One time my boyfriend wanted me to cook English. Cook Bacon Knuckle, he said. Cook Bangers and Mash, Yorkshire pudding, cook roast potatoes and haddock. I'm no great cook-don't like it—but I wanted to please. Bubble juices, fry onions, braise and baste and boil. He seemed bored with what I'd cooked before. For a week, I hunted ingredients. The right roast beef. English mustard. Onion sauce. Greasing pans, sifting flour, melting lard.
When I laid all that out, what did he say? "Tastes fine."
He wouldn't meet my eyes, like he had all manner of not-for-me thoughts.
Coming in from work, he'd hunch in, bee-line for the shower, make me wait while he took near-forever, then come to the table. Then it was pick and poke, a few bites.
"Just fine," I'd repeat, barely believing his words.
"Nice. Fine." Gone in his thoughts. Two dinners, three dinners, four. Can you imagine? You wouldn't believe. Cheese and pickle sandwiches, Cornish pasty. I went out there—far out—for him. I mean, devilled kidneys? Fruit fool?
I battled blood sausage. Fresh pig's blood, a quart in a bowl. Bread soaked in milk. Milk in blood. But watch! They say keep the milk warmer than the blood. Creamy white, greasy blood, swirled to pink. Hunks of suet grated.
Finally, Sunday night, me sweating over blood sausage attempt number two, Royal wandered into the kitchen like a passing stranger, grabbed a handful of walnuts, and checked my progress. "Let's just have eggs." He wandered back to his "football."
What I wanted to say rushed up burning and I swallowed it down. I wanted to flame his ass. Don't get into it with him, I told myself.
I gripped a steak knife serrated and bright. I grabbed some bread to slice and when I pushed the knife, it slipped across my thumb. Satisfaction followed the sting of the blade. I floated in the kitchen, breath short. I skipped a towel, holding my hand, lingering above the mixing bowl. I pressed three drops of blood into it.
What law was I breaking putting my blood in the bowl? Something deep. Maybe he'd taste the effort, open his eyes and finally see. I knew it would be bad if he found out, worse if he wouldn't eat. I didn't want to risk that. Plus I knew it was like I was a few peas short of a casserole. So I hid it in the back of the fridge.
That night, while Royal slept, I heard some deep humming either in my ears or far away, some sound of a man. I couldn't tell in the dark and silence. When you listen hard, night noises creak like a footstep, a turning knob, a window sliding, or they come together in tunes and rhythms. You can listen with everything you have and nothing comes clearer.
Well, this man's voice could have been coming from inside my head or outside the house. I tilted an ear towards Royal and nothing came from him for the minutes I strained to match his voice and breath to that other.
I crept from the sheets and felt my way through the black with its swirling shapes until I pulled the door a crack and slipped into the hall. There I listened again for that far-away close voice.
It came again, and then it was clear where from: the kitchen. A rock dropped into my stomach and sent my heart into my throat. I hit the light switch, breath gone: an empty room. When I opened the fridge—hell goddamn—a little blood-sausage man-thing curled in the bowl, eyeless plum-black face, humming to himself.
Yeah, I slapped the door shut. And no, I didn't sleep.
What had I done? What would I do?
Damn Royal. Damn his flaky pasties and his knuckles. Was it my fault no one knew what Toad in the Hole was? Who wants to eat Cock-a-Leekie soup? Do you?
In the bedroom, in the dark, I barely breathed. What about frozen dinners, pizza, mac and cheese, salads? He was fine with that before. Was it my fault he never called his mum back in England? He never talked about his years over there before he followed his dad to the USA. What was in his heart if he wanted to go back to some far away time?
The humming kept on and I thought Royal would hear. All tingling and anxious, I waited.
The gray gritty dawn came and I breathed thanks for the real and solid bird chirps that replaced that kitchen humming. I pretended to sleep, all tense, while Royal got ready and made morning sounds. I waited for a yell, but nothing. He missed things easy. Not a rise and shine kind of man.
After he'd gone to work, I waited, afraid of the kitchen visitor. Couldn't move to call my friend at the supermarket where I worked, couldn't make breakfast. Then I thought, hell, I can't be a prisoner in my own house. And this little man should be glad he's alive, because he wouldn't be if weren't for me. It was my blood.
So I went and threw open the fridge door and said, "What do you want?"
Now he was kicked back looking for all the world like a man in a tiny hot tub. He stood and held his arms up. I reached in and pulled him out.
"What are we gonna do with you?"
He tilted his head toward me.
I called out of work—though my paycheck would take a hit—and talked at Sausage Man. Asked him what he was. I poked, pushed, pet him. Didn't seem to bother him. Hard to say if he understood anything. He seemed to try. That counted. I talked about recipes and Royal.
He worked under his dad at Industrial Solutions—they made restaurant furniture. Booths, stools, tables, counters. Course, he usually went by Roy there, because the guys would make him feel two foot shorter just saying his real name. He was their paint and polish man. Scrub out the brambles in the wood, smooth off the nits, haul it in a spray room and coat it with polish or color. He's supposed to wear a mask to keep fumes out his lungs, but I suspected he was leaving it off and polishing the sense out of his brain. He liked holing up in a little room and closing the doors.
It got later and I thought about Royal coming home and that's when I said to Sausage Man, "No offense, but I'm tucking you in the back."
I thought, friggin-A. What about dinner? The results of cooking English sat in our fridge probably pawing the ketchup bottle. I poked my head into the freezer's cold fog. Two Italian dinners. I pulled them out and tossed them on the counter. Thud, thud.
Royal bumped through the door, stomped the mat and dropped his mini Igloo cooler. He swiped a sleeve over his face. Scratched at blue paint on his arms. Kicked off the boots.
"Dinner's coming from the microwave courtesy Auntie Leone," I said.
"Not hungry," he said.
I stared hard. Not hungry. "Why?"
"Ate lunch late."
I scooped up one of the cardboard trays and tossed it back in the freezer.
Hands on hips, I watched him from the kitchen. "You're going the whole night, no food. How?"
He shrugged. "Don't worry about it."
Then the phone rang. He jumped like somebody jammed a pin in his ass and he grabbed the portable. He listened for a few seconds, and then said he couldn't talk and clicked off.
"Who was that?"
"Jerry," he said. "Bugging me."
Jerry was this born-again type from Royal's work who used to be on drugs and liquor but now he was on Jesus. Calls from Jerry were a new one on me.
In the blue black dark of the bedroom, I warmed the edge of the bed. How could Royal not eat all night? My stomach growled even after eating the nuked spaghetti. I put my thumbnail to my teeth. Was he hungry but didn't say anything? I rubbed the slice in my thumb. I'd cut myself before. I'd pressed the blade to my wrist, dug an inch across. Blood had come. I lost my nerve and gained a scar. Sometimes it faded to nothing, and sometimes it turned all puffy. Some mystery below the skin.
Then Sausage Man went through my head. What was he doing in the dark and cool? Listening? Talking to himself? To me? And maybe I just couldn't hear? I heard the upset quiet though, that stir in the air of Royal awake.
In the kitchen, I opened the fridge door, like pulling a curtain on a stage to show a little set made of grocery props. Sausage Man looked sluggish. I unwrapped a bed of deli Swiss cheese and peeled away each sheet of wax paper separating the slices. I folded one, then two into my mouth. I tore a bit off and pushed it into his. He quivered and arched and reached his hands out to me. I peeked over my shoulder into the shaft of light cast back through the kitchen. Listened close. I tore off more cheese for him. Sausage Man grunted. I unfolded one last sheet and folded it into my mouth. Savory, rich, melting against my tongue. I wondered about that phone call on my way back to bed.
Later, deep into the night, a song came from the corner of the bedroom in sounds like sizzling fat, blades on blades. I hummed to try and match him and he stopped. I held still, breath shallow, waiting to hear him pick up. I drifted off a bit until I felt the bed give with pressure. A tickle against my hand and then my arm made me sure of his presence. Sausage Man moved closer, his weight shifting the sheets. He tucked himself in by my thigh. For most of the night I drifted awake and asleep, ready for Royal to turn to stumble to the toilet and then jump up and scream. That never came.
That afternoon I left work early and headed down to Industrial Solutions. I came to the mouth of the warehouse all nerves, not wanting to talk to anyone besides Royal about his phone call and see what he took for lunch. I passed a young guy sweeping hunks of blue foam back and forth. A radio blared crackling static and some shouting shock jock. Table saws screeched. I passed the tall metal staircase you could take to the central office, but then I saw Jerry. I stopped, but it was too late. He caught my eyes and put down his nail gun. He looked sunburned. He came towards me, eyes bugged out.
"What can we do for you down here?" He asked.
"Just want to see Royal."
"Why would you come all the way down here for Roy?" He grinned all creepy.
"Who knows, I must be crazy."
"You came down because you care," he said, like teaching me a lesson.
"Can you point me to him?"
His pink and shiny face went still, his smile fell. "The old me would have lied, but the new me can tell you. He's out to lunch."
"Out."
"And I don't know who she is, but probably a friend, right?"
The world did a bit of a headstand.
"You're an honest guy," I said, meaning asshole. "Tell him I was here and make sure you say that you told me."
He nodded. "He's going to be pissed off at me. Not that I think something fishy is going on."
"I know fish," I said. "I know haddock." My blood boiled.
When I got home, Sausage Man had grown. He could reach some of the lower drawers, and he'd pulled out some spatulas and bowls and whatnot. He pulled out an old recipe box my mother'd given me, spilled the cards out on the floor. "What did you do that for?" I said. He brought his face up to me.
"Cook me something" I said.
He whipped up a chicken pot pie. I set the table and we sat down to eat.
Royal's truck crunched gravel in the driveway, pulling in.
"Hide," I said.
Sausage Man stuffed into a cupboard. No time to clear the plates.
Royal slouched in, sipped from a big Coke in one hand. In the other a crumpled bag from Burger King. I almost tore at him to slap his quickie food out his hands.
"Burger King, huh? Guess that's your royal dinner."
"It was a one-time thing," he said.
I stacked my plate onto Sausage Man's. "You talk to Jerry?"
"I talk to Jerry every day," he said. "It looks like you ate without me."
"You obviously weren't expecting me to wait." I made for the sink.
His voice came from the living room. "I've been working hard, you know."
"I wouldn't know," I shouted back.
"You're the one that came down to my work."
I came back to the table. "And I didn't see you."
He folded his arms. "Who was here?"
"That's rich," I said.
"Someone was over." He walked towards the kitchen sink.
"What are you worried about all of a sudden?"
"Two plates," he said.
I thought why play games? "You know what?" I opened a cupboard and pulled Sausage Man out. "Here's your English food. What do you think of them apples?"
Royal's breath caught in his throat. He gagged. "What in hell did you make?"
I said, "My man, Sausage Man."
"Bloody hell. Jesus." He clapped his hand over his mouth.
"How'd you like a pork pie now?"
He shook his head, spoke through his fingers. "Sick."
"He's more man than you," I said.
Royal tore at him. He swung his foot but Sausage Man was too fast. Royal sliced air. Never saw Sausage Man move like that!
Royal's face went beety. "Where's the steak knives," he said, going for the counter.
"No, no," I said, chasing him, "You're not carving him up."
"What?"
"You don't have no say."
"I'm not staying in this house until it's gone. I'll stay at Jerry's first."
"Yeah, you'll last there," I said.
Royal backed away.
"You know what, wait," I said. "Maybe if he saw Sausage Man he'd think it was divine intervention. Hallelujah: Man's not made of clay, he's made of pork."
"Don't you show anyone or tell anyone."
I settled myself in at the table. "Where's your patriotism? He's English."
He stared at Sausage Man. "We can talk about all this. We'll go back to normal."
"It's too late for normal," I said.
Sausage Man sauntered off—for the bedroom. I went flushed at that.
"That's how it is?" Royal said.
He got up, grabbed his keys. I shouted at his back, "I'll do what I want."
He blew out of the living room all black clouds, and the door hit behind him like thunder.
That night, I toasted to Sausage Man with a bottle of beer and then a second. I sunk into the couch giving in to an old thirst from an earlier time, one I'm used to fighting off. I cracked open another couple three. He got what he deserved I told myself. If he wanted to run off like that then he could stay out. The beer made my head heavy and tugged at my eyelids. I crawled into bed next to Sausage Man.
The next morning a throbbing head and gravel throat dragged me up, and I saw through bleary morning eyes Sausage Man standing over me. My clothes were still on, thank God. He was like a Ken doll anyway. Pork smell tugged at my stomach and threatened to turn my insides out.
"Get away," I said. He stood still, then dragged out, leaving a pink trail behind him.
The space in bed next to me looked like an empty coffin. Royal could be impulsive. He could do something he'd regret.
I remember when his impulses were sweet and he laughed at everything. Sometimes you read in an obituary that a person "loved to laugh," and you'd think, Who doesn't? But with Royal, he did laugh at the simplest things. One time he had to paint a batch of booths with these crazy bright colors with special names. "Potent orange," he said and laughed. "Electric green! Dazzle yellow!" I wondered if he was out laughing with this lunch woman and how long it had gone on.
After a couple days, with Royal still gone, Sausage Man started to stink. Noises he made sounded like ground meat slapping together. Bits of everything he ate was breaking out of his skin all over. Sometimes he would make my meals and sometimes he would do nothing. One day, I came home and found him eating the fridge bare—and grown double the size—and I tried to pull him away. He knocked me back and bit me. Meanwhile, all Royal's stuff looked like it was an old photograph of his stuff.
I thought how when we first met I was so hooked on his blue eyes and brown tight curls, and how he looked boyish, specially when he laughed, and had a nose that was big but fit his face so that you noticed him. He had muscles and skin gone caramel from work in the sun. Even though he lived here in the USA for years, Royal still had a little bit of an accent, which you know how it is when you hear an accent. But I used to tease him too: "Quit putting on airs, trying to be fancy." That burned him up. Sausage Man lumbered around.
"Stay off the couch," I said.
He fell onto the couch.
Who knew what Royal had done since leaving the house? He was probably sleeping at work in paint and polish fumes. One night, I thought I saw his face peeking in, a moon rise at the window.
The next night, Royal crept in, bags under his eyes, beard half sprouted, and stood staring at me. He clutched a can of ale with a little British flag on it, an imported brand that he normally only sprung for on the holidays. He looked like he expected me to say something.
My blood pressure went up. "You're the one just walked in the house—you got something to say?" Sausage Man stood in the entrance to the kitchen, now as tall as a man. He punched the wall.
Royal leaned in, set his jaw and crushed the can. "I'm here to get rid of it."
Sausage Man came barging toward him, knocked me sideways and slugged him. Before Royal could hurl more than a curse, Sausage Man pinned him down and started wailing on him. I pulled myself up, but the blur of fists stuck me firm to the floor. My breath hit quick and hard. Royal was toast. His goose was cooked. Stick a fork in him, he was done.
Everyone knows too much of a bad thing is always bad, especially if you can't stop yourself from doing the bad: you end up in a bad place. It's no surprise either that too much of a good thing takes you to the same place, just through the back door.
I jumped on Sausage Man and chomped into his head. Taste of fat and penny and pork. Sausage Man froze. That gave an escape route to Royal. He scrambled up and back as I spat out the bite, and then Royal lunged, mouth open. Sausage Man flailed and got a few more hits in but I threw my weight on his arms. Royal chewed. There were no little bites now. We slopped and slipped around like mud wrestlers. Sausage Man whittled away and fell apart. Finally nothing was left but milk and blood and fat spread across the kitchen like the recipe in reverse. Score one for America.
Royal kept his head turned away, breathing hard, clutching his stomach.
I waited for him to speak.
He looked up, face smeared greasy red. "Thank you," he said.
I shrugged and shook my head.
"I'll clean up," he said.
I told him it was a start.