Mephibosheth

Armed with a tin of homemade cookies, I grabbed an iron knocker, rapping on the huge oaken doors of my employer's sprawling Victorian.

Nothing. I scowled at the coffered door panels. You couldn't see a thing inside.

I rang the doorbell.

The sun had sunk below the horizon. Although the temperature wasn't that low, the wind was ice cold. I pulled my coat tight around my body.

In retrospect, my pinafore, although cute, probably hadn't been the best thing to wear that time of year, I just thought it looked a bit classier than my other outfits.

I knocked again, taking out my invitation.

When I heard the rusty squeak and loud thunk of my mailbox at three in the morning a few days ago, I thought I'd dreamed it, but when I got up, I'd discovered an envelope waiting for me.

No stamp or return address. That, and the scent of cologne and potting soil clued me in to the identity of the sender. I did, after all, live on his property.

My employer, curiously old fashioned, had closed the envelope with a wax seal. What I unfolded could have easily been framed and sent to the Smithsonian. High quality, ancient looking paper, elaborate longhand, apparently etched with an old fashioned quill and inkwell. The message, though, seemed like a ridiculous waste of effort and resource:

Dear Ms. Summers,

You are cordially invited to a Christmas cookie exchange

December 17, 6 PM

At the Main House.

Festive wishes and warmest regards,

MBC

I smirked as I recalled my first meeting with Mephibosheth Chandler. "Do you realize your initials sound like a television network?" I'd asked.

He answered with an easy chuckle. "My favorite station."

Conveniently enough, I'd been provided with a cabin featuring a modern stove, and the grocery store lay within walking distance, so I got a few dozen cooked up the night before.

I checked my phone. It was after six. I glanced back at the circle drive, but didn't see any cars, just a dry stone fountain with mermaids. The only cookies I smelled were the ones in the tin, sugar and chocolate chip. I feared they'd end up cold by the time someone let me in.

I considered calling the man, but he was behind the times, even if Gasconade County hadn't been a rural community with limited phone and internet service, he only used landline phones, so I'd likely get the answering machine in the hallway.

The cold decided for me. I shivered, my finger hovering over the speed dial entry marked M.

Before I touched the screen, the door cracked open with an eerie moan. "My apologies for not answering sooner. I confess I got to a late start with my own cookies, and was in the kitchen finishing up when you knocked the first time."

My employer, Mr. Mephibotheth Chandler.

Tall, square jawed, blonde hair in a stylish bouffant, body shrouded in his favorite old greatcoat he seldom took off. "You must me freezing. Please, come in and warm yourself by the fire."

Although his English was better than Schwarzenegger's, you could tell he was German by the heavy accent. It made me uneasy when I first interviewed for the position, but the man was soft spoken, and really a sweetie. It just goes to show that not every German is a Hitler fan.

Trembling from the cold, I eagerly followed him into the foyer. I never understood why they didn't give me a key.

Stone walls, lovely framed portraits, a suit of armor, and a fancy grandfather clock. I once more found myself admiring the stained glass on the second floor landing.

The windows looked spectacular in the daytime, but somewhat eerie at night with only the chandelier and moonlight to illuminate them. I kept meaning to ask my employer about the symbolism, but other things kept distracting me, and I'd forget. 

The smells of baking cookies wafted through the air, mingled with baking bread, boiled potatoes, meats and sauerkraut, reminding me that I probably should have eaten dinner before coming over. Ordinarily that kind of thing wouldn't make my stomach gurgle, but my mouth was actually watering.

Okay, well, I thought to myself, the cookies will tide me over until later.

We entered an empty drawing room, a large, open, painting bedecked place with couches, racks of wine, and a small library. I set my cookies on a coffee table. "It's after six. Where are your other guests?"

Mr. Chandler led me to an overstuffed armchair facing a roaring fire, giving my an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid the turnout is not going to be as large as anticipated. We'll have to make do with our friends from around the property."

The man took an armchair opposite to me. His ears were huge, but I found them endearing. "Were you treated respectfully in town yesterday?" Noticing my blank look, he added, "When you were grocery shopping?"

The man had been spying on me. I should have felt alarmed, but instead actually felt kind of comforted.

Although everything, including the IGA, lay within walking distance, you didn't see many black people on my side of the railroad tracks, especially after sundown. 

German town. Oktoberfest was big around there.

"Um, more or less. Nobody gave me any trouble, if that's what you mean."

"How was the service? At the store?"

I shrugged. One time I complained to him about a rude clerk at the local Sinclair station and the next day the guy got fired. Mr. Chandler had some serious influence over the town. I hesitated to say much of anything negative at all. "It's good. Didn't have any complaints."

I thought about how a female checker smiled at me. "They're real friendly."

"That's...goot to hear."

After I'd thawed out a little, other guests began to file in, stocky old Ben Henderson, the groundskeeper, waddled up to the coffee table with his cookies in a paper bag. The man always walked around with rumpled clothes, five o' clock shadow and heavy bags under his eyes, so I doubted he'd made them from scratch...or even used an oven.

He forced a smile through his thick jowls when we looked at each other. I smiled back to be polite.

The bird faced town doctor, Julia Whitaker, followed him. She'd brought her stuff in a glittery red gift bag. "Ben...Latisha..." The woman nodded to us.

"Good evening madam," the bloodshot eyed groundskeeper answered.

Julia always made me feel underdressed. At the moment she had on a white pullover with a boating blazer and a gold necklace, a pair of crisp tan slacks. I'll never forget that look she gave when she caught me wearing that one pair of revealing stretch leggings.

"Where's Willie?" That was the boy I'd been hired to tutor. He practically never left my side whenever I came to the Main House.

"Visiting his mother."

I frowned. From what I've heard, Willie's mom hadn't been in the boy's life for a decade, and now she was in town, making up for lost time. Kinda sounded like my father. 

The trouble was, this could spell the end of my job. "You think...he's going to stay with her?"

"I'm...not sure."

Mr. Chandler seemed to pick up on my upset. "Rest assured, Ms. Summers, whatever happens, your employment is not in jeopardy. We can always find a place for you at the winery, or the grounds, if you prefer. I do not doubt there will be other children."

"Thank you," I stammered. "I...I'd appreciate that, though I will miss being his tutor."

He nodded. "As will I. But if he's happy, it's for the best, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, sir. I know exactly what that's like."

Mephibosheth gave me a thoughtful look. "Perhaps that is why you and William get along so famously."

He glanced at a clock and clapped his hands. "Forgive me, I must attend to the cooking before something burns. Be back momentarily."

During me and Mr. C's conversation, his other two guests had been having a discussion of their own, something about a box in the boiler room, and something about a cure. The moment my host departed, they both clammed up, staring nervously at me.

I attempted to break the ice. "So, uh, Ms. Whitaker...How's business? Patients keeping you...occupied?"

I noted a look of discomfort on her face. For a moment, it seemed like she...couldn't even remember her job. "Oh? Oh yes, very busy! It's flu season, and *with all the family members coming to visit people in town..." She nonverbally telegraphed `Madness!'

"How's the heat at your cabin?" Ben's voice was low, gravelly, almost inaudible.

One perk of my job was the cute little one bedroom cabin I got to live in, rent free. TV, fridge, wifi, fireplace, no central heat or air, a little drafty, but everyone agreed I had a sweet job. I was practically next door to Gasconade Cellars Winery, got discounts, free samples... "Pretty good, I've had apartments that were worse. The space heaters are working great, and I still got plenty of firewood...thanks for that, by the way."

The man looked slightly pleased. "Just doin' what the Master tells me...I hear someday we'll get a contractor here to get a furnace put in for ye, if you're still stayin' with us."

Ms. Whitaker elbowed him.

"I mean, if you want to stay with us for that long."

Mephibosheth brought out a tray of cookies, and we had our little exchange. He even set up a little hot plate to warm the other ones up a bit. Ben confessed to using frozen premade dough, but nobody complained. Everyone gave me compliments on mine, though I wondered if they were sincere. In fact, Ms. Whitaker had frowned and picked a walnut shell out of hers. I personally found Mephibosheth's cookies to be the best, with those amazing German chocolate morsels.

After the other two guests had their samples of baked goodies, Ms. Whitaker checked her phone and promptly excused herself. "I'm sorry, I have a patient to attend to. It seems he's contracted the Coronavirus."

Ben, likewise, seemed to be in a hurry to leave. I think he even checked the clock to make sure his departure time measured precisely seventeen minutes after the woman departed, as to make it look like they weren't conspiring together.

Mr. Chandler pulled his armchair up closer to mine. "Ms. Summers...may I call you Latisha?"

I gave him a nod. "I've told you before, I don't mind."

He looked visibly relieved. "That's a lovely dress you're wearing."

My cheeks colored somewhat. "T-thank you."

"Latisha. I am very happy that you decided to come tonight, and bake us those cookies. It is so lonely in this big house, I am always glad to see you...would you terribly mind dining with me tonight?"

I blushed. "Um..."

He had this expression on his face like he already knew the answer, but he still asked, "I'm sorry, that was presumptuous of me. Did you eat before you came over?"

I confessed that I was starving.

"Das goot. Come with me."

I'd been in the man's kitchen enough, cooking for Willie. He had a huge dining room, but we only used that for parties or family gatherings.

Although the house, by and large, looked old fashioned, this part had been renovated. Stainless steel and Formica counters, chrome industrial range, fridge with an ice machine that could make three different kinds of ice. A lot of new polished cherry cabinets, but they also had a few well maintained heirloom pieces as well, like the oak buffet.

The smells greeting me as I walked in were heavenly.

I saw now it wasn't just brats, he'd cooked up mashed potatoes in German salad style, roast beef stew, a hearty bread, all kinds of stuff.

Having been employed there awhile, I'd tried some German cuisine, but nothing, to my knowledge, personally prepared by my boss, and not all that. In fact, the other cooks sort of steered me toward American traditional food, or Italian.

It didn't escape my notice that he probably didn't go through all this trouble on his own account. My employer ate like a bird. When he pulled out chair at the little bistro table in the back of the room, I balked. "Um, Mr. Chandler..."

"Mephy, please."

"Right. Um, Mephy. I..." 

Was this what I thought it was, or merely a friendly dinner? I didn't want to be rude to my employer, but if he thought...

"Please. Take a seat."

I swallowed. So far, he'd been very kind and decent to me, excessively generous, and well, he was a very handsome man...

"Am I making you uncomfortable, Ms. Summers? If I am, you are certainly free to leave, but do take some of my cooking with you, I wouldn't want it to go to waste."

Feeling my face getting warm, I quickly took the offered seat, my brain telling me that nothing needed to happen if I didn't want it to, that he might just want to talk...and I was single. "So...Mephibosheth...I've been meaning to ask for a long time...No offense, but how did you get such a weird name?"

The man chuckled. "My parents named me after the cripple in 2 Samuel. ``What is your servant, that you should notice a dead dog like me?' I think it oddly fitting." He set a plate of his cooking in front of me, gazing into my eyes. "How is your brother? Have you spoken to him recently?"

I sighed. Brad's situation had been the last thing I wanted to think about that evening. It always made me feel so helpless. "No, I don't think he even has a phone. He's probably still sleeping on that damn overpass like he was when I left." I faltered, holding back tears.

"I see that the topic disturbs you. I'm sorry I brought it up."

I saw what I thought to be genuine caring in that face.

A few months back, some of my friends were drinking, and they got into a car, driving down one of the two narrow bridges leading into town. The bridge had been iced over. They swerved out of the way of an oncoming car, rolled over the rail into the iced over river below.

When I heard about them pulling the bodies out of the river, I had been weeping on my front stoop. I thought I'd never stop, but then Mephibosheth had appeared out of the dark, putting his arm around my shoulder. I cried into his chest like a little baby, and he rocked me until I found myself drifting off. I awoke in my own bed, in the same clothes from the night before. I thought I'd dreamed the whole thing until I found a note from him saying, "Things will get better."

I decided he deserved a little more from me. "It's okay. It's just really sad, I don't know. I tried everything I could for him, but it just doesn't do any good. They have rehabilitation programs for the homeless, but he still thinks he's going to make it big as a rap star. Refuses to get a regular job." I shook my head. "Every time I talk to him, it's like he's in his own little world, doing an interview on VH1's Behind the Music or something, when he doesn't even have a roof over his head. And the more he's out there, the crazier he gets. He doesn't even know who I am anymore."

I started feeling awkward for telling him all that. "I'm sorry, I..."

He grabbed my hand, giving a reassuring squeeze. "Thank you for telling me this. I don't know what Behind the Music is, but I have known...homeless individuals who play the great man. I'm sorry you have to deal with something like that."

His food was excellent, and so was the wine. I tried a kind of German macaroni and cheese with fried onion, pickles and bacon wrapped in beef slices...I ate a lot, complimented him on everything.

Mephy got a plate for himself, again, bird sized portions. He offered me a China bowl. "More badedos?"

I shook my head. "I'm way too full."

"A pity. I made cake." He leaned over the table. "I confess I haven't been completely honest with you...Latisha. Would you be terribly upset if I told you that yours was the only official invitation I sent?"

I stared. "You mean this was all just a ruse to get me to eat dinner with you?"

The look on his face told me everything. "Those were delicious cookies, but..." He sighed. "I just wanted to be with you."

"I...don't know what to say."

He took my hand again. "I do not want you to feel pressured. If you do not have the same feelings for me that I have for you, you will still retain your job. I'll send you to your cabin with the leftovers, and a bottle of my best vintage, and this will be the last time I will ever try to-"

I didn't let him finish. 

I liked him. I trusted him. I appreciated his caring, and his cooking, and let him know how much with my lips.

"Oh my, how forward," he gasped, reciprocating. We ended up getting food on our clothing.

I pulled away, embarrassed, but hot, wiping my elbows clean with a napkin.

After scrubbing the spots from his greatcoat, he came around to my chair, and we kissed some more.

All of a sudden, his eyes got a wild look and I saw his canines elongating, like something out of a movie. "Mr. C-" I blurted.

It was like I'd dumped ice water on his head. "Oh God, what have I done?" He blinked several times, staring at me in horror. "Leave me!"

Although breathing heavily, and warm all over, the yelling shook me into action, and I fled.