21. Beck
Beck
I’ve had hard nights at work before, but last night takes the cake.
The truth is that some days, I’m just done . Some days, I wonder why I didn’t choose a safer career, like being an accountant. Sitting quietly behind a computer screen all day—ruining my eyes slowly, to be sure, but ruining them quietly . That sounds like a dream right now.
My day off is tomorrow, and I’m relieved. When I’m hanging on by a thread and about to drop off over the cliff of burnout, a day off is exactly what this doctor ordered. I know I need good sleep, a warm meal, and lots of rest.
I mentally flip through the next twenty-four hours. Since tomorrow is Sunday, I’ll be able to attend Mass at my favorite church. Although I go every week, I have to vary where I go based on my work schedule.
I blow out a breath. Rest and Mass together make for a perfect weekend.
My eyes involuntarily track to June’s house.
I think June is Methodist, but I have no idea if Brooke practices faith.
I’d like to know that, but I don’t know if I can ask her outright.
I do know that there is one way to find out, and it involves the little old church ladies my grandma is friends with.
Those women have a better secret communication system than the U.S.
Armed Forces during a war. It baffles me how they know everything about everyone.
It is not uncommon for one of them to call me up after a particularly difficult shift and ask me how so-and-so is doing after seeing me in the E.R. last night.
I never divulge patient information—because I would prefer to not get sued for malpractice and breach of contract and a million other things—but the fact that they know is enough to be disconcerting.
A flash of pink catches my vision as I veer into my part of the driveway, leaving the shared portion behind. Brooke straightens to her full height from where she was crouching down by my ancient front door.
A smile flits over her face as she sees me and tosses her hair over her shoulder. I throw the truck into park and hop out.
“Hey,” she says, walking toward me.
“Hi,” I mutter, unsure of what she could possibly have been doing on my porch. My expression must give me away because she quirks her brow.
“Meemaw sent me over. She insisted I drop off a tray of fried chicken for you.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “She sat on a chair in the kitchen and heckled me the entire time I was making it.”
“You made it?” I ask, already looking around for the tray of chicken and trying to catch a whiff of the lingering scent in the air. There isn’t any smell, and as I look over the railing of my porch, there isn’t anything on the porch either. “Where is it?”
Brooke looks at the ground. “Meemaw told me to use the spare key to put it on warm in your oven.”
I did give June a spare key when I was n?ive and neighborly with her when I first moved in.
I’m not worried about physical safety when it comes to June having access to my house; it’s more the principle of the thing.
Annoyed at myself for giving June a key and also annoyed at not being annoyed that Brooke was in my house without my knowledge, I have to ask the question.
“What were you doing when I came up the driveway? I’m not stupid enough to keep a key under my welcome mat. ”
Brooke tips her head to the side. “I dropped the key. I was picking it up, and I found this.” She holds out a small envelope with my name handwritten on it. “I didn’t open it, but it was kind of stuck in between the floorboards of your porch, and I had to jimmy it out of the crack.”
I take the envelope, staring at the old-time cursive script that simply says ‘Beckett.’ The envelope is white but mottled with yellow spots, so I can’t tell how long it’s been on the porch.
Because I don’t have all my faculties after that shift, I ask the dumbest question I possibly can in the moment as I stare at the envelope. “Who’s it from?”
Brooke blinks at me and shrugs. “I have no idea.” She takes in my haggard appearance. “The chicken is in the oven on warm, and you look like you need a nap.”
She walks away, and suddenly I have no desire to do anything but throw the envelope back into the depths of my porch and invite her in for fried chicken.
Is it weird she left it in my house? Yes.
Is it weird that I want to go eat it and let her see how much it means to me to have hot food ready after last night? Also yes. But I’m past caring.
Just as I’m about to call her back, I catch a whiff of my own body odor. I smell like antiseptic and fried onions.
I almost don’t even care about that, but in my indecision, I tear a corner of the envelope and see the sort of kitschy art of spoons and a mixing bowl that belong on a recipe card. My curiosity piqued, I open the envelope and pull out what is, in fact, a recipe card.
It takes some time, but I am able to decipher the title of the card.
Neighborly Fried Chicken
I flip the card over and find a handwritten note. “Neighbor, since food is meant to be shared, I’ll pass this recipe along to you. Know I’ll make it for you anytime because I could use the company, but you can make it yourself too. Maybe even impress a woman with it. -June MacCord.”
Instantly, my eyes burn. I’ve been so annoyed with June, thinking she was crafty with her chicken trick when I first moved in.
Turns out, she genuinely wanted to do something nice for me.
And in a place where family recipes are often more highly guarded than the Treasury Department, she gave hers away.
And I, the awkward man that I am, have never once asked her to make it for me again.
I resolve right then and there to make it up to June. Starting with eating the chicken she made Brooke make for me.
All this time, I thought I was alone after Addie, but June’s been there looking out for me. She’s done it a different way than I would have preferred, but she’s cared just the same.
I whistle as I walk into my house and let the smell of burned chicken assault my nose.
It would appear that Brooke might be an expert in fried chicken under June’s tutelage, but she is not an expert in ovens because she set mine to broil, not warm. A few minutes more, and the entire house might have gone up in flames.
I dispose of the charred chicken quickly, and when I’m done, I pick up June’s recipe card. I know exactly what I’m doing after I shower and sleep.