Page 6 of Half Blind

Chapter 3 - Appeal

The appeal of a hotbreakfast with people he almost, or maybe in the next week or so, would get to know, sure beat eating alone at a sticky table with clacking forks and knives hitting greasy plates. The anger in his current hostess was highly evident, and during the time walking from the yard into the home, he searched his memory banks on everything he knew about venom, its uses, and how to care for a snake bite in the field. Years of working in either sub-Saharan or Central American jungles had helped him develop a healthy respect for animals that lurked under the cover of shadows which could bite you and either kill your heartbeat or the skin cells holding your body together. This also included the humankind because if the women had codenames like Cranberry and Lemon and both knowing the Archangel, the last thing he wanted to do was get on their bad sides.

He winced a bit as he walked, meaning the wound on his leg was progressing and it didn't feel as if it were moving in a favorable direction. One, he was without transportation, and two, his transportation was more than likely barely salvageable, which may mean he needed to purchase another form of transportation. Jared Bane was a man who thought things through. Being put on his feet by a damned tornado wasn't on his bingo card for the year, nor was being stranded in Ohio with a house full of women—been there, loved that scenario. He truly didn't want to do it again.

Inside, the home was bright, colorful, and full of warmth. The ambiance of the home suggested someone nice resided within the walls. However, the woman in front of him didn't seem nice in the least, especially considering what he'd done to her pets. The other one who’d just arrived wasn't watching him, but the girls.

“Lemon,” Helen asked, “Do you want me to start breakfast while you take care of Mr. Bane's leg?”

“No, I want to let that leg rot along with his sad hide,” Myrtle said, noticing the limp as he tried to lean against the counter, “but I won't. Head into that bathroom and use the bath towel to wrap around you so I can get a look at your leg.”

“How about I take a look at it to see how bad it is and whether it requires simply cleaning and a bandage?”

“Or you can do as I ask; take off those filthy pants, which are adding more bacteria to the wound every second you're still in them,” she told him.

Jared looked down and she was correct; the pants were as nasty as he felt. He nodded, limping his way to the water closet, removing the boots, and looking at the sad socks with the hole in them as well as the grungy pants which could have stood up by themselves from the buildup of dirt. Technically, he'd only worn the jeans for four days, but factor in being tumble washed by a tornado, and yeah, they were pretty rank. As a matter of record, so was he.

“I stink,” he said aloud.

“Yeah, you do,” a voice on the other side of the door called back.

Sighing deeply, he secured the towel around his waist, thankful today he wore a boxer brief so no dangly parts would make a surprise appearance when she worked on his leg. The gash was nasty and needed a couple of stitches to stop the steady trickle of blood from the gnash in the skin.

“That looks nasty,” Lemon said as she pointed at the chair at the table. The other woman, Helen, was providing instructions to the girls while they made breakfast. He watched a tray of bacon get loaded inside the stove. Helen's hands were coated in flour as she used a rolling pin to lay out biscuits, showing Bria how to use a glass to cut perfect circles to place on the slightly greased pan. Ayanna, the other teen, cracked eggs, which went into a mixing bowl along with heavy whipping cream. A cast iron pan, already oiled, received the egg mixture with sprinkles of paprika and left over veggies from the fridge. It slid into the oven and the timer was set.

This also meant his time was up. He looked down at Lemon, who was scowling as she cleaned the wound. A cup of coffee appeared in front of him, and he said, “Thank you.”

“I'm sorry about your research assistants,” he said.

“A lot of good you're sorry is going to do me now,” she griped as she poured alcohol into the wound, all the while making eye contact with him.

The pain from the alcohol nearly made him wet the funky underwear, but he wouldn't give a woman named Myrtle the satisfaction of seeing him squirm, no matter how much it hurt him to the center of his body and nut sack. Instead of showing how much he hurt, he took a sip of the coffee. It almost choked him to swallow through the intense pain, especially after she poured more alcohol, then wiped hard, before jamming the needle into his skin to sew up the gash.

“Perhaps,” he said, “Roger and Jerry could be your control group since one's venom was a hemotoxin and a necrotizing agent, while the other was neurotoxin and cardio-toxin.”

“What? And It's Larry and Frank!” Lemon said, looking at him. The girls and Helen were also listening closely to what he had to say.

“You stated you've had Larry and Moe for five years,” he said, intentionally messing up the names to pay her back for the alcohol poured into an open wound. “Use Larry and Curly as a control group for the base of the research.”

“You have no idea what you're talking about,” Lemon said, dismissing his idea.

“I'm simply suggesting that five years of research based on a sub-Saharan viper and cardiotoxic Asian species can be the control group for your research,” he said, leaning back in the chair as she stabbed him again with the needle to sew up the gash. “If you continue the research by expanding the parameters and introducing another two forms of venom from let’s say, a Mamba and a Krait, which have the same chemical properties as the Cobra, you can have a balance in the data. You can also use an American Copperhead or a South American viper like the Fer De Lance against the venom results of the Gaboon. If you wanted to stay sub-Saharan, you can go with a Saw Scale, which is also necrotizing, which expands the basis of the research, making it applicable to the actual composition of the venom versus the venom from only two species.”

Everyone was quiet. The smell of the bacon mixed with the aroma of freshly baked biscuits filled the space. He also knew he was ripe and smelled like a locker room full of unwashed bodies. Carefully, he opened his knees and rapidly closed them back, sending a whiff of funk to Lemon's nose as she looked up and cursed him out with her facial expression. He actually smiled at her, taking in his moment of petty revenge.

“Yeah, after breakfast, you're bathing,” she said. “I have a shower in the barn; you can use that and keep the towel.”

Bria asked, “Doc Myrtle, is what he said true? Can you do that with the research?”

Ayanna wanted to know as well, “Do you have to order more live snakes? Those things freak me out, especially on the days you have to milk them. I mean, can you just order the venom and not the snakes?”

A light went off in Lemon's mind. She bandaged the wound as the young ladies collected plates and set the table. The food came from the oven with beautiful biscuits and a frittata worthy of a magazine center spread. Helen was proud of the biscuits. The Sunday dinners at Ruth Neary's had done her a world of good, and working alongside the matriarch in the kitchen, she had picked up a few tips and tricks. She’d also learned how to make a few meals that were Mustang's absolute favorites. The surprise on his face when she’d made Ruth's meatloaf covered in mushroom gravy with red potato mash and crunchy green beans almost made the man do a happy food dance. Based on what she saw this morning, the girls didn't know how to cook, and if she could be of any help to Lemon while she was here, this would be her contribution to the household.

“This breakfast looks amazing. Thank you, Helen,” Jared said.

“Yeah, ditto,” Lemon repeated and disappeared into her own head, going over the idea he’d shared.

“Do you mind if I bless the food?” Jared asked.

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