Cooking Lessons

With one eye on the clock above the stove, Morgan wiped her running nose on the inside of her wrist, careful to turn the knife away from her face.

Five-twenty-one.

In exactly eight minutes, the garage door would lift and retract, the click-click-click-CLINK of the panels rolling overhead giving her just enough time to place the silverware on the table, remove her apron, check her face, and pin a welcoming smile to her face.

Morgan finished cutting mushrooms into the salad and pulled the cheese grater from the utensil rack over the sink. Another tear wormed its way from the corner of her left eye, and chuckling, she brushed it away with the back of her hand. She could not stop her frantic, guilty look around the kitchen, afraid that, somehow, even in his absence, he’d heard her laugh without him. She leaned her head back and opened her mouth. Saliva, thick from silent weeping, webbed between her lips. She let her mirth break the webs, the chuckles steeped in anticipation, relief, and fear. Morgan used both hands to lean against the counter, lowering her head above the sink, breathing in and out until she felt she had regained control.

Five-twenty-eight.

Looking around to make sure everything was in place, Morgan snatched up the stereo remote and pressed the button that would send the blues of Muddy Waters drifting into the kitchen, mixing with the smells of steamed spinach, smothered pork chops, macaroni and cheese, and homemade rolls. She rushed to the hallway mirror and checked her make-up, particularly the thin coat of lipstick. Courtney liked her cosmetics light yet flattering. She wondered briefly if her lipstick was too bright, then decided it must be if she had a question about it. Isn’t that what Courtney always said? If you question it, correct it. Morgan moved to the bathroom to apply the right shade. She heard the beginning snicks of the garage door opening and aborted the mission of proper make-up.

Hurriedly, she retrieved the glass and filled it. She slid her hands into oven mitts and removed the macaroni and cheese, browned just the way she wanted it. She hung her apron on its peg next to the refrigerator and positioned herself in front of the door leading from the garage into the kitchen as Courtney entered.

As is his routine, Courtney rested his briefcase on the side table, placed just inside the door for this purpose. His eyes swept the kitchen, making sure everything was as it should be before his gaze traveled the length of Morgan’s body, taking in her practical, one-inch tan heels, her knee-length khaki skirt, and her sea green oxford shirt. She’d pulled her hair back into a sensible ponytail. Good. He checked her make-up.

“Dinner smells good. Your lipstick is too bright. Go take care of it and then fix me a plate.”

Morgan’s smile dimmed and she lowered her eyes as she tried not to run to do as he asked. No “hi, honey.” No “hey, sweetie.” Why would she think today would be any different?

She returned to the dining area and Courtney watched her approach as he shifted through today’s mail. She’d removed the lipstick altogether and now wore a light layer of gloss. Good. A small nudge is all she ever needs. Courtney moved to sit at the table, a sign Morgan knew meant she should begin preparing his plate. He pushed his chair more firmly beneath the table and Morgan silently gave him an iced glass of sweet tea. He unfolded his napkin and Morgan, again as quietly, eased his meal onto the placemat before him. She waited to his right while he tasted his food. She held her breath as he tried a several forkfuls of macaroni at once. She felt, rather than saw, him pause with the food in his mouth. He finally looked up at her.

“Everything is delicious… except for the macaroni. Didn’t I tell you once before that I don’t like it browned to a crisp? It’s damn near burnt. I only had to tell my mother once and she got it right. Do I need her to give you cooking lessons again, Morgan? It’s pasta, not pie. It should be al dente, Morgan. Al dente.”

“I’m sorry, Courtney. I’ll fix you another plate without the macaroni.” She reached out to take the dish.

“No, it’s fine this time. Fix your own food and come sit down. Let me tell you about my day.”

She did as he requested, and as she arranged her napkin in her lap, she felt him staring at her plate. She had no macaroni. Morgan raised her eyes to his face then let them slid them to the condensation on the pitcher of tea.

“Courtney, you know I don’t eat macaroni and cheese. The cheese, the way you like it, makes me sick at stomach.” The fork bit into her hand as she waited for his next comment, his next reprimand.

“Oh, yes. I always forget that about you. Anyway, at work today, Phillip was called out on the carpet because he forgot to get a client’s signature on a really important document. I’ll spare you the details because you wouldn’t understand much of it anyway, but suffice it to say, it was a major fuck-up. Gary gave Phillip’s client to me, and when I called her—a very nice, sweet, old lady—she was more than willing to list all of Phillip’s faults, all this stuff he’d done wrong. Yep, Phillip’s days are numbered, and I’ll be able to pick up a good portion of his clients. This is just what I needed….”

Morgan watched as he cleaned his plate of the “crispy” macaroni. She watched as he ran his hand over his throat and reached for his tea. She watched the frown appear between his brows. He began to pale, the gold of his skin becoming the sickly color of an invalid’s piss. The tea poured from his mouth, widening down the front of his navy blue French-cuffed shirt. He couldn’t swallow now and his hands clawed at the table. The frown was gone, his forehead smooth as realization streaked through his body more quickly than the poison and his unbelieving eyes found hers shining in a way he hadn’t seen since they were first married.

“I would love to have your mother over for dinner,” she said, and she stood and walked away, leaving her one-inch heels beneath the table.