A frail woman in her early sixties slowly steps inside the footsteps preserved in the snow, a ticked path of the ten paces it takes to get from the garage to back door. She is carrying a dish draped with a hand towel, carefully watching herself on her way.
“Boeuf Bourguignon! French beef stew in red wine.” In the front room, we can hear the Zenith roundie humming with snippets of the jolly voice of Julia Child. The French Chef is guiding Kristie through a dinner she is preparing.
Ten years ago, 1956, late February, was the last time her family was together. Robert and Sara, her son and his new fiancé, are finally able to come up from California. Her youngest, Emily and husband Joseph, live just two streets over on Elm. They’d shared beef stew back then, how fitting that tonight she is showing off her newest obsession. French cooking. Kristie always had been a genius in the kitchen and by becoming empty nesters she could afford the time and finances necessary to hone her talent into technical skill.
“Oh, Bernard?” She sing-song shouts through the avocado cottage corridor. Her quivery deep voice bounces off the glass panes protecting the various family pictures documenting her children’s childhood and adolescence.
She hears no answer.
-
He tends to ignore her, especially on the days she stops him from stealing bits of her cooking. Why would this time be different? The salty smell of searing meat is as tantalizing to Bernard as a guilt-free night out trying on shoes at the Macy’s downtown. She can’t tempt him out of the cellar with old shoes, and it goes against everything she stands for to offer up a precious morsel of any fatty ingredient before it’s prime.
“Bernard, please. Please come out and answer me. A-are you getting ready for dinner?” Her voice breaks, aware of his stubborn sass.
“I’ll let you have a taste if you could please come out an-,” she stops. A portrait of her family is painted gold by a strip of light. The sun must be going down.
Most days she’s able to catch the sun setting from the front porch. Back in summer and fall, Thursdays after Bernard would get home from work they would sit out on their Bunting cushioned lawn chairs. Rocking back and forth while the neighbor kids ride their bikes, kick their balls, and scream at one another. Not unlike what Robert and sweet Emily had done.
-
“And I’m going to put it in the oven.” The TV is singing, slowly grounding Kristie back in reality.
She decides to drift back to the kitchen and check the oven.
Setting a yellow le Creuset stuffed with three pounds of meaty chunks, mushrooms, onions, back into the radiating cooker she remembers a light may still be on in the garage, and how about the door? She assumes she must be forgetful lately.
“Now this is going to go in a 325 oven, and it should cook very… very slowly. Just at a bare simmer.”
Still, the TV is working her out of stasis. The heat of the sun radiates her glossy eyelids, the familiar voice of the French Chef, reminds her she will soon feed her family. Her cheeks warm now in a solemn smile.
-
Truth is, Bernard has been missing for about two weeks now. She prefers to assume he is a pest. The unhappy reality of her past is easier to swallow than the horror of her present.
Like the repeated ringing from the doorbell, she remembers how pointless seeking her husband’s attention has always been. To Kristie, he never left.
-
“Mom!” Emily, who sounds a lot like Kristie, who sounds a lot like Julia, “mom, we’re just going to come in!”
“It’s freezing out there,” Joseph adds as they walk into the front room, it’s green and glowing with the sunset light. Warmer now with them in it.
“Oh, Emily! Hi! I hope you all are hungry, I’ve been working all day on this and I jus-,” she kisses Emily on the cheek, squeezes Joseph. “I just can’t wait to hear all about what you’ve been up to.”
Emily dives in for another hug. She breathes in the onion, butter, garlic, all the smells of growing up.
She notices her eyes linger a respectful moment on the window framing her mother’s backyard. She notes the side door to the garage is open, a thin strip of incandescence is leaking out the garage. She is worried her mom is in the ranks of the old and forgetful.
Robert and Sarah walk into the spotlight. Robert is holding an arrangement of gladiolas. An offering to his mother, significant in memory of his father.
“Mom,” Robert says, holding the floral arrangement in his left hand, reaches around Emily rests his free hand on his mother’s far shoulder. Immediately he recognizes that she’s not filling in her apron like she used to. His concern for his mother’s mortality spreads to his eyelids.
“I’m so happy you’re here! Please get comfy, sit down! I’m sure dinner is about ready!” Their mother gestures to the dining room. Table set to aces: rolls, red gingham placemats, all the fixings for a three-course meal.
Robert and Sarah make their way into the dining room, coats and sweaters now dress the seat backs.
Remembering the light outside, Emily paces the dining room and foyer. “Don’t wait for me! I’m just going to go check on this light,” she says holding Robert’s line of sight. She walks toward the kitchen, where her mother went. “Mom, you left a light on, I’ll go get it. Be back in a jiffy.”
The backyard is cold. The crunch of footsteps stalks her into the doorway.
She can make out a figure, is that a man?
No, that’s impossible.
Propped up in a chair matching the set on the porch, is her father. He is blue. And cold.
Looking down she sees intestines spread out on the ground. And a leg is missing.
How long has the door been open?
And how about the light?
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