Page 20 of The Auction
Ground beef, stewed tomatoes, some green and other types of peppers with store-bought taco shells crushed on top.
At six o’clock I put the dish in the center of the kitchen table Herb and I used to share, back when he still felt meal time was something he wanted to share with me.
I might have been twelve when that ended.
I could hear the back door open to the mudroom/laundry area, which was attached to the kitchen. I listened as Creed kicked off his muddy boots, as it had been raining all afternoon, which was respectful of him, I supposed, as it had been my day to mop the kitchen floor.
He came in through the arched doorway that led to the kitchen and walked over in his socks to the kitchen sink to wash his hands before sitting down.
“Smells good,” he grunted.
“Thanks,” I answered, politely.
I pulled out my chair and sat down and proceeded to take a spoonful of the casserole to put on my plate. He sat down across from me and I handed the serving spoon to him. He scooped a significantly larger amount onto his plate and didn’t wait for anything like a prayer or blessing before he tucked in.
I followed suit. Took my first mouthful, chewed and swallowed.
It look a second for the scotch bonnet pepper to kick in, but when it did, the level of heat was unmistakable.
He looked up at me and watched as I took another bite.
“Something wrong?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice even.
My mouth was on fire. My throat was on fire. I wanted nothing more than to start drinking water until I drowned myself.
“It’s a little spicy, don’t you think?” he asked, his hands in tight fists on the table. But other than that, he was giving nothing away to show me how much he was suffering.
“I like things a little on the hotter side. In fact, I think we have some hot sauce in the pantry.” I got up from my chair and walked over to the pantry closet. I had a few seconds to try and get my breathing right. I wiped away some tears that had leaked out from my eyes.
I could hear the muffled coughing behind me.
By the time I grabbed the Frank’s hot sauce and sat down again, I could see his eyes were watering.
Although mine were, too.
“I like milk with dinner,” he said, as much of a break as he would admit to. “I’ll think I’ll pour myself a glass. You want some?”
“Sure,” I breathed out, even as I took the hot sauce capoff the bottle and started generously shaking it all over the casserole.
He got up and pulled the pitcher of milk out of the fridge. He poured me a glass first, then himself. And left the pitcher on the table.
He took his seat again, looked me dead in the eye, and took another bite.
I mirrored him, bite for bite.
Finally, he sneezed, and then a coughing fit started in earnest. It wasn’t until he reached for his glass and started chugging the milk, that I was able to break and started chugging mine, too.
He refilled his glass, while I ran to the freezer to get some ice cream. I pulled the top off the Breyer’s vanilla, grabbed a spoon and started shoveling tablespoons into my mouth. It helped, but the fire was now all throughout my body.
He got up then, ripped the carton of ice cream out of my hands and used his fingers to scoop up the cold, sweet cream directly into his mouth.
When the milk was gone, the ice cream consumed, we both fell back into our chairs. The half-eaten casserole still between us while we panted and sweated out the heat filling our bodies.
“Thanks for dinner, babe,” he said, with a soft chuckle.
“Glad you liked it,” I offered.
“Maybe tomorrow I’ll just grill up some burgers.”
