Welcome Home

The salty smell of ham wrapped her in a warm hug as she stepped through the doorway. A softly hummed nonsensical tune mingled with the click of a utensil against a pot. Goosebumps shivered up her arm, bringing the hair to attention as she quietly set her suitcase down on the rug. She reached out, finding the hard plastic of the light switch, but didn’t turn it on. She closed her eyes and trailed her hand along the wallpaper as she crept down the hallway. The smooth gold stamped pinstripe followed by the slightly bumpy texture of the teal pinstripe. 

“One, two, three,” she counted each pinstripe under her breath, feeling the wind of her words rush past her lips. The brush of her sneakers on the short shag of the rug was unnaturally loud to her ears, like someone exhaling into a microphone. The hallway was short and ended at thirteen. The humming stopped.

“Dee?” The rich baritone word slithered like a snake from the direction of the kitchen. She shivered and her body settled into an aftershock of tremors. “You can head straight to the dining room and make yourself comfortable. I made your favorite.”

She detached her tongue from the roof of her mouth with a wet pop and licked her lips with what little moisture was left. She opened her eyes and stepped from the hallway. The kitchen was a bright spotlight in the open-concept living area. The living room on the other side was a black hole of darkness with shadows of a couch, recliner, and framed photographs on the mantle. In between the light of the kitchen and the shadows of the living room was the dining table set with flickering candles that reflected in the bay window. The rest of the illumination on the table came from the white full moon looking down on the scene.

He stood at the island that separated the kitchen area from the dining area, the sleeves of his pale blue dress shirt rolled up to his tanned forearms, but she focused on the carving knife in his hand. The silver of the knife flashed as it slid into the ham on the counter, sending the tangy scent wafting over to her. Her formerly dry mouth flooded with sour saliva at the smell and she gulped the rancid taste down before she gagged. Her stomach rumbled a traitorous reverberation. He looked up and smiled. “What are you still doing over there? You must be famished. Go - sit.” He gestured at the table with the knife. A fond chuckle, a prelude as he started to hum once again. This time the tune was familiar, something classical like Mozart or Beethoven. 

She walked over to the table, casually reaching into the pocket of her jeans, and closed her fingers around her phone. Her finger and thumb settled against the side buttons. She let out the breath she had been holding as she sat down. The table was set with the good china, gold-lined scalloped edges bordered the pink roses that circled the center. Reaching out, she traced a finger along cool hard edges, counting each curved indentation and matching her breathing to the numbers. One, warm air with the hint of waxy smoke from the candles inhaled through her nose. Two, stop with the breath trapped in her lungs. She could feel it brimming at the back of her throat like a glass full of water. Three, a slow steady exhale like a slow leaking tire. 

As she concentrated on her breathing, she caught snippets of movement as he moved back and forth from the kitchen to the table ferrying the various dishes he had prepared. The scents of cheesy scalloped potatoes and the fresh earthiness of the green peas and carrots of the mixed vegetables coalesced with his hummed tune until it finally reached its orchestral crescendo with the ham on a slightly tarnished silver platter set in front of her. 

He stood at her right shoulder, his chest pressed against her as he leaned over and moved two slices of ham to her dish. He stabbed a pineapple ring with his fork and placed it on top of the slices on her plate. He paused as he was moving back, his lips brushing against her ear. “I know you like your salty sweet.” His breath tickled her lobe. His fingers closed around her shoulder, digging in a short squeeze before releasing the pressure and moving to her other side to dish up the rest of her meal. 

“Th…” Her words strangled as if a hand had closed around her throat. He moved to the other side of the table and dished himself his meal and poured them each a glass of water from the crystal pitcher. “Thank you.” She finally managed to say as he took his seat. “Everything looks so lovely.” She didn’t recognize her voice, it sounded so soft and placating, not her usual confident tones.

He grinned at the compliment and ducked his head as if he were bashful from the praise. “I wanted to do something nice for you. You work so hard.” He picked up his knife and fork and cut a piece of his ham. “How was your trip?”

“Good.” She picked up her fork, fumbling and dropping it with a clang on the plate. She retrieved it and pushed the vegetables around her plate with a scrape of the tines on the china like fingernails on a chalkboard. “It was good.” She squeezed her phone in her pocket, feeling a current of reassurance straighten her spine. She lifted her gaze from her plate and met his for the first time. “How was your week?”

“Busy.” He sipped at his water. “I had a lot of preparations to do.”

“A full to-do list then.” She tried on a smile. Her lips felt stiff and alien like the wax lips they used to sell at convenience stores. 

“Yes, you could say that.” He laughed. The delighted sound screeched in her ears and a lightning bolt of pain struck behind her left eye. “You haven’t eaten anything. Take a bite, please, and let me know that all of my hard work was worth it.”

“No.” The lightning strikes behind her eyes was a full-on electric storm. Her fork fell to the hardwood floor with a clatter as she bowed her head and pressed her hand to her forehead to try and calm the chaos. With her other hand, she pushed the side buttons on her phone so hard she could feel the plastic molding indents into the pads of her fingertips. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, if you won’t eat, then I guess you should call the police.” He took a bite of his potatoes and dabbed at his lips with the napkin. “That would be the conventional response.” He huffed a sigh to signal his disappointment and impatiently swiped at his vegetables. 

“911,” the professional voice was barely audible from within her pocket. 

She lifted her head to look at the stranger sitting across from her. Her skull was a throbbing hive of angry buzzing bees. “Where’s my family?”