough to get their lives straight and stay out of her home except to visit. She had it all to herself now, and the dinner would give her and Moira the chance to catch up one-on-one that they hadn't had in almost two decades. Barbara looked at her watch and noticed the time: 7:25. Just enough time for some wine and a breather. As she turned out the light to her bathroom, another thought crossed her mind as to whether or not Chuck would have liked this batch of chili if the hunting weekend hadn't come about so abruptly. Nah, she thought. Son of a bitch never complimented her about her cooking anyway. ** "What the hell kinda bread am I supposed to get for chili, darlin'? I see French and sourdough here, but I'm used to crackers!" Moira had a laugh in her voice Barbara missed, envied even. She'd called from the grocery store four miles away on her cell phone, much to Barbara's surprise, since she didn't expect Moira to bring anything outside of herself for dinner. She thought fast and replied. "Go with the sourdough. Haven't ever had that with chili before m'self. " "Right. I'm almost done here, then I'm there. Anything else you want me to grab?" "Find one of those young stockboys, get his ass for me. I think he'd appreciate the attention." Moira busted out laughing at that comment and said "Probably all over himself and the salad bar too. Don't tempt me, though. I've seen some corruptable examples here so far." Barbara chuckled. "Remember, you're gonna be a grandmother inside of four months, old woman. There are laws against that sort of thing." "Only if they catch me in the act, darlin', and most teenagers wouldn't last long enough for a cop to bat an eye. Alright, enough of this-I got the bread and I'm on my way. See you in ten." "Sure enough." Barbara replaced her cordless on the kitchen charger and walked to the stove, pulling the lid off of the pot, grabbing the wood spoon and again sampling her chili. Now it tasted just like she had hoped; spicy gravy and the meat had tendered up just right. Setting the spoon back down on the holder, she replaced the lid and walked into the living room, slumping down into the sumptuous velvet respite of her couch. It had been a long and exhausting weekend so far, and this evening was her first chance to relax. She reached for the iced chardonnay in front of her and stretched her legs out, looking at the two red candles she'd lit on the dining room table and sipping on her wine delicately. The ambience was right, the sounds of Sam Cooke in the CD player reminded her of happier days, and God, did her legs need a moment to refresh. This was to be a wonderful evening, she thought to herself. ** Moira arrived on schedule as always, and the two old friends exchanged hugs and apropos pecks in the doorway as Barbara took the plastic grocery bags and walked into the kitchen to slice the bread. Moira set her purse down and took off her coat, laying it across the back of the recliner as she looked around Barbara's living room to take in the decorations. Barbara reached into the knife drawer and retrieved a blade, then unpackaged the bread and sliced it on the countertop as Moira's voice piped in from the next room. "My God, you remember what we were doing when we first heard Sam Cooke, Barb?" Barbara smiled to herself. "Of course I do. Why do you think I picked this CD up?" Moira sat on the couch next to where Barbara had reclined just before her arrival. "God, I love the feel and fabric of this couch, honey." She rubbed her right hand on the surface of one cushion and asked "Where did you get this one?" "Oh, let me see...I bought it at Wither's Furniture about three years ago." Barbara placed the bread on a platter and reached above her to retrieve two bowls for the chili. "Kids had about worn out the old one we had in Austin when they were living at home parking their asses on it watching TV and having sex when they thought I didn't know better, so I gathered we needed to replace it once I managed to convince them they'd outstayed their welcome. Chuck bitched endlessly at me about the cost, but I got it on sale for $599. Couldn't resist it, either. Once I sat on it, it was mine and I told him that." She dished up the chili and carried the bowls and bread plate into the dining room, setting them on the table. "What are you drinking?" "How spicy is that chili?" Moira inquired. "I put some extra sting in this batch, just so you know. Wine okay with you, or would you prefer milk?" Barbara replied. "Harry was unusally prickish about me coming over here tonight, so wine sounds better. What kind are we talking about?" "Got chardonnay, which I'm having, and some chablis that should be chilled by now." Moira smiled. "Bingo. Pour me that chardonnay in a big glass, darlin'. Screw responsible living for a change." "Amen to that, sister." Barbara said, and poured her companion a generous amount. ** Dinner itself pleased the company, and Barbara and Moira relished the chance to chat about things family ears would permit for open discussion. Things were not going well between Moira and her husband again, as things turned out, which was not shocking since they had spent those two years away from one another. Some things never change, Barbara thought, unless you are willing to take the chance to make things different. Sometimes the risks outweigh the rewards, but who the hell ever really knows what comes next? Unpredictability was something she appreciated now more than ever, and hearing her old friend bitching about Harry's drinking and womanizing was like listening to a tape recording of Chuck Reynolds' biography. No wonder they had been such friends over all these years-so much in common, not so much of it good. Moira had commented twice about the chili, and Barbara replied with a smile that she'd found a terrific cut of meat at this little place nobody frequented that often, far from Rutherford in the countryside of Texas. When Moira asked for the name of the butcher, Barbara shook her head and replied, "Oh, no you don't. You're not getting my recipe for this one, honey. I gotta have something all to myself and this chili is about the only thing I can think of that remains in my possession." Moira grimaced slightly. "I didn't ask for your secret sauce, Barb. Just wondered who could prepare meat this tender. I haven't found anything that beats this in ages." Barb shrugged and said "I wish I could think of the name of that place, but frankly I wrote it down and set it in my purse. I'd have to look through there to tell you, because I don't remember it offhand." Moira's face turned to a smile. "Send me the name when you find it, okay? If I can't make Harry settle down enough with my body, maybe I can hook him through his stomach." Barbara's blue eyes met the brown eyes of Moira Barrett, and an odd sort of enthusiasm seemed to touch Barbara's face. "Honey, if we can't keep these assholes at home by now, either we're out of style or they won't ever learn." Moira smiled at her old friend and took a long sip off of her wine. "You think we're out of style, do you?" Barbara looked at her. "Oh, of course not. They just won't learn." Moira nodded at her as she set her wine glass back on the table. "Never heard anything truer." ** The two women whisked through cleaning up; Moira taking care of rinsing the plates and silverware and Barbara putting up the food. Setting most of the chili into a large round Tupperware container, Barbara took a portion of the chili and set it aside to give to Moira for her lunch the day after. "How much of this do you want, hon?" she asked. "I've got to get rid of this, and I know Chuck sure as hell won't touch it." "Oh, give me a huge helping of it." Moira said. "I could eat on that for days." "Me too." Barbara said as she sealed off her friend's portion. They made short work of the kitchen and retired to the couch, each with their chosen wine in hand. Barbara had made sure to set Sam Cooke on repeat so that their musical accompaniment would not cease for the evening's duration. Moira appreciated the music, the dinner and the companionship, she stated. "This all brings back memories I didn't think I'd ever have a chance to enjoy again, Barb. Been too long since we just sat and talked." Barbara replied through another sip of chardonnay. "I agree, honey. Seems like we never take time just for ourselves anymore, but that's the way it's always been. Even now I don't have half the time I'd like to spend doing thing I enjoy, even with Chuck working so much and the kids off on their own. But I've started to consider what I need to do for me now more than ever. Have to, really." Moira gazed at Barbara with a curious visage. "What do you mean, have to, Barb? Are things going South between you and Chuck?" Barbara took a moment, hesitating with her answer, an obvious look of contempt twisting her face. "I found out he's been screwing around on me, AGAIN. Son of a bitch wasn't even considerate enough to hide it this time." Moira sighed in concert with the look of pure agony on Barbara's face and shook her head. "Why do we put up with this shit? I mean, where is our pride? I'd like to think both of us were smart enough to know the difference between what we get and what we deserve after all these years. Goddamn it." Barbara took another sip off of her chardonnay and made a circular motion with her right hand over her head. "Right now the only thing I care about is what I'll do now. Far as I am concerned I earned this house and everything in it with all of the shit Chuck put me through all these years. I'm not worried in the slightest about losing what I've worked towards, honey. This is all mine now." Moira took an odd look at her friend and asked "What do you mean by that?" "Oh, he's dead meat as far as I am concerned. I'll make sure he never again sees one iota of what belongs to me." Now Moira Barrett was starting to get concerned, even spooked a bit. "What do you mean? Barb, you're not planning to do anything to him, are you?" Barbara heard the concern in her voice and busted out with a laugh half-colored with pain, half with relief. "God, honey, no. I mean I plan to take the whipping stick to him figuratively, not realistically. Clean and dress him in public, as it were." Moira relaxed at that revelation and took a sip off of her chablis. "Goodness me, I thought you were talking about something more sinister. I'm sorry, Barb. I didn't mean to assume..." Barbara cut her off. "It's okay, really it is. I just decided I am not putting up with his shit any longer." Moira nodded at that. "So what happens now? Do you know who he's been screwing? Have you got that far yet?" Barbara nodded. "Nothing happens now except me moving forward with my life. I didn't ask who he's fucking and I don't care, really. Who doesn't matter so much as that he did it again. I won't allow him to do this to me again." "Good for you, babe. You deserve so much better than what you have withstood far." Moira said. "Don't I know it, honey. And everyone gets what they deserve eventually." "I wish I believed in that, Barb." Moira said. "But so far the proof hasn't been in the pudding." "Of course not, not so far. But eventually it shows up somewhere. I believe that now more than anything, the way I feel." Moira nodded once again in agreement and looked at the face of her friend. There was a calm that had come over Barbara at the tail end of her last statement, a certainty in her words that belied a fierce belief in the balance she now claimed as her right. Moira felt compelled to say something prophetic, or at least appropriate. "Lord, I wish I had your strength, honey." Moira at last replied. "I mean, you are facing so many changes right about now, and you're sitting there as sure as anyone I've ever seen. What are you thinking right now? Can you tell me that?" Barbara nodded and said "I am thinking we need more wine and some dancing music. I feel ready to boogie!" She climbed off of the couch and retrieved both bottles of wine from the refrigerator, and then in flurry of activity refilled both glasses, changed the soundtrack of revelation from Sam Cooke to Steely Dan and grabbed Moira's hand, urging her on to dance. Moira resisted gently at first, but finally agreed and the two old friends danced in Barbara's living room as they had not in almost twenty years. "Are you reeling in the years?" asked the voice of Donald Fagen, and Lord they were, reliving the days they'd never believed were possible again, right there on a Sunday evening in Texas. As they whirled and twirled and laughed to themselves and none other, one turn led Moira's chest into Barbara's own, and as she backed away gently, she felt Barbara's hand grip hers firmly and pull it down around her inner thigh. Moira looked at her old friend in disbelief at the gesture, pulling her hand away slowly, but Barbara, a feral determination in her eyes and enough wine to become so emboldened, leaned forward and thrust her lips upon those of her dancing partner, drawing her entire form into her arms. As Moira's look of surprise melted away, so did her resistance, and with a joy in her face that replaced the frustration that had colored it earlier, Barbara Reynolds led Moira Barrett into her bedroom and closed the door gently. ** They made love with one another as women know, as only women can appreciate; hands, lips, breasts and tongues exploring softly, easily and happily. The melodic accompaniment of the music was just loud enough to where their sapphic rhythms could match it on occasion, and the middle-aged women turned back the clock on their laughter as they had their one-time romance, a little secret withheld from their respective husbands over the years. After all, back in those days, bedding with a woman wasn't as sexy or alluring as it seemed now, but still they explored before laying the liaison aside in favor of more traditional lifestyles. Perhaps they were as much adulterers now as their husbands, but staying true to their vows for so long had returned nothing but grief and frustration thus far, and as each shook in the grasp of the other in many orgasms, the men that had done them wrong so often were a distant consideration for one night. Moira arose early in the morning, placing a gentle kiss on the forehead of her old friend as she lay naked upon the top of her bedsheets. Admiring the slender, gently carved results of Barbara's gym work, Moira thought of how beautiful she looked in that moment, then she walked into the bathroom and replaced her clothes and made herself presentable for the one-and-a-half hour drive home. Stepping out of the bathroom, Moira looked once again at her momentary lover and thought "Hot damn, not bad for two old broads." She then walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and grabbed the container that held her lunch. And with that, she was gone. ** Barbara arose later than usual, decided in her euphoria work wasn't a necessity for the day and dialed in her excuse promptly at 8:00 a.m. As she put her robe on, she walked into the kitchen and rubbed her forehead, vaguely aware of the amount of wine she'd had the night before and the bouncing escapade she'd shared with Moira. As she thought of her friend, a pleased smile crossed her face at the thought and on that she lounged again on her couch, comfy and satisfied at the way things had turned out. As she gazed upon the still-rising sun from her lounging perch on the sofa, she again thought to herself what a wonderful evening it had been. ** Bustle and more bustle. Moira had been run ragged with an atypically busy schedule of clients that Monday, a psychiatrist's nightmare when structure is the order of the day. She looked at the clock on the wall and thought to herself order of the day, indeed. In the rush to get home and get ready for work, she hadn't eaten breakfast, and now that noontime showed itself, she was famished. Moira pulled the container of chili out of the plastic bag she'd carried it in and set it on her desk. An envelope slid out of the bag as she set it down, pink paper, with her name etched across it in Barbara's elegant handwriting. Moira tore it open and looked at the card enclosed; it had a single rose on the front of it. As she opened it, she read these words: "Moira, I just wanted to write this for you to thank you for spending an evening with me and to let you know how much I always admired your taste. Have a good one, Barbara." A smile creeped onto the harried face of Moira Barrett as she tore open her lunch with her left hand, reaching for the spoon with her right hand, she then turned to eat her lunch. ** "You think she'll be alright?" one of the office assistants inquired of the lead investigator at the scene. "I never heard anyone scream like that." "Yeah." said the cop. "She just got one hell of a shock, as you well know." The investigator motioned to the evidence team to seal the office with tape, then instructed his junior man to ride with the ambulance to the hospital. "Make sure she gives us a statement, Freeman. I want it as fresh as possible, understand?" "Yes, sir, I got it. Anything else you want me to do, sir?" The cop shook his head no and walked towards the desk, surveying the mess of papers, office supplies and greasy sauce sprayed all over the place. Leaning down, he observed what greeted the eyes of Moira Barrett before she had recoiled in absolute horror, screaming bloody murder: Two feet from the desk, separated now from the gold-banded ring finger that had also been enclosed with the chili, lay the severed penis that once belonged to a Charles David Reynolds, reported missing since Friday evening when he failed to appear for a hunting trip with several business associates south of Llano. The cop reached down and picked up the card that had enclosed, noting some writing on the rear of it, now stained with the remnants of gravy and carpet fibers. He wasn't sure of the exact wording upon the paper, but he reasoned it said this: "Now you know why I admired your taste so much, my dear friend. Having tasted both my husband and I, which do you prefer? Love, The Butcher." |