cackle.
I stood still,
smelling the salty aroma of the caviar, the full flavor of that freshest of
salmon, the smell of the bacon, of the turkey dressing. The platter stayed still,
too, still out of reach. The smell of the cranberries mixed with the tangy
aroma of the oranges. I inhaled it, willing it to take substance in my
throbbing stomach. It didn’t.
If I couldn’t
capture that platter. . . but I didn’t want to think about the hellish judgment
that would signify. But there was no point making another grab. The laughter
was louder; it sounded strangely familiar.
Slowly I turned
away from the platter, careful not to glance out at the diners, afraid of what
I might see. Head down, shoulders hunched over, I took a shuffling step away
from the food. I could sense the platter following me. I took another step.
From behind me, the oranges smelled stronger, sweeter. I could almost taste
them. Almost. I lifted my foot as if to take another step, then I whirled
around and with both hands lunged for the food. The hell with the platter.
The laughter
pounded at my ears.
Let them laugh.
I’d come up with one hand full of cranberries and the other grasping a piece of
caviar quiche. I had my food. Triumphantly, and with heavenly relief, I jammed
half the quiche in my mouth. No eternal damnation for me. The laughter grew
even louder. I knew that laugh; it came from a multitude of mouths, but it was
all the same cackling sound. I swallowed quickly and poured the whole handful
of cranberries into my mouth.
That
cackle—Raymond’s laugh!
I swallowed and
pushed the rest of the quiche into my mouth. Then the oranges from the now near
platter, and the salmon, and the pineapple, the prawns in black bean sauce, the
turkey, and the Oregon clams, and the Walla Walla sweet onions.
But there was no
silencing Raymond’s knowing cackle. And there was no denying where I
was—eternally. I’d got my food all right, but it all tasted exactly the same.
It tasted of nothing but ashes—like it had been burned in the fires of hell.
Back to table of
contents
Too Much to Bare by
Joan Hess
Joan Hess, nominated for
an Anthony for Strangled Prose, offers delighted readers three series. Claire Malloy is featured in eleven
books, including American Mystery award winner A Diet to Die For and the latest, Holly Jolly Murder. Theo Bloomer appears in two books,
including The Deadly Ackee (written
as Joan Hadley). The ten books in the Arly Hanks series (including Mischief in Maggody and O Little Town of Maggody, Agatha and Anthony
nominees, and Miracles in Maggody) recount the hijinks in a small southern town. Fans would argue that the
sprightly and slightly wicked Hess wit is really the highlight of her books.
In “Too Much to Bare,”
which won a Macavity award, motivations are stripped to essentials, giving new
meaning to the notion of girls’ night out.
“My husband is going to
kill me”, Marjorie announced. It was not the
first time she’d suggested the possibility. Anne had lost count. “Oh, honey,”
Sylvia said soothingly, “it’s not as if we’re taking the merchandise home, or
even having a chance to do more than study it from a respectable distance. Not
that I wouldn’t object, should the opportunity arise—if you know what I mean!”
The three other
women at the table obligingly giggled at Sylvia’s comment. Marjorie, already
damp with perspiration in her rumpled polyester pantsuit, flapped a pudgy hand
as if to dispel any lingering aura of naughtiness. “You are such a joker,” she
said. “I don’t know how you think of these things.”
“I would imagine
it comes from hanging around outside the locker room,” Bitsy said. Her eyes,
heavily accented with mascara and undulating ribbons of blue and gray shadow,
closed for a moment as a curtain of black hair fell across her face. She took a
sip of beer, wrinkled her nose, and pushed aside her cup. A Christian in the
Colosseum could not have looked
I stood still,
smelling the salty aroma of the caviar, the full flavor of that freshest of
salmon, the smell of the bacon, of the turkey dressing. The platter stayed still,
too, still out of reach. The smell of the cranberries mixed with the tangy
aroma of the oranges. I inhaled it, willing it to take substance in my
throbbing stomach. It didn’t.
If I couldn’t
capture that platter. . . but I didn’t want to think about the hellish judgment
that would signify. But there was no point making another grab. The laughter
was louder; it sounded strangely familiar.
Slowly I turned
away from the platter, careful not to glance out at the diners, afraid of what
I might see. Head down, shoulders hunched over, I took a shuffling step away
from the food. I could sense the platter following me. I took another step.
From behind me, the oranges smelled stronger, sweeter. I could almost taste
them. Almost. I lifted my foot as if to take another step, then I whirled
around and with both hands lunged for the food. The hell with the platter.
The laughter
pounded at my ears.
Let them laugh.
I’d come up with one hand full of cranberries and the other grasping a piece of
caviar quiche. I had my food. Triumphantly, and with heavenly relief, I jammed
half the quiche in my mouth. No eternal damnation for me. The laughter grew
even louder. I knew that laugh; it came from a multitude of mouths, but it was
all the same cackling sound. I swallowed quickly and poured the whole handful
of cranberries into my mouth.
That
cackle—Raymond’s laugh!
I swallowed and
pushed the rest of the quiche into my mouth. Then the oranges from the now near
platter, and the salmon, and the pineapple, the prawns in black bean sauce, the
turkey, and the Oregon clams, and the Walla Walla sweet onions.
But there was no
silencing Raymond’s knowing cackle. And there was no denying where I
was—eternally. I’d got my food all right, but it all tasted exactly the same.
It tasted of nothing but ashes—like it had been burned in the fires of hell.
Back to table of
contents
Too Much to Bare by
Joan Hess
Joan Hess, nominated for
an Anthony for Strangled Prose, offers delighted readers three series. Claire Malloy is featured in eleven
books, including American Mystery award winner A Diet to Die For and the latest, Holly Jolly Murder. Theo Bloomer appears in two books,
including The Deadly Ackee (written
as Joan Hadley). The ten books in the Arly Hanks series (including Mischief in Maggody and O Little Town of Maggody, Agatha and Anthony
nominees, and Miracles in Maggody) recount the hijinks in a small southern town. Fans would argue that the
sprightly and slightly wicked Hess wit is really the highlight of her books.
In “Too Much to Bare,”
which won a Macavity award, motivations are stripped to essentials, giving new
meaning to the notion of girls’ night out.
“My husband is going to
kill me”, Marjorie announced. It was not the
first time she’d suggested the possibility. Anne had lost count. “Oh, honey,”
Sylvia said soothingly, “it’s not as if we’re taking the merchandise home, or
even having a chance to do more than study it from a respectable distance. Not
that I wouldn’t object, should the opportunity arise—if you know what I mean!”
The three other
women at the table obligingly giggled at Sylvia’s comment. Marjorie, already
damp with perspiration in her rumpled polyester pantsuit, flapped a pudgy hand
as if to dispel any lingering aura of naughtiness. “You are such a joker,” she
said. “I don’t know how you think of these things.”
“I would imagine
it comes from hanging around outside the locker room,” Bitsy said. Her eyes,
heavily accented with mascara and undulating ribbons of blue and gray shadow,
closed for a moment as a curtain of black hair fell across her face. She took a
sip of beer, wrinkled her nose, and pushed aside her cup. A Christian in the
Colosseum could not have looked
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