This vignette takes place about twenty-two years ago. The characters are pretty self-explanatory. It's just a scene, not a real story: filling in the blanks. If you find it interesting, let me know. I have another idea of what could come next. It's sad, so be wary. My way of fleshing out characters we've never even met (yet). No infringement on CC, Ten Thirteen or Fox intended, copyright held by the author, Emily Brunson. Email to Hope you like it! Comfort Food by Emily Brunson ( 2/9/95 She put her hand to the door, and froze. There was no noise. There was nothing behind this door. Nothing but a bed, that would not be filled again. Toys, still neatly put away, never to be played with by those small hands. Clothes she had chosen herself, last fall, the week before school began. No, this was not her room anymore, and there was no one inside. No one to stop her from doing what she had to do. She took a deep, shuddering breath, and walked inside. The air - She stopped, rocking back on her heels. Oh, it still even smelled like her. Her first perfume, childish strawberry; the leather of the riding boots; other odors she couldn't quite identify. As if she had only just stepped out, on her way to a friend's - She put a hand on the white-painted dresser, to steady herself. It would be all right. She would get through this. One step at a time. Just one. She blinked away the tears that still came so readily, even after all this time, and set the box down on the floor. ----- She smoothed the strip of tape down, and hefted the box over to stand outside the bedroom door. The last one. She brushed a hand across her sweaty forehead, surveying her work. Three boxes. Was that all it had taken, to pack everything? All her possessions, all that she had loved, and prized, and cherished, tucked away inside these soulless cardboard containers? A sound, harsh, like a scream, burst from her lips before she could contain it. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right, it - Her hand stole out to cover her mouth, fingers pressing so tightly she winced in pain. She couldn't think about that. She couldn't let herself go back down that tired, wretched road again. Her path was here. She was needed here. She picked up the topmost box, ignoring the sad yelp from her tired back, and began the trudge downstairs. ----- At four she was in the kitchen, preparing dinner. The Goodwill van had come and gone, whisking away the boxes without even a question. Her work was done; it was time to go back to the present. She worked deftly: slicing potatoes, layering them in a deep casserole; washing the chicken; putting food into the oven. Food, that was a distraction. She could cook. If there was nothing else she could do, for herself or anyone else, at least she could feed them. She bent to check the oven temperature, and then glanced at the clock over the refrigerator. Ten minutes past four. School was out. There were cookies in the jar: oatmeal, fresh, she'd made them herself this morning. She put four on a plate, and poured milk into a glass. Set plate and glass on the kitchen table. He'd be hungry when he got home. He always was, and it would be a while before dinner was ready. ----- She was punching down bread dough when she heard the front door open. The thump of boots hitting the floor followed, and she smiled privately to herself. At least he didn't track snow into the kitchen. "Fox?" There was no reply, and she called, "Cookies in here, if you want them." He made no reply, that she heard, but the sound of shuffling feet said he was coming. She glanced up alertly, and smiled as he came through the kitchen door. "Hi, honey. How was your day?" He shrugged loosely, a gesture she was beginning to recognize from constant repetition. "Okay," he said briefly, and walked over to sit at the table. She rounded the dough carefully and covered the bowl with plastic wrap. One more rising, she thought critically, and placed the bowl back on top of the oven. Only when she had finished this particular task, did she look over at her son. He looked so tired. He always seemed to look tired, though she knew he slept. Slept like the - She skirted nervously away from the analogy. He was resting, she knew it. But dark smudges, like fine charcoal, persisted under his eyes. Eyes that were too old to peer out of a face that young. She watched him chew, and tried on another smile. "Practice?" she prodded, pulling out a chair to sit across the table from him. "Is Coach Summers easing up on you?" He shrugged again. "I guess." He swallowed, and chased the cookie with a huge draft of milk. "I have homework," he added succinctly, and pushed himself upright. "Fox?" She heard the tremor in her own voice, but she was suddenly helpless to stop it. "Are you okay, honey?" His eyes lit on her, filled with impatience. "I told you I was," he snapped at her. "What else do you want me to say?" She could only shake her head. She had no idea. It was only listening to the clump of his feet, going up the stairs, that she wanted to tell him. Tell me you're all right, she wanted to say. Tell me that you're still my little boy. Make me believe that you're better now. She didn't say these things. To say them would be to admit there was something else there, and she couldn't do that. None of them could. ----- She was just setting Fox's clean plate and glass in the dish drainer when she heard his cry. "Mom! Mom!" Suddenly nerveless hands relaxed. She didn't hear the plate hit the tile floor. The sound, the tone of his voice - She was running, up the stairs. She didn't remember leaving the kitchen, she only knew that he was calling her. Screaming for her. The same voice she'd heard, so long ago. "Fox?" Her voice was shrill with terror. "Fox, are you all right?" She rounded the corner to their - his - room, and halted. He stood precisely in the center of the room, arms dangling loosely at his sides. Even as she took this in, the hands gathered into fists. Then he looked over at her, and she gasped. That could not be her son's face. That rage, that overwhelming hatred - that wasn't Fox. It couldn't be. "Fox? Honey, what's the matter? What's -" "What did you do?" The words were clear, exact, cold as the icicles that hung outside the wide window. "What - did - you - do?" She recoiled a step. "Fox, what do you mean?" Her hand crept up to her suddenly burning cheek. "Her things!" he cried, furious. "Her stuff! What did you do with it?" "I - I packed it up, Fox. Your father and I decided it was time, we thought -" "You decided?" The astonishment in his voice was colored with almost palpable anger. It was a very adult tone. "You decided? What made you think you could decide?" Her knees felt watery; she sagged against the door jamb, staring at him. "Fox, I didn't think you'd mind -" "Mind? Mind?" He took off suddenly, pacing the length of the room, and back again. This time he stood directly in front of her, his face only inches from hers. "You had no right to do that," he spat, so close she could feel heat radiating from him, like standing by a wall furnace. "No right. Who do you think you are?" "Fox -" "Get out." He slung one last, venomous look at her before turning to face the window. The lines of his back were erect, tight with rage. "Get out of here. This is my room." ----- Her hands trembled so badly she almost cut herself with the paring knife. Carrots, celery, lettuce, tomatoes. The litany ran through her head as she tossed greens into the wooden salad bowl. Oil, vinegar, garlic, mustard, pinch of sugar, pinch of oregano, dash of salt. The door opened. She heard him come in. Heard him open the hall closet, the rasp of a hanger on the metal bar. The thud of his briefcase as he laid it on the floor beside the telephone nook. Taste the dressing. More salt, more mustard. Onions? Or not? She opened the pantry door and selected an onion, took it back to the cutting board, sliced it. "Honey?" Bread. She needed a slice of bread: that would cut the onion fumes. She opened the breadbox and took out a slice, placed it carefully near her sliced onions. "Sweetheart, what's wrong?" The bread didn't seem to be helping. This must be a particularly strong onion. Otherwise why would her eyes be watering so? Strong hands, on her shoulders. Chop, dice, mince. Lips, kissing the back of her neck. Scrape into the bowl. Toss with the dressing. "Honey, look at me." Fingers, under her chin. Pulling her face around. He looked so handsome. So concerned. She almost smiled, and then suddenly the tears wouldn't be contained anymore. ----- "He'll be all right. He's just a little - shocked, that's all." He sounded so certain. She wished, so much, that she could believe him. "You didn't see his face. Oh, his expression - There was so much hurt there. So much - rage." "Katie. Katie, honey. He's just upset. He'll be all right." "We should have told him. I thought, if we just do it, and it's over, then he won't mind it so much, but now he hates me, he couldn't even stand to look at me, and he said -" "Katheryn." So strong, so much the man she'd married. Married because she couldn't imagine life without someone so much in charge of things. In charge of her. Hazel eyes were creased now with pity, and sadness, and a little bit of something that appeared to be impatience. "It will turn out all right. You want me to go talk to him?" She nodded. Peas. They should have peas. She wiped her face, and went back to the pantry. ----- The table was set. She'd put out the china, polished the glasses until they shone happily. Napkins folded into clever envelopes, holding cargoes of forks, knives and spoons. Centerpiece the spray of silk flowers she had constructed in Tuesday's class. Pink, magenta, faint purple, green. Touch of yellow, whisper of blue. The instructor had been complimentary. She put the chicken into a serving dish, sprinkled parsley. Potatoes, peas, in their own matching china bowls. Salad, dressed and ready for company, just add the tongs. Bread, still hot from the oven, swaddled in spotless white damask. Tea to drink, a pitcher now sweating in the warm air. It was ready. She was ready. ----- She wandered up the stairs, listening. She could hear nothing. Around the corner. Look inside. It's dark now, and the light isn't on. Can still make out things well enough. Where are they? A huddled lump on the bed, the bare bed, her bed. Her husband's arms, arms she knew so well, wrapped around a thin body. Moving. Trembling. His eyes, turning her direction. Seeing her. Eyes that told the story. The chicken will get cold. The vegetables. The bread, it will turn into iron. "I had to do it." She licked her lips. Ice melting in the glass pitcher. "It was time, we both said so." Lettuce, sagging under the weight of time. "We did say it. We both did. It was time." She looked into his eyes, and a smile trembled on her lips. "I had to do it. It was time. You understand that, don't you?" Down the stairs, one at a time. The pitcher will be wet, there will be a stain on the tablecloth. The table will get a ring. She put the pitcher of iced tea in the refrigerator. end.