Page 47 of Pieces of Ash
Hello, thank you, I love you, goodbye.
Mostly I wondered if he—Julian—was listening in French or reading subtitles in English.
His last name, pronounced “doo-shahm,” doesn’t tell me much about his background, but I saw it spelled on an envelope affixed to the fridge,Ducharmes, which looked French to me. There’s something romantic about my grouchy housemate being French, so I decide that he is, and leave it at that.
The kitchen doesn’t smell like coffee or breakfast, though I heard him rattling around down here an hour ago. Based on the small bowl, spoon, and glass also in the drying rack, I am guessing he had cereal and juice.
It’s nice that he does his own dishes. The nuns led us to believe that most men were slobs but that an ideal wife would cheerfully look after her husband, cleaning up after him without derision or complaint. An ideal husband is, after all, the head of every family and must be afforded the respect due to a moral compass, protector, and breadwinner.
But for all that I’ve heard these learned words a thousand times, they ring hollow in my head now, just as they did at school. Neither my grandfather nor my stepfather were especially moral, protective, or generous. Not legally, anyway.
I don’t even know for sure that such a man exists, though it is—in the words of Ernest Hemingway—pretty to think so.
I see a piece of paper on the marble counter, and my heart lifts. I wonder if it’s a thank you note.
Alas, it’s not.
In straightforward print, it reads:
My sister is coming to stay next weekend.
I’m going to the store later today. If you need anything, write it down. Jock will pay me back.
-JD
As I take out two eggs and heat up a frying pan, I do a mental inventory of the fridge and cabinets, thinking about what ingredients I would need to cook for three.
Although he hasn’t asked me to handle his meals, I am anxious to do anything I can to ingratiate myself to him, to make myself less of a nuisance and burden, and perhaps to lay the groundwork for us to become friends. Since I left all mine behind and he appears to be my only option, I’d very much like for Julian and me to be friends.
As my eggs fry, I write in careful cursive.
How kind. Thank you.
Please pick up a dozen eggs, some butter and flour, a bag of sugar, pork chops, chicken breasts, sausage, ground beef, garlic, vegetables for salad, half a dozen baking potatoes, cheddar cheese, and whatever fruit is in season.
I will look forward to preparing dinner for you and your sister while she visits with us.
-Ashley
By the time I finish writing, my eggs are ready to be plated. I grab a paper napkin and an orange from the bowl on the counter, then push open the screen door with my elbow so I can eat my breakfast outside.
Chapter 10
Julian
Knock knock knock!
And then…bare feet running over gravel.
I’ve grown accustomed to this routine after four days, and per usual, my watering mouth and Bruno’s excited yelps overrule any objection I should make to her cooking for me.
We haven’t talked since our quick conversation on Sunday morning—in fact, I’ve made a concerted effort to avoid her—but something about refusing her food would be, I don’t know, mean. Or something.
I’ve thought about Noelle a lot over the past few days—about her living alongside some stranger like this girl sharing a house with me. Oh, sure, Jock and Gus showed up yesterday to check on her and bring necessities like shampoo and a new toothbrush, but they aren’t here all the time with her like I am.
If something happened to me? And Noelle was suddenly living with some stranger? Well, I’d want him to treat her kindly. I wouldn’t want him touching her or making moves on her, for Chrissake. But I’d appreciate it if he was kind.
She’s long gone by the time I crack open the door and pull the white plate inside. I can already smell her latest creation and look down greedily at what appears to be simple macaroniand cheese. One bite, however, and I’m groaning because I don’t know what the hell she does in that kitchen, but everything—every damn thing she makes—is delicious.
