This is Good

Trigger Warning; mention of substance abuse and physical violence

Now, you’re going to want to baste as often as you can. You may feel glued to your oven, but this is more than a Thanksgiving Turkey. This is love, pure and simple.

It wasn’t thanksgiving. Not in a November-sense. It was a day for giving thanks, truly, and the growing feast was evidence enough of that.

Beverly basted, running her hands lovingly over the family recipe as though she hadn’t memorized it for two decades already. Her thoughts drifted with a lazy smile back to her first time cooking a family meal.

Her father had come home and greeted mother at the door. Mother put a finger to her lips and led father inside, to show him a nine year old Beverly, donning mother’s apron, bustling about the kitchen. Beverly struggled to drain congealed pasta, and tripped over her own feet to douse the burner under the unseasoned tomato paste, hinting at an unwelcome crust forming at the base of the pot. Beverly fetched something resembling giant garlic croutons from the oven, and looked around helplessly. 

Her family sat around the table awaiting Beverly’s meal. Beverly wrung her hands, breathed shallow breaths, and felt a subtle sting in her eyes. Father was the first to move, helping himself to a large chunk of gelatinous noodle, tar flaked sauce, and two rock-like slices of garlic bread. Beverly wanted to look away, but her morbid curiosity won over. She watched as her father shoveled a bite of the waste on his plate. There was quiet, and everyone was watching father while Beverly’s attention was stuck on mother. There was a smile hinting at the edges of mother’s mouth. Suddenly, there was a sickening crunch from father. Eyes snapped back over to see his jaw struggling to chew through the garlicky brick, and his face was as red as the putrid sauce as he choked out “this is good.” The crunch reverberated up the stairwell, back down into the dining room, and was followed by a shrill, sharp bark of laughter from mother.

Beverly looked on in horror while her siblings followed suit crunching their bread, while mother failed to get herself under control. Beverly met her father’s gaze, and he gave her a warm smile, full of appreciation. Beverly felt her heart swell with renewed determination. The very next day, father came home with a brand new cookbook, and Beverly howled with laughter. This gift would be of great use for many years.

As a grown woman with children of her own, she smiles at the memory father’s attempt to keep his little girl from spilling tears. She grasped the ring in her pocket, willing away tears now, missing him, missing the time she could have had with him before he passed on. The egg timer went off, stirring Beverly out of the past. She washed her hands. It was time to begin whipping up a pie, perhaps two, and clear the table for settings. It would be nice to have company again, like the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays of her youth and early adulthood. 

The very first time Beverly hosted a holiday for family and friends, she was nearly seventeen, and her stomach had been a bundle of nerves. She could not stop herself from wringing her hands through her apron, itching away at every little grain of flour, every little bead of sweat.

“Beverly!” mother had said, “I need you here.” Beverly moved to her mother’s side. “Take this,” Mother handed over a large covered dish, “to the dining room, refresh the snacks in the sitting room, and hustle.”

Beverly made her way to the table. On her way back, she was nearly bowled over by a young man swiftly making his way through the house. 

“My apologies ms.” He said, grasping her by the elbow.

“My mistake,” she said, “I should have been looking.”

“I was practically running, very ungentlemanly. I struggle with large gatherings.” He said. “You look like you must be a Delaware?” she nodded, and he continued, “My name is Jepsom Gracey. I am pleased to meet you.” he leaned in, lowering his voice considerably, “and more pleased we are not related.” Beverly felt herself shiver at his words, his touch suddenly feeling burning hot, and she almost dared to respond when,

“Beverly!” Her mother said, calling from the doorway, “I believe I said hurry. Your bird needs basting.” Mother eyed the two young people, motioned for Beverly, and the moment was over. Beverly offered Jepsom an apologetic smile and hurried back to her mother’s side, unable to control the scandalous smile.

That was the first of many nervous and exciting experiences, as youth melted and gave way to adulthood. Back then, Beverly had used her gifts in the kitchen as a way to impress, to gain affirmation, and even to garner a little attention.The memory of their first encounter almost stings as she sets her hands on the counter, bare, and retrieves her ring from its resting place. She stopped wearing his ring for almost a year, instead favoring this old antique. Careful habit ensured she never wore it while cooking, but the tug in her heart for comfort saw her squeezing it on. It‘s a little too tight, but it serves its purpose. 

There is a knock at the door, shaking Beverly from her thoughts. As she approaches, she can hear hushed voices. 

“Beverly!” Says Cecilia, Beverly’s longtime friend, “You look…” Cecilia took a good long look at her friend, “better.” She finally said.

They shared a fierce hug. “I feel better.” Beverly said, and she stepped aside to let her friend and the following husband, Harvey, and children inside. “I will be in the kitchen for a few more hours at least, you are welcome to accompany me, or to put on some music or television. Boys are out back setting up some games.” and headed back to the kitchen.

This was… nice. Cecilia had not been over to enjoy a holiday with Beverly since… well.

That Thanksgiving, Beverly’s sons were only 4 and 5 years old. It was oddly gray in the house, as it had been of late. Over the last few years, fewer loved ones made appearances regardless of Beverly’s efforts. For at least a decade prior, her house had been bustling with energy, color, life. Eventually Beverly noticed the music echoing through the halls was quieter. There were fewer nieces and nephews until there were none. Perhaps one loved one stopped coming each year until the difference was noticeable, and she just had not put it together until her young children had no cousins to play with. 

That thanksgiving, the only guest who showed was Cecilia, and a very reluctant Harvey. Beverly wondered at the tension upon greeting, and wanted to ask, except the look Jepsom sent her when she tried to open her mouth reminded her firmly to keep her stupid thoughts to herself. She was reminded the only thing she was good for was keeping the house clean, and keeping her men fed. No one was going to give her a penny for her thoughts, but he might be tempted to give her a fist for them. She had shuddered, involuntarily, and that was enough for Jepsom. 

He slammed a fist on the table, glaring, and Beverly shook. She hardly registered Cecilia had stood with such a sudden force that the chair toppled behind her.

“Jepsom.” Beverly heard Cecilia say, “Mind sharing what is worth forgoing gentlemanly manners at the dinner table?”

“You don’t like my manners, you can leave. You have no place telling me how to behave in my own home.”

“I have every place to tell you how you will not be treating her in her own home.”

“Boys,” Beverly said, barely above a mumble, “you may be excused.”

“Bev,” Cecilia said, “you need to come home with me tonight. You and the boys. He is in no right mind to speak with you tonight. And you,” she said, wheeling a finger toward Jepsom, “mind your drunken p’s and q’s before Harvey sends you through that window.”

The rest of Beverly’s memories of that night dissolved into one darkening mass of Cecilia’s tears, and Harvey putting a hole in the wall with Jepsom’s back. That night ended Beverly’s privileges of having friends in the home, for holidays or any other reason.

Beverly didn’t talk about that night when she called Cecilia these months later, and Cecilia didn’t ask. Cecilia accepted immediately, and asked if she should bring her own children over. Beverly hesitated only for a moment before letting Cecilia know that Jepsom was bedridden, doctor’s orders, and may likely never leave his bed again. 

Having Cecilia back in her home felt like the world was coming to right once more. Cecilia, perched on a barstool, asked, “So… what did the doctors say is wrong with him?”

Beverly remembered to remove her ring, and place it gently in her pocket before picking up a glass, and began to polish. “You know, they don’t know. It’s like his body is attacking itself. I asked if it could have been the drinking, but they only shrugged their shoulders.” She fixed Cecilia with a pointed stare, set down the glass, and absentmindedly fiddled with her old ring. “Likely, they won’t know until he is autopsied.”

If Cecilia had any judgment at the nonchalant attitude toward Jepsom’s imminent death, it didn’t show. If Beverly knew the content of her friend’s thoughts, she did not acknowledge it, while they polished in silence.

Another knock to the door had Cecilia rushing to the door to let in another burst of noise. With every footstep in her halls, every genuine laugh, every snippet of conversation, Beverly felt life creeping back up into her spine and down through her veins. This is good. A stark contrast to the most recent holiday meal shared by her isolated family.

It had been Christmas day, there had been snow on the ground, and all of the yule logs in the world could not warm the frost inside Beverly’s home. She worked hard on Christmas dinner, never losing that desperate need to make meagerlings into a feast, knowing that her sons could always rely on this one constant. Even Jepsom was quiet when he was stuffing his face. He hadn’t even been drinking all that much.

Until there was crying, and for a moment, Beverly missed the moment of impact. She looked behind her two sons, two young boys trying and failing to contain their fear, and behind them a large wet spot on the wall, bits of broken glass littering the floor under tha area of impact. 

Beverly had felt the world move in slow motion. She knew her husband was likely hurling insults, but the rush of Beverly’s blood in her ears was drowning him out. The icy cold glare of the man she devoted her life to stole the warmth from her lungs, until she felt the cold spreading through her hands, up her arms, and into her heart.

Beverly shakes her head, choosing to stay in the present. That last holiday was a catalyst of its own; shortly after, Jepsom had started taking to his bed more often than not. What started off as influenza became something he could not shake.

“Beverly?” Said Martha, an overbearing aunt, “it’s months until the holiday seasons dear, what are we celebrating today?”

“Celebrating?” Beverly thought. She hadn’t thought of that. “Why, perhaps, to the health of my husband, I suppose.” The house went quiet, until it was broken by raucous laughter from Cecilia. 

Martha, taken aback, said “Is that really appropriate?” Beverly responded with a small smile, and loaded the first plate. She could feel the eyes of the entire house on her as she made her way to a serving tray. Almost as an afterthought, she slipped the too-small ring on and lifted the tray. She turned, saying, “The feast is ready, please help yourselves to a seat, while I take this upstairs to Jepsom.”

 As she retreated up the stairs, she could hear Cecilia addressing Aunt Martha with a ‘what is inappropriate when she is clearly, devotedly, serving the man? Grab a roll, Martha.’ Normally as Beverly climbs the stairs to deliver her husband’s meals, every step feels heavier with the weight of knowing. But tonight? She feels light as a feather.

She knocks before entering, to offer him the privacy and respect he strictly demands. Jepsom is already awake, already glaring. “You decided I’m crippled enough to have a party under my roof?”

Beverly tenderly places the serving tray on the unused writing desk, her back to her husband. “Will you be making an appearance after all?” She said, placing a pad of butter onto a piece of tenderly toasted, home baked bread. “It is my house too.” She finished, quietly. She waited a moment to see if he would throw something at her, and when there was no response, she turned to look at him. 

If he had tried to retort, he did not have the energy for it anymore. She doubted he could even pick up his own hand, let alone something to throw. He coughed, violently, and that was new. Beverly quirked one eyebrow in surprise, and turned to continue preparing his supper.

“Why do you do this?” he asked, and she stilled. “You know my stomach hurts, hurts as if there are open wounds inside, and yet you insist on feeding me. I say no and you insist anyway.” 

Beverly, her back to him still, twisted her ring around her finger, and clenched at her apron to dry her clammy hands. She took the ring off from her finger, opened a clasp, and allowed the contents to fall gracefully into his soup bowl. It almost looks like snow. She stirred, she blew. She turned and brought a chair and the bowl to him. She sat, and gingerly dipped the spoon into the miniscule amount of broth, and brought it to his lips.

He may grouse and moan and complain at her insistence that he eat, but if there was only one thing he could appreciate about the woman before him, the woman could cook. He sipped, and she continued as though she had performed this routine daily since he took ill after Christmas.

“Food… is my love language.” she said, and brought him another spoonful. “My mother told me when I was young that I had a gift for turning scraps into extraordinary acts of love.” She brought him the buttered bread, and he did not hesitate to take it. It made her think of how lovingly her father chewed at a crunchy brick, while this man greedily took soft bread offering complete loathing in return. “For a time, I thought I could win you back. I knew you withheld your love, but I never understood why. Maybe I will never know, but. That’s alright.” She brought him back the spoon, and made sure he got every drop of the soup.

“You are a foolish woman. A man needs more than—” He said, before launching into a fit of coughing. He looked ashen, ghostly. When he brought his hand away from his mouth, there were red spots speckled across his clenched pale fist.

“I was not done.” Beverly leaned in, willing him to remember. How he had captivated her at their first meeting, and now she would captivate him, at what she hoped to God would be their last. “All of the love and devotion I have, I pour into feeding the body and the heart, of my family, my sons, and my friends. Into you, I have poured the only thing you have ever given me.” She waited for his eyes to find hers, willing him to understand. He looked at her, and did not interrupt. “I have poured into you contempt through my diligence, malice through my devotion,” she paused for a brief moment, slightly lifting his bowl into his field of vision, and said “...and poison, through my patience.”

It was one quick moment of recognition, followed by a split second of terror before he was coughing again, red droplets appearing in greater volume. Beverly could only smile at the display, and he could not, for all of his gnashing and hacking, get another word out. They both knew; he would never speak again. She leaned over him and placed a cold, unfeeling kiss to his forehead.

“There is life in the eyes of my sons again. For me, that is enough.” She said, and she turned to clear away the dishes. As Beverly descended the stairs, the weight of her convictions was lifted at all of the brightness and vibrancy of what she found downstairs. She left the grip of death to step into new life, and Cecilia, sharing a knowing glance with her friend, took the mostly-full tray from Beverly before motioning for Beverly to discard her obviously discolored apron; Cecilia quickly disappeared to the kitchen. Beverly stepped into the washroom, lathered her hands, and hardly glanced as she removed her conspiratory band, discarding it with her apron. 

When Beverly reappeared, she took in the sight before her, and sat. For the first time in years, unafraid, she melted into the joyous gathering of friends and family, and felt with every part of her being, this is good.