Page 17 of Penny for Your Saints

Like a petulant toddler, she turns her face away from him as Caz sits across from her—both of them cross-legged, Louise’s handcuffed wrists in her lap, and blanket drawn around her narrow shoulders.

“C-mon, dude!” Caz cajoles, nearly getting the spoonful of ‘mater-O’s to Louise lips before she shakes her head—forcing him to smear a line of sauce across her porcelain cheek.

“You’re trying to feed her shit I wouldn’t give a dog—maybe that’s why she won’t eat,” I tease, knowing full well the real reason she’s refusing meals.

“Seb, you aren’t helping,” Caz grumbles under his breath—reaching out with a ripped section of paper towel to wipe the smear of sauce from her face, not unlike a doting parent caring for their sullen toddler.

I feel a warm swell of affection for Caz in that moment. Somehow, he’s managed to retain so much of his softness—his gentle nature since joining up with the rest of usSaints. More and more I find this to be one of the things I admire most about him… of course, his abs and tight little ass don’t hurt either—but I digress.

“She doesn’t have to eat if she doesn’t want to,” I call back to the pair as I make my way into the spare kitchen, arms laden with paper sacks full of groceries. “She’s got another week and a half or so before she’s really circling the drain,” I sigh wistfully, Caz and Louise still visible out of the corner of my eye through the cutout buffet window that separates our makeshift bedroom and the galley. “That is, of course, assuming thatcherTin-tin etFrankdon’t just decide they’re going to tube feed her,” I shrug, beginning to unload the groceries onto the counter.

Caz goes rigid at my words while Louise only slumps further, obviously defeated.

“Of course—if it’s simply the fact that ourpiece brillanterefuses to be fed on scraps likela puteand instead is holding out forle platfit for aputain de palacesuch as herself,” I sniff haughtily, laying stew meat, prunes, onions, blanched almonds, bulbs of garlic, and an assortment of tiny spice jars onto the poured concrete countertop.

At this, Louise turns herself as much as she can toward the narrow opening in the wall—trying to catch a glimpse of what I might be up to—her entire body slightly inclined toward me and the sounds I’m making in the kitchen.

Caz pops up from his place beside her on the futon—tossing the spoon angrily into the open can of slop he’s been trying to feed her for only god knows how long before I showed up as he swoops into the kitchen, his voice low, so that only I can hear, “What the fuck are you playing at, Sebby?” he hisses—his platinum brow almost pressed against my own.

“You, mon coeur, if you don’t get those beautiful lips out of my face.” I flash him a naughty wink and Caz just rolls his eyes, pushing back from me with an exasperated sigh.

“Frank and Q are going to be pissed you went on walkabout for fancy groceries when we’re on double lockdown.” He scrubs a hand over his silvery lavender-blond fuzz—his palm resting on the perfectly round crown of his head. “If you fuck up things with the fed bitch, they’ll absolutely go through the goddamn roof.” He glowers at me, pale blue eyes cold as ice.

“How do you think I am to ‘fuck up things’? She already refuses to eat or talk—next it will be refusing water and then she really will be dead quick,” I snap, my hot temper getting the best of me—even though it’s not even doux Cazimer I’m mad at.

Caz slumps against the refrigerator, the fight gone out of him.

“Fine, whatever. I’m gonna go roll-up. What can I snack on?” He cranes his neck to get a look at the spoils of my grocery run.

“I brought you a little something,” I smirk, shrugging out of my dry, cracking leather bomber jacket—pulling a pack of pull-apart cherry licorice and a sleeve of dark chocolate peanut-butter cups out of the breast pocket before tossing the old heap of leather onto a nearby folding chair.

“Seb, You spoil me!” he gasps gleefully, his blue eyes alight with joy—his whole face glowing with palpable delight.

“You go roll-up; I’m going to get some dinner on, eh?” I give him another wink—the two of us strangely bashful about exchanging even a stolen kiss in front of our hostage; lest she understand how much leverage she might have by playing us against one another.

Almost two hours into dinner preparation, and while I don’t have a proper tajine to prepare the dish—the beef and prunes smell incredible; my couscous—studded with golden raisins, chickpeas and a rainbow of savory vegetables wafts its spiced cardamom-cayenne-clove steam into the small kitchen.

I can actually hear the loud gurgling and burbling noises issuing from Louise’s stomach—even though there’s three quarters of a wall between myself and her in the next room.

“My Maman was a lovely woman,” I begin to reminisce—half to Louise, half to myself as I go about trimming small, seedlesscucumbers for the salad. “The chocolatier's daughter, sweet and pretty and perfect.”

I can see her, the sallow crescent moon of her face as she begins to turn toward me ever so slightly.

“My baabaa had the face and body to outdo any fashion model when he was a young man, so it’s not hard to see why my maman fell for him—even though he was a hustler, and a bad one at that,” I laugh, pulling the ancient casserole dish I’ve had to make do with making my beef and prune ‘tagine’ from the oven with a pair of floral quilted oven mitts.

“He used to say he fell in love with her cooking first. The cakes, the tartes—the big crusty loaves of bread—the poulet roti with all the trimmings,” I sigh wistfully, remembering my early days in the kitchen with her; my first experiences as a chemist of chaos.

Louise Penny, still refusing to look at me straight on, sits in profile—her eyes cast down, moving slowly beneath her hooded eyelids as she listens.

I open the glass covered casserole dish. A fragrant, sweet, earthy scent of the beef, onions, prunes, wine, and rich spices fills the air as I watch the muscles along Louise’s jaw fire wildly, her lips pressing together as she swallows down her saliva.

“I didn’t see it until she passed, but my maman had been the source of all my baabaa’s sweetness. Once she was gone, he was left a bitter husk of himself. Sour and rancid till the end of his days, but—what can one do?” I admit on a deflating huff of breath, a pang of heartsickness clutching at me as I begin to assemble a plate; careful scoops of fluffy couscous, a generous serving of the braised meat and stone fruit, and a crispy, cold toss of cucumber and greenleaf salad studded with salty oil and cured olives in my very own tangy yogurt-herb dressing.

Carefully, I collect a set of flatware and a section of paper towel and bring the plate around the corner into the other room with Louise.

She watches me with silent desperation as I stick my stocking foot out, my big toe poking through one of the holes in my worn tube socks as I hook my ankle around the leg of a nearby metal folding chair and drag the rickety thing in front of where Louise sits cross-legged on the lumpy mattress.

Her pale throat bobs as she struggles to swallow, her eyes darting—corybantic, between my face and the steaming plate of food I place between the makeshift place setting before her; as if serving her at our own private fine dining establishment.

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