Eustice

Eustice studied the stitches carefully. The curled upholstery needle lay nearby, ready to be reengaged at any moment. The stitches were even, anchored well, and attractive, she thought to herself. The thread had been sleek enough to pass through the tough material intact.

Having determined the work proficient, Eustie returned to thinking about what to put into the new book. Eustice loved cooking and fancied herself a bit of a chef. Who else could take such unusual ingredients and make them not just palatable, but also delicious? These young people had no sense. They bought fancy ingredients and made picture-worthy crap dishes. Eustice actually cooked with things from the real world.

She paused a bit as she touched the cover of the book. It was soft and rife with hidden knowledge. It was trying to whisper secrets to her. Eustice’s hands paused a bit over the image...what had it meant? Surely there was a story behind it. Someone had chosen this phrase and sent it into permanence. Gently she touched the image, trying to imagine the thoughts behind it. Had it hurt? Surely a tattoo of that size had physically hurt but it seemed the reason behind it must have hurt more. Was there suffering? It wasn’t a typical tattoo. It wasn’t shallow tribal symbols, cartoon characters, or, even more lamely, names or images of a loved one. This mark was different. It was why she chose it when she saw it walking nearby.

It was simple. “Fly Me To The Moon.” She remembered feeling the tingle Kaye Ballard’s rendition stirred in her. Anything was possible. Things were beautiful. The song reminded her of youth and of dreaming. She was old now and the dreams had mostly gone, leaving her behind. This, however, was real. She could touch it, put her hands on it, and feel young again.

Eustice decided to dedicate the book to her most recent culinary creations. She still didn’t know what to do with the eyes. She had been raised not to waste food so she had dutifully wrapped them in butcher paper and put them in the freezer, amongst the other parcels. Her previous experiences taught her they would be difficult to cut into. Maybe a vinegar marinade to soften them up a bit? She had some leftover sauce from the restaurant she used to frequent with her sister. It might still be good.

Eustice allowed herself to reflect on the kindness this stranger had given her. A chance to showcase her passion and pass along her wisdom. Who would look at her book after she was gone? There was no one left alive to care so she had to find a person to make them care. The woman across the hall in her building might care. She was old enough to appreciate the reference and she had grandchildren she could hand the book down to.

She set about filling the book with handwritten recipes. Some were her mother’s, some from her sister, some from TV, and her own, unique recipes. Her mother and sister hadn’t faced the choices she had. They would have never trapped and processed their own meat. She was stronger for that.

Eustice spent hours writing, including measurements and ideas for herb combinations. She spent her free hours writing in the book, outside of her shows, of course. A week later she was ready to invite Marion for dinner.

Eustice watched from the peephole in her door until she saw Marion returning home. Marion had her mail in one hand and the handle of her rolling shopping cart in the other. A practical shop, Eustice could tell. She liked Marion more and more each day. Eustice sprung into action, opening the door and pretending to be surprised. She made small talk and invited her neighbor over. She delighted in Marion’s joy to have an invitation to sup. Marion was lonely, she could tell.

Upon arrival Marion proved to be the perfect guest. She brought a small cheese plate and was clearly already buzzed when she arrived. She was fun. Eustice had prepared a special roast and had taken great joy at selecting the carrots and potatoes. She had gone to the bigger grocery store instead of the corner store. This was a special night.

They chatted as they dined and Marion’s face lit up as she talked about her grandson’s recent soccer match. Eustice, slowly sipping on her wine, tried to keep her nerves under control. She paced herself. Marion complemented the roast and Eustice seized her opportunity. “I’ll give you the recipe. My book is right over here.” Eustice rose and crossed behind Marion to retrieve the book from a small side table serving as a sideboard. Marion appeared delighted. Eustice, the book under her arm, moved a chair next to Marion so they could view the contents together.

The cover was dark and the lighting was lowered. The pelt had darkened beyond Eustice’s expectations. Despite this, Marion delightedly looked at the cover and began to open the book. Eustice had known she would understand. Suddenly an emotional veil covered Marion’s eyes. This was rapidly replaced with the sharpness of understanding and followed by the brightness of horror. She looked at the tattoo, recognizing it.

Realizing what she had just touched, she attempted to stand up, knocking her chair down in the process. Eustice reeled, realizing her mistake. Her mind went linear and cold, debating how to end the chaos.

She didn’t have to. Marion clutched her chest, staggered, and collapsed hard on the carpet. She could barely speak but mumbled “911...” Eustice let out a relieved breath and waited as Marion rolled about and then went quiet. Marion obviously didn’t deserve the book and she had been a rude guest by leaving Eustice with so much cleanup. Eustice sighed and went to get her butcher paper.