The Casserole

The Casserole

It wasn't the first time the steam cascading from her casserole smelled slightly off. The browned and buckled breadcrumb crust looked just right, perfect actually, little cracks made by frothy white bubbles pushing the top pieces aside. She hoped that if she lit his cigarette the moment he came in the door, he wouldn't notice the scent was more like sour milk than cheesy chicken pasta.

There's really nothing to do be done with a rogue casserole, but serve it as hot as possible to your husband with a good shot of Scotch. She glanced at the bar, hoping there was some good Scotch left.

Glancing at the big clock he had mounted over the foyer table, she realized she could either freshen her lipstick or pour his Scotch, but not both. Hoping for the best, she dabbed on his favorite color, coral. It would stain the napkins, but never mind. She'd worry about that later. Soak them, perhaps.

The day had gotten away from her, so she hadn't had time to get the fresh heavy cream the recipe called for. Dessert, luckily, was easy. There were these new kits for apple cobbler, little bags of topping and everything. She'd slip that in the oven now, and the smell of baking cinnamon would please him, it was such a cold drive to his new office in Cobalt City.

Hearing the garage door, she started up from her thoughts and grabbed his cocktail glass. Darn, only a drop of the good Scotch, it'll have to be the bottle dropped off by one of his thankful clients--not thankful enough, she thought hurriedly.

She read his mood from his entrance. It was somewhere in between relief, an audible grunt of home satisfaction, and annoyance. The sound of clutched keys suggested the latter was an additive to the first grunt, a later and paused idea. She wondered, but decided the lean for the requisite kiss to the cheek was due. She wasn't expecting a slight bite. It didn't pinch, but it raised the hair on the back of her neck. Her hand felt for a mark. It was probably nothing.

He didn't offer any information on his day, so she took up the space with hers. The other girls in the secretary skills class that day were chatty and told some risqué stories. One's cousin was scandalizing everyone by putting up a Menorah on the piano across from the Christmas tree. One girl knew personally that the PTA President wanted to sign up for the skills class. Another girl was buying a wedding present for her sister and was puzzled why the wedding had moved from next June to mid-March. All the while preparing the casserole for serving, she was unprepared for the soft growl behind her as her hips were pushed into sharp drawer handles on the utensil drawer.

She froze. Turning to reach for the Scotch and refill his glass, she was careful not to pull away quickly but to give signals that she was serving him. Not escaping, but making moves to get him comfortably settled in. An imprint from the drawer could be felt on her left hip. Later he would probably trace it with his fingers, make sure she remembered.

Seeing him happily sipping Scotch, she wondered if she should have a glass. It was hard to judge sometimes. At times a clear head was best, but at other times a fuzzy one was preferable.

She decided to wait and see. Dinner conversation was subdued. He hadn't closed the accounts he had wanted to by quarter's close, but there was always next quarter and they were, after all, leads. She reminded him that by then she would finish her course and could help type contracts and reports.

No comment was made about the slightly stinky casserole, lovely in its shape. The best for last, the apple cobbler from the kit was exceptional. The things they come up with these days!

She intended to practice her typing after dinner and dishes, so she wasted no time swooping down on the table to clear. The sudden grab of her wrist surprised her.

"The creme was off. Or the cheese. Or the chicken. Go check the expiration dates."

She continued clearing and set the dishes to soak. Looking in the refrigerator, she did her best to obscure the stamped date with the dishwashing soap still smeared on her fingers from the soaking. A slight purple smudge was the result. If he couldn't read it, there was no proof.

He was suddenly behind her, one hand pushing her face into the carton and the other pulling up on her hips until she buckled at the waist and fell forward. She shivered from a cross between the cold ledge catching her upper body and the chilled rancid creme lacing her cheek and nose. Luckily it had missed her mouth. Her hands reached out to steady herself and she quietly apologized and asked for a paper towel.

He didn't move. He said she could clean herself with the dishes. Embarrassed, she tried to straighten her skirt. He said it would really be better if she left it raised.

Taking the shamed carton to the sink for disposal, she wondered how to walk gracefully to the sink with a pencil skirt hiked up her hips and perspiring sour creme slipping slowly down her face. She hoped the lipstick wasn't smudged like the last time.

He followed. Her breathing was a little too fast for common dishwashing, but she managed to hide it. His hand in the creme was ignored, until the cold wet sensation of his fingers applying it to her backside could no longer be ignored.

Her first thought was how awful she would smell--that she would have to bathe now instead of practice typing. That thought was quickly replaced by the welcome idea of the cold balm on her heat, when she saw him calmly wipe his hands and reach for the slotted spoon she always used to extract floating vegetables from boiling water. Her mind focused on the little floating green islands that the spoon usually brought forth, as he bent her over the sink and created a pattern that for days he would feel and trace with satisfaction.

Dishes first, bath and a change of clothes next, she thought. There were also some splashes of creme in and around the counter, cabinets, floor, and dishrags. Moving to soak the dishrags with the napkin that bore a slight coral tinge from her lipstick, she gave him a sense of accomplishment. Some of the splashes on the floor were hard to get to, and after she cleaned her knees were a little sore.

Her bath she scented with lavender. Some things are easy. She winced when she first sat down in the tub. She carefully sniffed the towels as she dried herself off, wondering when was the last time she laundered them. The house still smelled like cinnamon. She heard him use the slotted spoon she cleaned, helping himself to another slice.