The house is wide and squat, brown lichen speckled across the peeling white paint. Julian
leans his shovel against the porch railing, the crumbling wood flaking off against his fingers. He
takes the steps two at a time to the front door, leaving dirty footprints stamped onto the thinning
welcome mat. One of his toes is just visible through a hole in the side of his leather boot. He
slaps his hands together and wipes them on the front of his shirt, two dirty marks across his ribs.
The air inside the house is oily and sticks to Julian’s sweaty face as he steps past the
screen door. He swipes a hand over his forehead, grime lingering on his fingertips. Something
inside smells sharp and distinct, like the tang of rubber on a hot day. He steps into the hallway,
looking through the open kitchen door. Carmilla, bent crookedly over the low table, cracks a
garlic clove with a large knife, peeling the papery exterior apart with knotty fingers. On the
stove, a shallow pot with rice and vegetables simmers, the white steam roving ghost-like across
the yellow ceiling.
Julian leans against the doorway, the waves of heat from the pot wobbling gently over him. He inhales deeply, wanting to close his eyes to the mysterious smell and slippery air, the sound of water crackling off the tomatoes and the orangish color of the rice just visible over the lip of the pot. He breathes.
“Oh, Julian!” She pronounces it as Julián like always. “I am sorry, I didn’t see you.”
Carmilla smiles up at him, her cheeks rounding, wrinkles smoothing out. She dabs her fingers on
the hem of her apron, the peeled garlic cloves beside her shining pale brown under the yellow
light.
Julian doesn’t say anything. A bead of sweat runs down from his hair, soaking into the
shirt collar stuck to his neck. The rubbery smell is sharp in his mouth. He grimaces.
“What’s that smell?”
Carmilla chuckles. It’s a thin sound, but beautiful and complex, like a piece of lace or a pressed flower petal.
“Saffron,” she says. “I will find Retta. She has your money.”
Julian nods and steps back, forcing his hands into the pockets of his jeans, fingers pressing into the seams at odd angles. The old woman trundles past, slippered feet scarcely making a sound on the scuffed wood floor.
Julian stares off into the kitchen. He could pick a bit of tomato or a sliver of chicken out of the pot. He imagines the oil on his tongue, thick, filling his mouth with spice and clouds of heat. He hesitates, looking down the hall to the living room where Carmilla disappeared. Then, in a jerky movement, he jolts into the kitchen, snapping up a piece of steaming meat. He throws it into his mouth, huffing against the heat as he chews furiously. It’s prickly with salt and the rubbery smell turns strangely floral as his tongue burns.
“Julian.”
He turns, clamping his mouth down, the meat scalding the roof of his mouth. His eyes
begin to water. He spreads the grease from his fingers across his jeans as slowly as he can, trying
not to draw attention to it.
Retta marches into the kitchen, matter-of-factly handing Julian his check filled out in her loopy handwriting. $60. Purpose: yard work.
He takes it and pushes it into his back pocket. The paper sticks to his sweaty palm. He can feel a heat blister growing on his tongue.
Retta looks at him expectantly, her short white hair scraped back behind her ears, sharpening her features. Behind her, Carmilla is back to the garlic, dicing the cloves with tiny, perfect slices of her knife. She glances up at Julian, standing rigid beside the stove, his mouth working slowly, and smiles knowingly. Julian tries to swallow the meat, but it’s sinewy and thick. He gags. A tear escapes his right eye.
Retta looks concernedly at him, her hard demeanor slipping for a moment.
“Are you alright? Do you need some water?” She steps over to the sink, picking a mug from a hook on the wall and filling it at the tap. Lukewarm water gushes out, spraying over the edge of the mug.
“It’s a hot one out there, Julian,” Retta warns, thrusting the drink into his hands and
nodding out the kitchen window towards the yard. “You’re always welcome to our water when
you’re here. The landscaping is coming along nicely, so the least we can do is keep you from
heat stroke.”
It’s difficult to tell if she means it with her hard stare and sharp gestures, but as Retta pats his shoulder curtly, he realizes it’s the most she’s ever said to him at once.
Julian angles his face towards the stove, flooding his mouth with the water. The meat cools enough to chew it and he swallows, tongue stinging and face warm with heat and embarrassment. When he turns back, Carmilla is whispering something to Retta. There’s a pause. Carmilla gestures towards Julian with her knife, a movement Retta stops with a soft hand on Carmilla’s arm, shaking her head. Carmilla nods pointedly. Go.
“Julian,” Retta purses her lips, “Carmilla would-”
Carmilla makes a disapproving tut.
“We would like to invite you to stay for dinner. Carmilla noticed you were enjoying her
paella and thought you might like to try the whole dish instead of just bits.”
Julian turns red.
“I didn’t- Don’t accuse me of stealing your food.”
Retta’s lips press tighter into a defined pink line.
“Son, we’ve invited you to stay for a very nice dinner Carmilla made, which we did not
have to do and-”
“I don’t want to stay here,” Julian steps forward, his boots thudding loudly in the little
room, “and I would never eat her food, because it smells disgusting.”
Retta raises a long finger to Julian’s nose.
“You,” she seethes, “do not speak about Carmilla that way in this house.”
Julian opens his mouth to retort when a velvety hand catches his elbow.
Carmilla stands beside him, examining his rolled-up shirt sleeve. It’s crusted with dirt
from the garden and a waxy gray from countless washes in gas station sinks. There are tears and
loose threads in the fabric along his arm. She looks up at Julian, concern crinkling in the corners
of her dark eyes.
“Julian?” Carmilla’s voice is fine spider silk.
A tremor runs down his spine: the rage he felt at Retta moments ago mixed with
something else. Dread. He waits.
Carmilla doesn’t take her eyes off him. The paella on the stove crackles.
“Please, come to eat.” The hand she holds his elbow with is pleasantly warm and the
smell of garlic floats up from it.
Julian shakes his head, glaring over at the sink, the blue wallpaper, anywhere but
Carmilla. She tugs on his arm and lifts her chin at Retta, who reluctantly steps forward, taking
Julian’s other elbow. He’s rigid as they lead him over to the little wooden table in the crook of
the kitchen counter. He sits on a chair with a rose embroidered across the cushion. In the corner,
Retta’s name is stitched in the same red as the flower. It must’ve been a gift. Julian can’t imagine
Retta sitting down to embroider anything, especially not a rose.
Examining the knicks and scratches on the table, Julian knows what’s coming. It’s the
same as every other time someone noticed the rips in his clothes or the rubber-less soles of his
shoes or the greasy length of his hair. Retta and Carmilla bustle in a practiced dance around him, oblivious to his anxiety, laying down mismatched silverware and filling bowls with the sun-
colored meal.
The bowl Retta sets down in front of him, oily and thick with saffron scent, has little
white flowers patterned across the front. They’re spiky and the paint is scratched, but Julian,
bending closer, recognizes them. Retta notices him looking and steps forward, long-fingered
hands resting at her sides.
“Ah, the Edelweiss bowl.” She looks almost sad, one corner of her mouth deepening
downwards. “Always a favorite of my father’s. You know the flower?”
Julian nods silently.
“You have them in the yard.” Carmilla takes Retta’s hand fondly, “He’s watered them.”
“Of course,” Retta nods solemnly, “I’d forgotten.” She lets out a huffy laugh, dropping
her hand from Carmilla’s.
The pair sit beside one another across from Julian, who instantly digs in, shoveling rice
messily into his mouth, little yellow specs sticking to his lips like pollen.
The food is the best Julian has ever had. It warms him from inside, the hot vegetables
bursting into waves of oil and spice that coat his teeth and tongue. His burn from the meat is
soothed by the continuous mugs of water and milk Carmilla brings him, each one coming with a
tender pat on his hand and a shared look with Retta.
“Julian,” Retta leans forward after a while, folding her hands in the middle of the table,
“how long has it been since you’ve eaten?”
He’s just finished his third bowl of paella, and Carmilla is scraping the bottom of the pot
for him. Julian looks down at his hands.
“A while.”
Retta leans back, her hands still folded, eyeing Julian with an unreadable expression.
“How often do you usually eat?”
He shrugs. Carmilla replaces his bowl, and he stares down at a piece of chicken in the
center of the rice. It’s more brown on one side than the other. A lock of hair falls across his nose,
stiff with dirt.
“Where do you eat?” Retta reaches to pull out Carmilla’s chair, not taking her eyes off
Julian.
“A restaurant, I guess.”
“Not home?”
Julian tenses, finally looking up from the bowl. He’s heard this all before. He’s seen these
looks, felt the pity that’s radiating off Retta in melancholy waves, pushing him under.
He starts to scoot his chair back, but Carmilla sits down heavily across from him and
pushes the paella bowl closer.
“I think that is enough for one night, hmm?” She smiles at Retta and pats her papery
cheek with stubby fingers. Retta leans back, settling an arm across the back of Carmilla’s chair,
still watching Julian.
Carmilla looks expectantly at Julian and then down at the paella.
“I mean enough of the questions, Julian, not enough paella for you. Please.” She pushes
the bowl even closer, the side scraping slightly over the edge of the table. “Eat.”
Julian breathes for a moment. If, he decides, they start asking him more questions, he’ll
have to leave. But he’s getting as much food as he wants, and he tells himself that that’s why
he’s still at the table.
He scoops up a spoonful of rice. Carmilla lets out the tiniest huff of air across from him.
It sounds like a sigh of relief.
***
The light outside the kitchen window has shifted from the white directness of afternoon
to the dusty, orangish-pink of evening, the shadow of Julian’s chair long across the floral kitchen
tiles.
He’s eating a piece of terribly light cake. It’s a coconut sponge that dissolves as it hits his
tongue, coating his burns in waxy sweetness.
Carmilla rests her square chin on her fist, propping up her head as she nods on and off.
Beside her, Retta is eating her own piece of cake, smothering each bite in store-bought chocolate
sauce before she puts it in her mouth.
Carmilla nods off particularly hard as Julian is finishing his cake, and her chin slips off
her hand, sending her head towards the table. Retta catches Carmilla by the shoulders in a frantic
movement and pushes her upright in her chair, a forgotten cake bite oozing chocolate onto the
table. Carmilla instinctively snatches Retta’s hand, getting her bearings.
“Oh, dear,” Carmilla smiles sheepishly at Julian after a moment, “I think it’s time for
bed.” She pushes back from the table and leans down to kiss the crown of Retta’s head. She
completes the motion with such ease that Julian assumes it must be a nightly occurrence.
Julian stands, scooting his chair away. He’ll have to leave now. He nods at Carmilla and
glances briefly at Retta who is watching him closely, the only one still seated.
“Goodbye.” He knows he should say “thank you,” but part of him still needs to convince
them that he doesn’t need their help.
“Oh, nonsense,” Carmilla cries, reaching out and taking his hands, “it’s too late for you to
go!”
Julian looks out to the yard. Across the road, streetlights are buzzing to life. He thinks of
the dumpsters behind the restaurant. Sitting against cold metal, breathing in the sickly-sweet
scent of rotting fruit and the lingering sourness of expired milk.
Carmilla’s hands are warm and still slightly oily from the paella. Her tired eyes beckon
him, deep and gentle.
Involuntarily, Julian squeezes her hands. She smiles kindly, her crow’s feet deepened in
the darkening kitchen. “
Come, let me show you to the guest room.” Carmilla leads him forward, swaying
tiredly. Retta gets up to trail behind.
They move down the hallway, past the living room, past a bathroom, and then, the guest
room. It’s small, a bed with a stiff-looking green and purple quilt, an unplugged desk lamp
sitting atop a chest of drawers with six little cherubs for handles, and a door leading to a tiny
toilet room with a spindly sink. It’s the nicest bedroom Julian has ever been in.
“Well,” Carmilla is saying, “I’ll go look for something you can wear. Retta’s about your
size, I think.”
The door closes, Carmilla’s voice fading as she and Retta go off in search of pajamas,
and suddenly, he’s alone again.
Julian has never had a bed. Not one like this with a mattress and a headboard and legs
that sink into the puffy carpet. He strips off his boots, bare, red feet pressing into the floor. He
wiggles his toes. Bliss. Then, it’s too much. He steps into the bathroom, shutting the door, closing himself into the tiny space. He sticks his head under the faucet and turns the hot water on. It takes a moment, but actual warm water spurts out, wetting his hair and face. There’s lavender hand soap balanced on the side of the sink, and he rubs it into his skin, pulling off his dirty clothes and rinsing with cupped hands until he smells fresh.
He starts to cry. He’s clean. His hands, between his fingers, beneath his nails. His hair
drips into the sink. He lets the water droplets trace down his face. The taste of oil and coconut
linger in the back of his mouth.
Julian steps out of the bathroom, his clothes left piled on the floor, the scent of lavender
flowing into the room, and takes the two steps to the bed. A pair of women’s track bottoms and
an XXL Yellowstone Park t-shirt are folded with square corners on the duvet. On top of them, a
note reads, “Carmilla asked me to give you these. Both gone to bed. Goodnight. -Retta.” He pulls
on the shirt. It’s never been worn before, the cotton scratchy and the tag still sharp in the back. It’s a feeling he’s completely forgotten. The track bottoms are pilled and soft, the hem of the legs
stopping four inches above his scabby ankles, scratched from wearing his boots without socks.
Julian surveys the bed, illuminated in the dark room by the remnants of a purple sunset
out the window. He pulls back the covers, white sheets shining. He looks at them for a moment,
remembering something, and then slides his legs beneath them, pressing down into the firm
mattress. He keeps his eyes open.
In the hallway, the door to the other bedroom shuts and he hears the old women talking,
their voices muffled and slow. There’s the click of a lamp, the rustle of sheets, and then nothing.
Silence except for his breath on the pillow.
Julian stares into the darkness, turning onto his side and bringing his knees up to his
chest. The sheets are light and soft on his bare feet. He hasn’t slept without shoes on in months. He wiggles his toes again. He feels like he could laugh. First tears, now this. He presses his nose
into the pillow. It smells of lavender and stale detergent. For the first time all day, he smiles.
Writer To Writer Literary Journal 