Januaries, page 26
Whatever this is, rein it in, Sue observed, frowning at Chrissy’s expression. Then she said bon appétit! and turned away, exiting the barn for the farmhouse.
* * *
Here is what nobody told Chrissy before that night:
You can’t kill a demon because demons aren’t alive in a way that makes sense. You can’t kill a demon any more than you can kill a black hole or drive a wooden stake into the concept of monogamy. What you can do with a demon is contain the damage, or rather, slake its appetite. A demon is more like a personification or a vessel, a sentience of hunger. So, what do you do with the hungry? Ignore them, if you’re the government. But if you care about keeping demons off your lawn in a meaningful, permanent way, then you can just feed them instead.
But you can see why nobody told Chrissy this, right? I mean, who would believe it. Who would listen to that and be like okay, cool. Makes sense. Which is also why nobody told Chrissy that demons can talk, and they can learn and evolve, and if you give them an opening, what they have to say can really make a lot of sense.
Of course, Chrissy was supposed to follow instructions and not to talk to the guests, but obviously she didn’t. Which is fair. Nobody ever does.
* * *
Chrissy made an easy adobo recipe she’d gotten off an everyday-cooking blog. Despite Gabrielle’s advice, Chrissy didn’t feel ready for dinuguan, which she had been told as a child was made of chocolate. Even when she’d believed it to be chocolate, she still hadn’t liked it, and then when she finally learned it was pork blood, that was the first and last time anything in her adult life had ever made sense. The other stuff—get good grades and you’ll be fine, work hard and you’ll be able to buy a house, be special and someday someone will love you—only felt increasingly irrational. See! Telling people stuff can be a real mixed bag.
She plated it as nicely as she could—she didn’t cook much, being unable to afford the kinds of ingredients Sue’s kitchen was packed with—and went back into the kitchen, spotting the envelope that was waiting for her just outside the doorway, precisely as Sue had said. It was almost eight o’clock. Chrissy left the kitchen door open, welcoming in the cool autumn air.
Excuse me, came a voice from the garden. Chef?
Chrissy froze.
This is really more tart than savory, the voice continued. Not to be particular. It’s just. It could use some more stewing. Anyway, you’re really early. Dinner isn’t served until midnight or later, usually.
I know you’re not supposed to talk to me, the voice went on. But this is pretty dire. There is a lot of vinegar in here. You’re supposed to cook it down? You know, reduce it? The sauce is liquidy too. Did you taste it?
Chrissy hadn’t tasted it, no. She remained very still, wondering if the voice would go away.
I’m not supposed to go into the house, the voice continued. But, uh. I can. Just so you know. Because. I can tell you’re just right there. I can literally feel you breathing.
Chrissy’s heart jackrabbited around in her chest and she forced out an exhale and thought maybe it will make a good story. She pivoted around and walked to the doorway, where someone stood just outside.
Opposite her on the threshold was a teenage boy. His hair was an untidy crop of auburn, a Mad magazine–style side swoop. Freckles dappled the bridge of his nose. He was giving her a look she didn’t totally know how to read, as it was the expression of a much older man. Noah sometimes looked like that when he was frowning down at his notes and trying to read them.
This didn’t simmer for long enough, the boy said, holding a portion of her adobo out for her.
Chrissy had put out the pasta bowls, the big ones that were nearly as shallow as plates. She accepted it warily, saying nothing.
Taste it, he said. You’ll see what I mean right away. It just doesn’t taste like Lola’s.
Chrissy’s heart jumped at the mention of her grandmother. How did he—?
Just take a bite, he said impatiently. I’m hungry. I want to eat.
You could just eat it, then, said Chrissy irritably, without thinking. Beggars can’t be choosers.
The boy’s expression shifted. Suddenly he looked . . . older. In his early forties if you looked closely enough, early thirties if you didn’t. He wore a pair of half-rimmed black enamel glasses. He looked like if he opened his mouth, something about Wordsworth might come out of it.
I am not a beggar, the boy-who-was-not-a-boy said in Noah’s voice. Now. Be a good girl and take a bite.
Oh, fuck!!!!!!! shouted the inside of Chrissy’s head.
She quickly took a bite of the adobo and fought not to openly grimace. The tang of the vinegar was indeed much sharper than it ought to have been. It wasn’t not cooked, it just wasn’t right.
Next time, said not-Noah matter-of-factly, pushing his glasses up his nose, you have to let things stew. You have to really let them breathe.
OhmyfuckinggodfuckingChristholyfuck, said the inside of Chrissy’s head.
Okay, she managed to croak.
It’ll stave the others off for a bit, said not-Noah. But these things can have consequences. One mistake is forgivable, but a persisting carelessness . . .
A leaf drifted down to the ground below his feet. Chrissy smelled fresh earth, a waft of smoke from a distant chimney. When she looked up again, he wasn’t Noah anymore. He was the teenage boy with slightly longer hair, the beginnings of stubble.
See you next week, he said cheerfully, toasting her with a fork before turning away.
* * *
Hey slut, came a message from an unknown number. Slut
Whore, came another message the following day. Homewrecker
Slut. Bitch. Cunt.
It continued at random intervals throughout the week but Chrissy was busy. She had a dissertation to finish. She was so tired her eyes stung constantly but she had no time for a new glasses prescription even if she could afford one. She had a numb spot next to her spine from sitting hunched over her computer all the time. That wasn’t getting resolved anytime soon. She thought of the teenage boy who hadn’t liked her adobo. Fair enough, it hadn’t been good.
The only good thing going for her aside from Noah responding to all of her texts that week was that with the amount of cash she’d made from last week’s job, Chrissy had enough in her account now to buy a sliver of parmesan and the canned tuna that was packed in olive oil instead of water. So that week, with the tuna, she had made a one-pot pasta that had stretched nearly four days. She ate it and wrote a few unrhyming lines about things that lurked in the restless autumn night and then paid her rent. It was almost like being alive again.
On Friday, Sue wasn’t there waiting for her this time, but she left Chrissy a note saying that the guests had complained and thus Chrissy would have to be more thorough next time or she would be fired. Luckily, Chrissy had already been inspired by her week’s brief reprieve from peanut butter. She made kare-kare, a peanut butter oxtail stew. She let it breathe for an hour longer than it strictly needed to, waiting until the crisp air around the kitchen door felt golden-honey warm.
This time, when she brought it out, she nearly stumbled. A teenage girl sat there staring at her with Noah’s eyes.
Congratulations, said the girl. This week’s dinner looks much better.
Thank you, Chrissy said.
And then she bolted.
* * *
Slut
Whore
Slut
Slut
Jezebel!!!
Who’s texting you? asked Noah when Chrissy reached over him for her buzzing phone. They’ve certainly got a lot to say.
Indeed they do, said Chrissy, placing the phone facedown on the nightstand and pulling her shirt over her head. She turned to Noah casually, so casual. Hey, by the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you—how is everything at home?
Oh, I think Jenna’s doing better, he said. She actually smiled the other day during dinner so I think we’re on track to being normal.
Yeah?
Yeah, I think so.
She said nothing and Noah kissed the top of her head. Soon, he promised. They had stopped putting into words what exactly would come soon. Chrissy wasn’t sure they’d ever technically specified.
Do you think we need to . . . hit the brakes? said Chrissy, chewing the loose skin around her thumb. I mean, I’m not sure I was ever cut out to be a thirteen-year-old’s stepmother.
She’ll love you, Noah said. She’s just going through something right now. You know how teenage girls can be.
SLUT!!! YOU FUCKING SLUT!!! YOU’RE KILLING MY MOM!!!
Oh, sure, said Chrissy. Yeah. That’s true.
* * *
See, now this is delicious, said someone who looked exactly like Chrissy’s father. This mix of tartness and savoriness is really cleansing. Brava.
Chrissy sat in silence while the thing that wasn’t her father happily slurped its sinigang and chattered away at her, brandishing the spoon while it spoke.
You know, I’ve been thinking about your predicament, said the thing that wasn’t her dad. To some degree this romance of yours was always going to be a fraught situation. Even under the best of circumstances you probably wouldn’t have been accepted into the family. But you knew that, right, so what was the point? Are you hoping to be rejected? Like, is that the plan? If it’s some kind of self-sabotage I can appreciate that, believe me. It’s gorgeous, really well done.
It slurped another bite.
Chrissy was aware that she wasn’t supposed to speak. She didn’t even have to be there.
It was just . . . really nice, though. To sit there amid the rustle of the wind, the creek soothing her mind into a trance. To have gotten the recipe right. To be praised for it. She had made a lot of mistakes while making it. Deboning a fish was really hard, actually. Plus the only person who rewarded her for anything these days was Noah. She was no longer in a stage of academia where things felt like wins anymore. Now it was all just red pen and form rejections.
She loosened the scarf from around her neck. The creek trickled merrily beside the crackling fire that someone who wasn’t Sue and certainly wasn’t Chrissy had lit. The air smelled like woods and tamarind.
I don’t see everything about you, just so you know, her not-dad explained. I know the loud stuff. Pain and sadness and anger and whatnot, that’s easy to sense. But I don’t really understand it.
You’re young, aren’t you, Chrissy said before she could stop herself.
Not-her-dad looked up, delight in his eyes at the sound of her voice, the casting off of protocol.
Yes, he said, I’m young. Is it that obvious?
Well—
Chrissy cleared her throat.
It’s just. When you get older you finally understand why people do things. Or rather, you understand that there is no understanding why people do things. So eventually it just becomes less interesting, the why.
I hope nothing ever becomes less interesting, said the thing that wasn’t her father, shaking his head. Then he looked more closely at her. Aren’t you young?
Not vigilante-teenage-girl young, said Chrissy. When I was thirteen I thought I understood heartbreak. I thought I knew everything.
She paused.
When I was thirteen I did know everything, she realized. Jenna already knows everything. She knows more than I do. And yet I bet when she’s my age she’ll do something just as dumb.
Omg who’s Jenna? said not-her-dad, leaning forward.
Chrissy realized she’d broken basically the one rule she’d been told not to break. Well, aside from masturbating in the kitchen, which had seemed to be about sanitation at first but then again maybe not.
I gotta go, she said, and ran.
* * *
Slut!!!!!!!!
Look, unless you can tell me where to find taro leaves, I think we can agree the conversation has gone stale, Chrissy typed back.
Fucking whore!!!!! You’re a fucking skank!!
You know, your dad isn’t that great either, Chrissy thought about typing, only if that was true then what was she doing? So she just kept looking for taro leaves instead, a bluster of wind crackling like static along the blistered window frame of her apartment.
* * *
Ta-dah! said Chrissy’s first boyfriend Justin. I had to dig around for this form. But it’s cute, right?
Not-Justin preened a little, tousling his frosted tips and adjusting his puka-shell necklace.
It’s so decorative, said not-Justin. Ornamental, you know what I mean? Plumage, that’s the word.
The thing is, said Chrissy, when the whole thing started, I thought Noah was already divorced.
The laing went down smooth and aromatic. Outside an owl hooted, the creek slurped. It was nearly two in the morning and the whole place smelled like coconut and fresh earth.
The first time was so exciting. It was the best first kiss of my life. And the sex—god. Anyway, it just felt right, it felt addicting. It was like chasing a high, I guess. I didn’t want it to stop. I still don’t want it to stop. The way he makes me feel—
Is this lemongrass? asked not-Justin. I mean the depth of flavors here is just. Honestly. Chef’s kiss.
I just can’t stop, Chrissy repeated. Then she rethought it. I don’t want to stop.
Well, of course not, said not-Justin through a mouth full of laing. If you stop then you’ll have to call it what it is.
What is it? said Chrissy.
Nice try, said not-Justin, tearing off part of the taro leaf. Come on. I’m not falling for that.
* * *
Chrissy could afford to make herself actual meals these days. She let a short rib simmer all day while she was lecturing and when she came home it fell off the bone, tender as a kiss. She paired it with a garnet-colored wine that she poured into the single crystal glass she’d bought at an estate sale. She’d driven by the sale on her way to the farm, traversing bucolic fields and glassy riverscapes and vermilion trees until the display of vintage glassware waved at her from her periphery like the glimmer of a promising future.
She could afford a little treat here and there, a trinket to make her feel like a person. Still no vision insurance. But she could afford to let things catch her eye.
* * *
Slut!!!!!!!
The problem is I used to love all of this, Chrissy said. But maybe you’re not supposed to sink your whole life and everything you are and everything you want into just one love. How can anything live up to that? Even literature? Even poetry? How can art ever love you back?
Have you actually made any? asked a polished white woman in a silk headscarf whom Chrissy had never met.
What, art? I’m busy writing essays that aren’t good enough and working on a dissertation that’s trying to kill me and not replying to a teenage girl who won’t stop texting me about my moral failings. And making you dinner, Chrissy added, before looking around. Are there more of you?
Oh, loads, said not-Noah’s-wife. But everyone kinda gets it that this is my time.
Chrissy said: The absolute fuckery of it is that I don’t get how people can say that money doesn’t buy happiness. Because my whole life revolves around money. It has to! That’s the system I’m plugged into! You know? You can’t be happy without money, because in order to be happy you need choices, you need freedom, you need the ability to think and dream and wonder and you just simply cannot do that if you spend all day and night thinking about how you’ll pay your next bill. It’s unfair that people don’t do more to help each other. People shouldn’t let other people go hungry. It’s so cruel.
Chrissy realized her eyes were watering.
You know why Gabby chose you, said not-Noah’s-wife. Right?
Um. Chrissy sniffled. I mean, she knew I needed the money.
Right. And other reasons. This place is so claustrophobic, all these puritanical ideas about virtuous starvation. The food’s no good. Have you heard of Miss Manners? Awful. That’s why Sue rents out the kitchen. She tried to cook for us for years but we were all just fucking starved. If not for you she’d be dead probably.
Was there a point? said Chrissy.
Sure, if you want. Not-Noah’s-wife shrugged, shoveling another heaping spoonful into her mouth. Girl, she said, this is really fucking good.
* * *
Have you been talking to the guests? said Sue the following week.
No, why? said Chrissy.
Sue’s eyes narrowed.
(SLUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
* * *
The air was starting to bite with cold by then. The sky had been gray all week, the ground littered with dimming shades of umber. The creek burbled with tension, like a child faced with the marshmallow test.
I feel like I never see you, Noah said from between Chrissy’s thighs. I miss you.
It was addictive, being desired, being missed. Chrissy bought lace underwear. She bought a new journal and new pens. She wrote down words like “ravage” and “sanguine.”
The funny thing is I don’t actually make these foods normally, Chrissy typed into her phone. Like, they’re part of “my culture,” whatever that means, but when I was a kid I mostly ate Lunchables and scrambled eggs. I really only started getting better because if you half-ass any of it, you won’t get an A in the Care and Keeping of Eldritch Horrors, and then how will you ever know how much you’re worth?
You’re a fucking slut, came the instant reply.
Chrissy sat up straighter, folding her legs on her duvet, crisscross-applesauce as she typed.
Listen to me. This is important. Someday a man will tell you he’s never felt this way in his entire life, that it’s different this time, that what you have is real and everything that came before you wasn’t love, it was just treading water. He will make you feel special and for a minute your youth will seem incidental, like a forgettable side effect of fate, when actually the only reason you feel special at all is because you’re so goddamn young.
But you can have an orgasm on your own, okay? I’m serious. You do not need him. If he says you have talent it doesn’t matter. The talent is yours. It’s intrinsic to you. It can’t be bestowed upon you by him and it never will be.
Theoretically it could be a woman who does this to you, Chrissy typed on second thought. But statistically it is much more likely to be a man.
