Dinner at Jack's

Chapter 5: Meanwhile, Across Town: Grilled Cheese & Tomato Soup-1

Chapter 5: Meanwhile, Across Town: Grilled Cheese & Tomato Soup

Jack hurled the bowl of tomato soup against the wall, where it shattered upon impact. Maisie thought the hot red soup running down the cabbage-rose-patterned wallpaper made the room look like a crime scene.

She put her hands on her hips and shut her eyes, trying to will the anger someplace far, far away, perhaps into one of the cornfields on the outskirts of town. Maisie took several slow and measured breaths. She told herself she could just walk out of her adult son’s room and added, very unkindly, that if he got really hungry, he could lick the soup from the wall.

“Jack, honey—” she started but sucked in the words with a little cry as the plate upon which she’d put one perfectly toasted grilled cheese with a dill pickle garnish followed suit and shattered against the same wall as the soup.

She stared at the mess on the wall, the shards on the shag carpeting, and the aroma rising from the c*****e, which, Maisie had to admit, smelled delicious.

It might have been easier if Jack would say something, but Maisie knew by now that her son communicated with actions. The last time he’d truly spoken at any length was before…Well, she didn’t think about “before.” It was too painful. But just the thought of the memory was enough to keep Maisie’s anger in check. She didn’t know how much longer she could pull off that little magic trick, but for now it worked well enough for her to do what she needed to do.

Jack, on his bed, lifted the remote from next to the pillow, aimed it at the TV, and turned up the volume on the cooking show he was watching, Barefoot Contessa. Maisie snorted. Jack loved the Cooking Channel and the Food Network yet could barely be coaxed to eat.

She squatted down to begin picking up the broken crockery, piling the Fiesta ware into her apron, and tried not to cry. She hazarded a glance at her son and wondered where the strapping and handsome blond young man she had raised had disappeared to. What lay on the bed, in a pair of stained gray sweatpants and a Steelers T-shirt that reeked of BO, was a stranger, a wraith, a grown man who was over six feet tall yet probably weighed less than 130 pounds. It broke Maisie’s heart.

She got to her feet, holding the apron, full of its broken soup bowl and plate, out in front of her, and managed to waddle out the door. In the kitchen, just down the hall, she emptied the apron into the wastebasket under the sink, being careful that no tiny sharp pieces clung to the apron. She found a plastic bin under the sink and brought it out to fill it with hot water, to which she added a little dishwashing liquid. She stooped again to find a scrub brush.

She returned to Jack’s room and cleaned up the mess. The carpet and wallpaper were stained. This wasn’t the first time Jack had made his displeasure known in such a graphic way. But at least if she cleaned it up, Maisie didn’t have to worry as much about attracting bugs or unpleasant smells.

As she was scrubbing the rug, the cat, Regina, an imperious ginger tabby, wandered in, perhaps attracted by the smell of cheese. She glanced over at Maisie briefly, as one would look at a servant, Maisie thought, and then hopped up to join Jack on the bed. He didn’t look at the cat, but he lifted a hand to rest on her head.

And Maisie felt a stab of jealousy, irrational as it was.

She blew out a breath and looked over at Jack, tried to engage him, if only for a moment. If he would simply look at her, she thought, all would be forgiven. Why, she’d even smile.

But he wouldn’t. It seemed like it had been years since he’d given her so much as a glance, even though Maisie knew that couldn’t be true, that she was just exaggerating. But ever since he’d holed himself up here in his boyhood bedroom, it had been like her son Jack had died, despite the breathing skeleton on the bed. That guy bore no resemblance to her son.

She sat down at the foot of the bed and glanced at the TV. Ina Garten was talking about adding “good” Dijon mustard to her potato salad. Was there a bad kind? Maisie wondered. She touched Jack’s foot beneath the blanket, and he yanked it away.

“I should have given the grilled cheese and soup to Regina. She’s not so picky. Are you, girl?”

Maisie reached out to scratch the cat behind the ears. Unlike Jack, the feline didn’t move away from her touch, but it seemed to Maisie that she merely tolerated it.

Maisie sighed. Outside the bedroom window, the day wound down into dusk, filling the too-close room with a murky, filtered light. Soon, she knew, it would grow dark, and Jack’s once-handsome face would be illuminated by the flickering bluish light of the television.

Maisie said softly, “You want some eggs? I could make you an omelet. As you know, I’ve got cheese. And I think there’s a little ham out there.”

And he deigned to speak. “I’m fine. Go to work.”

Maisie glanced down at her watch and saw that it was already getting on toward six. She worked nights as a cashier at the racetrack in West Virginia, across the river. It was monotonous and boring, but the pay was okay, and the racetrack was one place in the area that still paid its employees benefits. Still, every time she left the house, she worried about Jack.

Worried that he would harm himself.

Worried that he would kill himself.

It wasn’t as though he hadn’t tried.

She began to think about that other Jack, the one who now seemed like a character from a movie or book. The one who had lived in Seattle, in a high-rise in a neighborhood he referred to as Belltown. Maisie had never had the chance to go out and visit him, though she’d been planning a trip for the spring. But spring came after the winter, and that winter was when everything had gone to hell in a handbasket. Jack had been a rising star at the civil litigation law firm where he was a junior attorney. That other Jack had once confided in her that he wouldn’t be surprised if he made partner within the next five years.

And then, one night on Pike Street, it all went to s**t.

Maisie shook her head. No, she wouldn’t think about that. What was done couldn’t be undone.

Before, she wouldn’t have believed it if someone had let her in on the paradoxical possibility that a person could be killed, yet still breathe.

But now the truth lay right before her. Even though she knew he hated to be touched, she squeezed Jack’s toes beneath the covers, then quickly withdrew her hand.

She stood. “You’re right. I’m going to be late, and Lord knows I can’t afford to lose my job.” She chucked mirthlessly. “Then we’d really be up the proverbial tree without a paddle, or something like that.” She shook her head and wandered out of the room.

There was no point in telling Jack what was in the refrigerator. He wouldn’t eat anyway.