My Sad Cuisine by Babs Mountjoy

I never have anyone over for dinner anymore. Back when I had a life, I thought someone who always ate alone was eccentric. Or had something to hide. But now I like it. I didn’t at first. I was pretty damn lonely. The neighbors wouldn’t hang with me anymore, not after they saw all my shit out at the curb where he tossed it. The bastard. No more neighborhood barbecues for me. Screw ‘em all.

It wasn’t so much the house. Well, maybe it was. I’d picked it out, a Georgian in a great subdivision, close to the tennis courts. The sunroom was mine, a little cozy glassed-in place where I could watch the snow float down while I wrote, with the aroma of spicy candles and my tarot laid out, gauzy black shawls for curtains. J.T. said it gave him the creeps. Called me a witch. Called me worse than that the day he threw me out.

Never was much of a cook. But I could always fry up some meat and onions. Pork and onions, chicken and onions, steak and onions. Good stuff. I love the smell of onions frying. I grab a handful of them and start chopping.

J.T.’s space was the garage. He had his beloved woodworking stuff there, all kinds of sharp pointy objects. He’d clean and polish and make all kinds of freaking useless wooden creations. He even made a baseball bat, a carved handle with fingerholds and his name engraved. Fitting, somehow. He had to possess everything. It was all about what he owned. Even though I helped with everything, mowing, decorating, painting, down payment, and all of it was still his as far as he was concerned.

I wipe tears away. Damn onions. They were good in the end, but they hurt you while you held them. Kind of like J.T.

He worshiped the holy dollar, He was an investment counselor whose designer Hummer had his initials on his vanity plate. He’d made lots of money for lots of people and took credit for each penny. If his belt had been longer, he’d have notched the damn thing, but it was a mere 30 inches, even at his age. An hour in the gym at five every morning will do that. Yes, it will. He lifted weights too. He was strong. Stronger than I’d thought.

I reach in the fridge and pull out a bag salad and a tomato. The lettuce goes in a bowl, and I slice the tomato on top, so juicy the red pulp and seeds drip through my fingers like bad Halloween makeup. It reminded me of …something else.

I hadn’t seen him for six months before that morning. Then I saw them—him and her—at our favorite vegetarian restaurant, cuddled close in a small booth, eating a nasturtium salad. He saw me and said something to her. She was blonde, like me, about my height and weight, green eyes like mine, even, but a good ten years younger. Bastard.

The onions jump and squirm as I stir them like they’re trying to avoid the searing heat. Where else are they going to go? Into the fire? I know what happens when you go from the frying pan into the fire. I laugh, the sound echoing in the nearly empty kitchen. Furniture, kind of a luxury at the moment. Sold the kitchen set to make my last car payment. I hate living this way.

I turn up the fire and drizzle the olive oil in.

He could have ignored me and gone on with his lunch. But he came over, begging me to sign the divorce papers. J.T. begging me. Now there was a novelty.

There was an extra copy at the house, he said. If I’d come sign them, he’d get them to his lawyer. Me #2 was watching from the booth, wide eyes nearly innocent. Come on, Raila. Sign the papers. It’ll be over in no time. You’ll see.

I did want to visit the house again, at least once more. Bracing myself, I nodded. Now’s great, J.T. Want to do it now? I looked over at her and smiled my biggest smile.

Triumphant, he tossed some bills at the cashier. Put hers on my tab too. He took the girl in his car, and I followed them on my bike. Cheaper than paying for gas at California prices.

At the house, I parked the bike behind the front bushes and walked around to the back. The landscaping, the perennials I’d spent months planting and nurturing were ripped out for a concrete basketball court and a Bowflex with a shelf of free weights. I stared in icy grief.

I cut two slices of bread from the fresh Italian loaf and slather butter and garlic on. Dining alone means never having to say you’re sorry for your breath. It’s a good knife, this filleting knife cuts cleanly. It’s one of my souvenirs.

Raila. In here. J.T. waited at the door to the sunporch. The gauzy curtains were down. A tanning bed stood where my desk had been. He laid a stack of papers on the kitchen table and jabbed at me with a pen. Three minutes and you’re free, honey.

She watched, those green eyes coveting. She wanted him. How she wanted him. Why shouldn’t she? Living with J.T. was a great ride, with lots of money and all the fringes. Till she gets ten years older. Then she’ll be the one with the pen waving in her face.

I turned and headed for the garage. He ran after me, grabbing at my arm. I need my grandfather’s tool kit, I said. You didn’t leave it in that rubbish heap on the curb. I shoved him away, going down the two steps to the garage floor. She was trying to calm him. There was J.T.’s precious Hummer and the teenybopper’s red convertible. The bastard.

I leaned under the main workbench and dug through his crap until I found the little black case. I held it up so he could see I hadn’t taken anything that wasn’t mine. He scowled, clearly annoyed and ready to escort me out. Sad. I wasn’t ready to go.

Miss Priss stood protectively in front of her car. I smiled at her. Then I grabbed the bat off the workbench and took a swing at the convertible. Busted out the headlights before she got in the way. Then I busted out her headlights. Hadn’t really intended to do that, but Jesus. It felt good.

J.T. jumped me from behind. Damn, he must have outweighed me by seventy pounds, all muscle. All those weights out back. He tossed me onto the workbench, and I felt my knee crack. Bloody hell, it hurt. Nearly blacked out.

She hadn’t moved but he never stopped to see why. I kicked at him with my other leg, fumbling behind me. Screwdriver from Hell jumped into my hand, sucker had to be ten inches long and heavy-duty enough with my downstroke and his forward momentum to drive it right through his face into his brain. He knocked me off the bench in a hail of tacks and nails, but he went down and didn’t get up.

I lay a China plate and silverware on the coffee table. Thank you, Mr. Maître D. One for dinner, please. I light the pink candle and dim the lights.

So quiet in that garage. My legs were bleeding, I wasn’t sure whether I could walk. Had to look on the bright side, though; I was in the best shape of the three of us.

Once I got my priorities straight, it all fell into place. Thanks J.T., for looking out for your poor ignorant little woman. He’d made me take a class at the community college designed just for women, to teach them about tools and being able to fix things with the proper equipment. Our teacher was a sadist who liked to scare the more timid ladies. He’d showed us what happened if you neglected your electrical cords until they frayed. They could be dangerous. Especially if they came in contact with a lacquer or varnish container.

It didn’t take long to fray up one of J.T.’s extension cords, considering the selection of sharp things he’d accumulated. Plenty of varnish and lacquer too, left over from all his little wooden hobby. It wouldn’t take long to burn it down. One last thing remained before the fire. I dug through the drawer and found the filleting knife he used for his rare fishing trips. It had cost a fortune. But then he always had to have the best. Why shouldn’t I? I returned to little Miss Priss, my replacement, and carved out the pound of flesh I was owed.

I smile as I sit to enjoy my solitary meal, my sad cuisine. It was a dish I hadn’t made before. Ribs and onions. But it was good to try new things, and a specialty’s is a specialty, after all. And the tv chefs are right. Younger meat is more tender. 

Babs Mountjoy

Babs Mountjoy has been a published writer for more than forty years, after working as a pizza maker, a floral designer, a journalist and a family law attorney. Currently a resident of Asheville, North Carolina, the aging hippie loves her time in the smoky blue mountains. She writes romance and suspense as Alana Lorens, and sci-fi, fantasy and paranormal mystery as Lyndi Alexander. She lives with her daughter on the autism spectrum, who is the youngest of her seven children, and she is ruled by three crotchety old cats, and six kittens of various ages.