“She stole it from a diner when we were on our honeymoon. She wanted a souvenir.”
“This will work.”
“Listen, Bette,” he stops her. “Please listen. Whenever I use it. I’m not sure. I experience her memories. They’re usually of us, but they’re her memories.”
“How?”
“I don’t know how. That’s why I am here.”
“No, I mean, how do you use it?”
“You have to touch the salt shaker then taste the salt.”
“Does any salt in your house work?”
“No, just the salt in there.”
She taps out some salt into her palm. “Do you mind?”
“Well . . .”
She licks her palm then shakes some salt on her finger. She tastes it. Her head whips up; her face strains toward the ceiling.
Her eyes roll back into her head; her hands grip the arm rests. Her breath is rapid. She starts to moan.
“Bette? Are you okay?”
“I can see Mira. I can see the Fire.”
“Fire?”
“The bar, The Fire. Mira is playing keyboard in a rock band. You are in the audience. She is singing. There are a bunch of high school teachers in the band. The band’s name is the First Grade. She is very happy. She is having fun.”
“I remember that concert. That was her first concert with them.”
Bette closes her eyes, she quivers and her head rolls down into her chest. She takes a deep breath and exhales. Bette doesn’t look at him but extends her hands. Bert stares at them. Her fingers wiggle beckoning him and Bert places his hands in hers.
She squeezes his hands, “I’m really sorry. She must have loved you very deeply to leave something like this behind. If you keep using the salt shaker, it’ll kill you.”
“Why?”
Her eyes still closed, she raises his hands to her lips and kisses them. “You need to stop.”
“It’s all I have left of her,” He stands up, picks up the salt shaker and wraps it in the plastic bag.
Bette opens her eyes and gazes at a sliver of light peeking out from behind her red velvet curtains. “Please leave forty dollars in the jar on the way out.”
Bette continues to shake and focus on the ray of light. He leaves the room; at the door he pulls two twenties from his pocket and places them in the jar. As he closes the door he remembers that John was at that concert. Maybe John told her. Bert pauses for a moment, turns to the door, then spins away and heads down the stairs, out into the street, and into daylight.
* * *
The house smells stale. He hasn’t really cleaned in a couple of weeks. He takes the salt shaker out of the plastic bag and places it on the counter. He becomes lost in looking at it for a moment. He regroups and loads the dishwasher, scrubs the counter, sweeps the floor.
Upstairs is clean. He has avoided the bedroom for the most part. He takes his showers in the basement, only comes into get clothes which he stores after he washes them in the hall credenza and under the sofa table. The bed hasn’t been touched since they made it three and a half weeks ago. Tonight he needs a new toothbrush and razorblade. He walks into the bedroom and straight to the master bath. Grabs what he needs and leaves the room, holding his breath all the way like he used to do as a kid when passing a cemetery.
* * *
He enters the courthouse trying to avoid making eye contact with anyone. Turns in his cell phone, passes through the metal detectors and takes the stairs. Five flights up, everyone waits. He steps out into the hall and he sees his mother in-law. He walks up behind her.
“Hi, Katherine.” He embraces her.
“Oh, Herbert. I am so glad you could make it.”
“Where else am I going to be?”
“I don’t know.” She grabs his hand. “You’re the first person I recognize here.”
He squeezes her hand, “Ready?”
“I’ve never been ready for this. What makes you ready?”
“Scotch.”
She gives him a small smile. “Do you have any?”
“Sorry.”
“Oh well, let’s go.”
* * *
Stories are told. It takes two fifteen year-old boys and six blows to the skull with a fire extinguisher to kill Mirabelle Perkins nee Talbot, due to her confiscating Jerome Scott’s iPhone during class. After the class was dismissed, Jerome, a promising student in her math class and after school music program, knocked her down by hitting her with a heavy textbook. Michael, his cousin, also in her math class, took the fire extinguisher off the wall and caved her head in. Her face was so damaged it was unrecognizable. The casket was closed during the wake and a picture of her on top of a mountain at Sequoia National Park was placed on top. Thirty-one years of life, gone. All of this for an iPhone Jerome smuggled into class. Then pictures are shown. They will be tried as adults. Mothers cry. Pennsylvania carries the death penalty. The assistant district attorney tells Katherine and Herbert to stay for a quick briefing.
* * *
Katherine and Bert stand in line at Rick’s Steaks in Reading Terminal. The lunch crowd makes it difficult to hear each other, but Bert tries to make small talk which causes Katherine to smile at him or nod at something he says about the crowd. She studies him. Bert doesn’t know what she is looking for he knows he will give it to her gladly. Her face is much older now. When he first met Katherine she was a young, glowing fifty; now her face is sunken and ashen. Her hair once a rich auburn is now graying. He can’t look her in the eyes; her eyes are Mira’s eyes. He stares at her lips instead, studying wrinkles that are like tributaries emptying into a choppy pink lake. He waits for those waters to part and give him an answer, any answer.
“I have to go Bert. I can’t wait anymore,” says Katherine. “Call me about doing dinner.”
She starts away. He steps toward her, “Let me walk you to your car.”
“No. I took a cab. Get lunch. I’m fine.” With that she steps into the safe anonymity of the crowd. Bert heads after her but he can’t find her through the crush of people. He shouts her name but is only answered by the drowning din.
* * *
The house is dark. The yellow street lamp provides the only light in the kitchen. He places the smallest amount of salt that he can shake out on to his palm and licks.
Barbados. Again. Friends over for game night. Again. Drunk in Napa. Again. Planting bulbs in November. Again. Playing a song she wrote. Again.
John pulls Mira in for a kiss under the mistletoe.
“Mistletoe.” John points.
“You’re drunk.”
“So are you.”
“Not as,” Mira snaps.
John raises one eyebrow. Bert dances over to them while the DJ spins “Christmas in Hollis, Queens.” As he flails his way across the floor little tremors of joy fill her chest like golden, ebullient bubbles rushing to the surface of a champagne glass.
“Bert,” John says.
“Come on guys. It’s Run DMC! Dance!” Bert pleads.
Mira grabs Bert, dips him and lays a sloppy kiss on him.
“Oh.”
“Mistletoe.” Mira points.
“Hmm. You’re incredible. I love you. Let’s dance,” Bert shouts.
“Second.”
“Okay. I’m going back.” Bert shakes his booty and skips back to the dance floor.
“Mira, he’s such a geek.”
“John, you’re drunk. It’s Christmas. There was mistletoe. This time I will forget about it. Next time I’ll rip your balls off and feed them to your dog.” She turns away.
“What do you see in him? Come on!”
Bert dances like a standing seizure. “He’s my man. I love him. Besides, you’re a shitty kisser.”
He curls up in a ball, pressing knees to his chest, getting smaller and smaller. He reaches out to the salt shaker and takes another hit.
* * *
Bert sits across from David. It’s been four days since he’s taken a shower an
d he’s sure David can smell it.
“This is tax season, Bert. What are you thinking? Need to count on you and I don’t think I can right now.”
“The hearing was difficult.”
“I understand that this is a rough time for you. But it’s a rough time for us and you disappeared. You didn’t call, or email. I really like working with you, Bert. But I’m going to do both of us a favor and let you go for now.”
“But I need my job.”
“Well apparently not bad enough. You’ve already taken three weeks off and then you run out of a client’s office and disappear into thin air. I can’t take the risk. File for unemployment. Maybe when you get your shit together we can revisit you working here.”
“This is bullshit, David, and you know it. My wife just died and you, you’re firing me because what? I forgot to call after I saw Mira’s killers. What the hell!” Bert stands up.
“Sit down, Bert. I know times are stressful for you. You know that when my little boy had leukemia I didn’t miss a single day of work. I was here every day. Disappearing and wallowing in self-pity was not going to make him heal any faster or bring him back when he was gone.”
“You want a fucking reward for that?”
“You’re fired. Leave my office, we’ll ship you your things.”
Bert storms out of David’s office. John is waiting in the hallway.
John steps to him, “Why were you in there so long?”
“Fucking fired me.”
“Really?!”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“He says I need to get my shit together.”
“Man. Why don’t you stick around downtown and we’ll go get a drink later.”
“I need to go home.”
“Come on. We can talk about Mira and get drunk or something.”
“Really, you want to talk about Mira?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“I know you kissed her.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The holiday party.”
“Bert, dude, you know that I was fucked up. You had to carry me into my apartment.”
“You wanted her, John. You betrayed me.”
“I’m sorry, man. I was being an ass. I’m really sorry.”
Bert walks toward the door. “Oh, and by the way, I want my fucking Madden back!”
* * *
He ignores the knocking at the door.
He’s been careful over the last week, measuring out dosages, but the shaker is empty. He licks every surface he can think of where the salt may have fallen—dirty dishes, the counter, the table, the floor, he sucks the sponge, sweeps out the cabinet and eats the dust, he licks the trays in the burners. He examines the crud wedged in between the stove and the counter. He digs it out with a knife and consumes each infinitesimal morsel. Finally, he feels it. His heart starts to seize.
She pushes the door to the bedroom open with her hip. Bert is still out. She places the breakfast tray on the nightstand next to him. She climbs in on his side and starts to kiss him. Forehead, eyes, lips.
“What time is it?” He groans.
“Ten-thirty.”
“Mmmm. What smells so good?”
“I took a bath.”
“‘Bout time.”
“Oh shush,” she smacks him in the arm. “I made pancakes.”
“Oh!”
“Want some?”
“Do I have to get out of bed?”
“That’s the best part. I brought them to you.”
“Breakfast in bed? I never get breakfast in bed.”
“Excited?”
“As excited as I can be first thing in the morning.”
She gets the tray and brings it to the bed.
He sits up. “Looks spectacular.”
“Thank you.”
“What’s in it?”
“Taste first.”
“Mmm. Wow. Ginger?”
“Yep. Buckwheat pancakes with Ginger, sweet cream and vanilla.”
“Wow. When did you get up?”
“Seven.”
“Seven? We didn’t go to bed until one.”
“I drank too much.”
“Oh, honey.”
“It’s okay. I’ll take a nap later.”
She gets out of bed and throws open the curtains.
“Argh, too much sunshine.”
“It’s beautiful out today.”
“You are beautiful.”
“Aww. What do you want to do today?”
“Eat these pancakes. Stay in bed.”
“Stay in bed? We can’t stay in bed the rest of our lives. Let’s do something fun today.”
The pain in his chest is sharp and suffocating. Blood slows in his veins and the light is dim.
“Get up, Bert. Get up.”
Over him stand his mother and Katherine, their faces illuminated by his mother’s cell phone. His mother dials. “Hello, 911.”
He struggles to right himself. Katherine helps him sit up. “You okay? We thought we lost you.”
“She said I can’t stay in bed for the rest of my life.”
Katherine squeezes his shoulder, “I tell myself that every day.”
* * *
Mira was always better at cracking eggs. In his hands they tend to explode rather than divide. Still, he separates out the yolks, scrambles the whites in the bowl, and pours it into the pan. It sizzles and the mixture firms. He adds some prepared mushrooms, folds over the edge, flips, seers, and then, slips it on to a clean white plate. He reaches for the pepper mill and twists. Black and brown flurries float down onto the mottled landscape.
Outside, the trees bend under the wind and birds dart through the streets and alleyways propelled by the gusts. He’ll brave the weather and do something fun today, maybe go dancing.
Even without the salt the omelet tastes good.
###
A Brief Biography of Bernard M. Cox for Those Who Are Concerned
Bernard M. Cox is a graduate of the MFA Creative Writing program at Roosevelt University. Recently transplanted from Philadelphia, to beautiful Berwyn, then to San Diego, he is now considered an invasive, though naturalized, species.
In Pennsylvania, he taught screenwriting, curated an experimental music concert series called FeedBack, ran a staged reading series for screenwriters, and served on the Board of Directors of the University City Arts League. In Illinois, he taught literature at College of Lake County and composition at Roosevelt University. He is the former Assistant Artistic Director for the Tamale Hut Café Reading Series in North Riverside—thcreadingseries.wordpress.com.
His writing has appeared in A cappella Zoo, Blood and Lullabies, Collective Fallout, Crack the Spine, Red Lightbulbs, and Up the Staircase Quarterly.
Now in California, he is acclimating to the constant, oppressive sunlight as he is partial to part-shade. When he is not writing, making music, or reading, he is often wandering the countryside looking for insects and dreaming about Philadelphia.
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