Page 44 of Pieces of Ash
Julian
Knock knock knock!
My eyes jerk to the door, and I almost lose the spinning rhythm I’m using to etch a spiral design in the orange flecked vase I’m working on.
“What part of ‘Stay the fuck out of my way’ didn’t she understand?” I mutter, using a torch to smooth the bottom before letting it cool on the rod. Gently, I dip the unfinished vase into a metal bucket of water on the floor, then prop the rod, with the vase attached, on a holding rack.
By the time I open the barn door, she’s gone, but on the stool beside the door is a plate of food covered in plastic wrap. I stare at the plate like it’s a coiled snake instead of biscuits and chicken, then glance up at the house. No sign of her.
But I can smell the food, and it makes my mouth water instantly. It smells like butter, onions, and lemons, and stirs a long-forgotten memory.
“Joyeux anniversaire, Julian!”
My grandmother’s green eyes, like my father’s and mine, shine in the late summer Provençal sunlight. She takes the top off a cooking pot with a flourish, grinning at me from across the table.
“Joyeux anniversaire, fiston!” says my father, squeezing my small shoulder with a burly arm. “C’est coq au vin. Your grandmother’s special dish. She only makes it pour des occasions spéciales!”
“Merci, Mémère,” I say, grinning up at her, wishing that our summer in Sault never had to come to an end.
“Treize ans.” She reaches across the table and pinches my cheeks lovingly. “Beau garçon.”
Thirteen years old. Beautiful boy.
Bruno’s soft wailing lets me know that his hound nose has sniffed out the food, and I reach for the plate, closing the door with my back.
“You want some?” I ask him.
His insistent howl tells me he wants all of it.
“No chance, buddy. We’re sharing.”
She’s forgotten to leave a fork, but it doesn’t matter. I halve the first of two biscuits and rip off a piece of the still-hot chicken with my callused fingers. One half for me, one for Bruno. And I can practically hear my dog’s sigh echo mine as he chomps down his share, then shifts his weight from front foot to front foot, hopeful for more. But it’s too good to share.
“Sorry, boy,” I say, halving the other biscuit and sandwiching the remaining chicken.
As Bruno licks the plate, I savor the rest. And it’s good. It’ssogood. It’s as good as my grandmother’s coq au vin, and as much as I hate it, it makes me wonder about the girl inside.
Where did she learn to cook? Did she once have a grandmother like mine? Someone who made sure she felt loved the way I did when the sting of my mother’s abandonment was at its sharpest?
My cell phone buzzes on the wooden workbench.
Noelle.
“Hey,” I say, putting the phone to my ear as I wipe my hands on my jeans.
“Hi. What’s up?”
“Nothing much. Working on a vase.”
“Commission or gallery?”
“Gallery, I guess.”
“You should open your own shop, so no one takes a cut,” she suggests.
At twenty, she thinks she’s the master of all things entrepreneurial just because she’s majoring in business administration.
“Yeah, yeah. So you’ve told me.”
