Organic Products by Nicole M. Wolverton

As emails went, it was innocuous: Do you mind if I give you a call at 11A EST? There’s much to discuss about your proposal. -Abraham. Nova leaned against her kitchen counter. She could picture him typing off the line on his cell phone, maybe multi-tasking at a needlessly expensive gym. He was a handsome-enough man, but those were always the worst kind: the kind to whom everything in life was transactional, especially when it came to women.

Yes, of course. I’ll look forward to your call. Her reply was just enthusiastic enough to satisfy, but a sour sick threatened to invade her mouth. How the man could make the word proposal feel dirty was a mystery. It was for a cookbook, not an orgy.

Give him what he wanted, and he’d give her what she wanted. Why bother to hide it? It’s not as though Abraham were being clever about it.

The first time Nova understood the transactional nature of womanhood, she was thirteen and streaked in her own blood after falling off her bicycle. All she wanted was a bandage. Instead, a lumbering man who could not take his eyes off her breasts gushed about her blonde hair.

“Got a bandage in my house.” He’d pointed to his shack with the battered green door, smile too wide. “Pretty little blondie like you shouldn’t need to ride a bike to get around. I’ll drive you. Why don’t you give me your phone number?” Spit glistened at the corners his mouth, as though Nova was nothing more than a roasted chicken split into parts, juicy and ready to devour.

Oh, she followed him into his house, if only to school him on his manners in private. She bandaged her knees while he watched. That was all she gave him. And he gave her something, too, although not what he’d had in mind. Perhaps it was more accurate to say that she took something from him, and made sure bartering safety for sex was never something he’d attempt again.

Nova’s mother used to sigh deeply while watching afternoon soaps; close her eyes, and say, Ladies do grow weary of these men and their treacherous blood. Lord give me strength. Perhaps that was why Nova emerged from that man’s house, smiled at the clear blue sky, and said, “Ladies do grow weary.” Mama had sighed the panic right out of her from the start. Nova would not have a life of soaps and sighing.

Nova made pancakes that day back at her own house. Special celebration pancakes using what she’d taken from the man. That was the start of Nova’s interest in cooking with organic products. No one suspected the little blonde girl of the carnage behind that green door.

At five minutes to eleven, Nova positioned herself at her desk. It had been twenty years now, but she still remembered the color the pancakes had turned, how rich the taste. Organic products made all the difference.

Nova’s computer dinged with a reminder for Abraham’s meeting. She straightened her hair, still blonde, and entered the video call.

“Nova! Nice to see you. How’s my favorite cookbook author?” Abraham’s smile was too wide. His white shirt was perfectly starched, tie artfully askew. Behind him on the bookshelf, he’d obviously arranged a vignette just for her: another writer’s cookbook, a slim volume on fellatio, and a sensually-shaped red vase. It took effort not to react, but Mama’s voice went ahead: Ladies do grow weary of these men and their treacherous blood. Lord give me strength.

“She’s fine. Er, I’m fine.”

“Your offal book is selling out. Stores can’t seem to keep it in stock. Tail to snout cooking is big, but none of us ever thought so many people would want to know how to prepare cow livers. Everyone wants to book you for a cooking demonstration, especially since your jacket photo is so alluring. Are you sure you won’t accept an offer or two? Our marketing folks are eager to get you out into the public eye, build off all this excitement.”

He was openly assessing her, breaking her into parts. A jolt of panic shook her. She refused to trade her looks for sales. The publishing house was doing well enough without that becoming part of the transaction.

“No, I’m afraid not. Let’s talk about my book proposal,” Nova said. “I’m assuming you’ve looked it over. It’s a primer on how to cook with blood. It’s a specialty of mine. All organic, of course.”

“Come to New York and we’ll talk about it over lunch.” His eyes pinched, and she could see the wheels turning, looking for a trade-off. Perhaps he’d suggest a cookbook on fluffy desserts or a collection of low-calorie cocktails. Something more befitting his image of her.

A new cocktail recipe to showcase her ideas for the book; yes, that’s what was wanted for the situation. She could do that. It would give Abraham a chance to rethink his position. She smiled primly. “Sure, I’ll drive up and stay with a friend. Then can I have you for dinner? Can you schedule me in for next week?”

Everything in life has a rhythm to it. Left alone, most everything finds its way, becomes a greater part of the whole. It was interference that tripped Nova’s sense that something needed to be put back in the natural order. Cooking did that for her. Calmed her.

She asked Mama once why she continued to watch her afternoon soaps when the end result was always the same. The sigh, the closed eyes, the muttered, Ladies do grow weary of these men and their treacherous blood. Lord give me strength. There never seemed to be anything put right. Mama didn’t answer at first, then said, Sweetie, you got a future in cooking.

So, when Abraham’s knock came on the apartment door, the first thing Nova did was think, “Ladies do grow weary.” She was only a little disappointed when his eyes immediately darted to her breasts when she opened the door. She pulled the edges of her cardigan together and ushered him in, hating the feel of his eyes on her.

“Good timing,” she said.  

“You look great. That sweater really shows off your neck.”

Disgust flared at her nostrils. She gestured toward the small wooden dining table. The surface was smooth, the color of bark, wide enough to put herself at a distance from Abraham, but not large enough to hamper the meal. The tall ceilings made the room seem airy and bright, while the black-painted walls gave the discomfiting impression of closeness. She enjoyed the off-kilter feeling of the space. 

Nova had set the table immaculately, with her best white china from home: sedate dinner and bread plates and heavy platinum flatware, accented by crystal glasses. Black fabric napkins bound with ties of dried Black Eyed Susan flowers adorned each place setting.

Abraham ignored the cue to sit and went instead to the windows at the far wall. “Where did you find this place? Great view.”

“Oh, a friend of a friend lives here. She’s traveling.”

He wandered through the apartment, opening doors and peeking in. He tried the last door and paused. “Must be the bedroom? Why’s it locked?”

“Abraham, why don’t you have a seat at the table? We’ll get started with dinner.”

This time he did as he was told.

For a moment Nova felt as though she were back behind that green door, bandaging her knee. She set a board laid with charcuterie and cheese in the center of the table and filled the glasses with the crimson cocktail she’d mixed.

“I’ve got to tell you, Nova,” Abraham said, “I didn’t expect you’d go through with this dinner. You’re so . . . private. I wish you would consent to at least a small handful of cooking demonstrations. The higher ups at the publishing company would certainly appreciate it.”

She held his gaze. “The visit was a good idea. I didn’t want to waste any time getting my new cookbook into your production lineup for the spring.”

He popped a slice of sausage into his mouth. “I’m sorry to say there’s no way leadership will greenlight a cookbook about blood, especially without you doing publicity. I went to bat for you, even organized a market survey to gauge interest, but the only people who want blood recipes are professional chefs. I’m sorry, Nova, but we can’t do it.”

“That’s unfortunate. You’re eating blood now.”

Abraham swallowed hard, then gulped from his glass.

“Blood sausage made from a particularly rich goat blood,” Nova said. “And the cocktail is a whiskey sour that contains blood.”

His lips twisted into a moue of disgust. It was enough to make the wantonness drain from his eyes, at least. “Tricking me into eating blood isn’t the way to get this deal. Couldn’t you write about something else? Mushrooms—what about those? People love mushrooms. Or testicles. I could at least sell that—your offal book is doing well.” He paused. “Or perhaps you could convince me some other way.” His eyes darted toward the bedroom door.

She almost sighed, then thought of Mama. Ladies do grow weary of these men and their treacherous blood. Lord give me strength. She sat quietly for a moment. There was no panic; there was only certainty. She stood, removed the board and Abraham’s glass, and returned them to the kitchen. Nova donned a mitt and drew a plate of puffs from the oven. Writing about testicles—not a bad idea, but she wasn’t prepared to start with his. That took planning and forethought. Research. She imagined Abraham’s testicles would be small and perhaps well-groomed, just like the rest of him. Hardly worth the effort. She had something else in mind.

She’d given him his chance, after all.

The white wine had been chilled. She brought the bottle, a new glass, and a bowl of puffs to the table where Abraham awaited her, still wearing his lecherousness like a tailored suit.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“I’ve brought you cheese puffs and a glass of wine. Blood-free, I promise.” This time it was her smile that was too wide, and she allowed the smallest hint of cruelty to flavor it. Men like Abraham, they could never tell the difference; they saw what they wanted to see.

“I knew you’d understand,” Abraham said. “You’re a reasonable woman.” He popped a puff into his mouth, swallowing before he even had a chance to savor the richness of the pastry.

She sat across from him. And waited. It didn’t take long. Abraham’s eyes went glassy within minutes. Thirty seconds after that his words began to slur.

When he tumbled out of his chair and sprawled on the hardwood floor, Nova stepped over him to take the plates and glasses back to the kitchen. She glanced at him and shrugged. “It didn’t have to be like this.”

She stepped over him again and gripped his ankles. Inch by inch, she dragged him across the floor. The buttons of his shirt clicked along the hardwoods.

“What are you doing to me?” Abraham’s words came out mumbled.

“I had a feeling how things would go. People like you don’t often disappoint me, even if I did try to give you the opportunity to act with a modicum of decency. It’s not about the cookbook, you understand. I have another offer. I’ve been developing these recipes since I was thirteen years old. Sharing them with others is what I’ve always wanted. Women don’t have to put up with this.”

He whimpered a string of indistinct words.

Nova frowned. “I know what you’re thinking, that I’m overemotional and can’t take no for an answer. I accept no just fine. What I will not stand for, though, is your effort to force me into a trade. Safety for sex. A book for sex. However you choose to see it. And now there will be a lesson in manners for you.”

She slid a key from her pocket, unlocked the bedroom door, and pushed the door open. All the furniture had been shoved to the side and the mattress had been upended, clinging closely to the wall. In its place was a large metal tub, edges stained dark. Nova slid Abraham next to the tub and grunted as she heaved him over the rim..

“Now, don’t get excited,” she told him. “This next part is not for your benefit.”

She unbuttoned his shirt and carefully slid each sleeve down his arms. Next came the black dress slacks, the argyle socks, and his shiny shoes. When he lay in the tub in only his boxer briefs—tight, navy blue—she produced a petite case from her pocket and removed a small pair of gold scissors. She cut the fabric along the hip bone, down to the hem of his underwear, then repeated it on the other side. She tugged at the cloth and tossed it aside.

Men’s bodies were so frail. It didn’t matter their age, their income, or even how well they took care of themselves. Their nipples always looked strangely sad, as though belying the envy men seem to have of women for having useful nipples. It was the envy that was behind the men who ogled her, attempted to manipulate her to give what she had no intention of giving. And then there was always the penis, flaccid with fear, flaccid with knowing they’d have to finally face the consequences of their actions. And Nova had been right about Abraham’s testicles. His body was not remotely as virile as he seemed to think. He was just a tiny man trying to take her power. He was just a man, jealous of her purposeful body.

Abraham’s body would have purpose, though.

She carefully felt along his windpipe with her index and middle fingers and stopped when Abraham’s pulse beat against her skin. She removed a silver scalpel from her small case and, with one smooth movement, slashed deep and quick at the carotid artery. Abraham gasped quietly, but that was the last of his words. Blood pumped out of his neck with each jump of his heart, the time between beats growing longer with each pump. Nova closed his eyelids and watched him die, watched the blood collect beneath him in the tub.

“Ladies do grow weary,” she said cheerfully.

Her cell phone rang, and she glanced at the screen. She smiled and put the phone to her ear. “Hello, Zelda. Yes, I’ll stop by tomorrow to sign the contract for the book. Funny you should call right now, I’m in the middle of sourcing the blood I’ll need to recreate all the recipes for you. Oh, of course, completely organic and very fresh.”

Nicole M. Wolverton

Nicole M. Wolverton is the author of A Misfortune of Lake Monsters (coming in summer 2024) and The Trajectory of Dreams (2013), and the editor of Bodies Full of Burning (2021). She lives in a creepy century-old house in the Philadelphia area. Find her at www.nicolewolverton.com.