Michael Malone - Weebly

flowered radishes, mushrooms filled with cheese, all in
little glass jars. Sometimes quiche, wild blackberry
muffins, marbled cake. When had she prepared them?
At night when her family slept? In the morning while the
coffee brewed? Where had he been while his daily life
was being taken care of by someone who now proved
herself a stranger? He had the chicken salad. When that
ran out, he was on his own. Abernathy had never
prepared more than one meal a year; he made oyster
stew on New Year's Eve. Well, I can learn, he said.
But, oh, she'll be back.
He pulled the pieces of bread apart and stared at
what was spread on them. The thought of that food, all
that thirty years of food ladled into him by Beanie,
suddenly became nauseating. As a child he had always
kept carefully separated with his fork each item on his
plate.
He had eaten each separately, too, believing that by
completely finishing peas before he began potatoes,
peas and potatoes would escape uncontaminated to
solitary compartments of his stomach. This habit
persisted, and, in fact, the sight of Beanie's casseroles