*Mid 18th century- to denote feigned love in hopes of getting a meal or a snack
It started with a book. No. Before that. A move from her hometown to a new town. Her husband got transferred. And she followed. Behind she left what was familiar, ingrained. But this new place had possibilities and this book.
It was left for here. Purposely. Or so she assumed. The lady, the former owner of their home was a writer. She wrote smut- or at least that’s what the book suggested. The title was Languid, Pretty and Perverse written not only by her but five others. They called themselves The Bowmont Ladies’ Erotica Club. The inscription was cryptic. At first she didn’t understand it, but now she did. It read. “Sylvia,” she must have got her name from the real estate contracts-“Sylvia, this neighbourhood is filled with the unexpected. Seek women with real fires in their belly. Welcome to Bowmont. Welcome to the neighbourhood.
Blushing that day, Sylvia had tucked the book away, not wanting her husband to see it. But she reached for it now not caring if the food still on her fingers would rub off on its creamy pages.
She stood alone, surrounded by her mess. The she reached up high in the back of the cupboard where the recipe books were stacked and pulled out a cigarette. She was not typically a smoker, but she had planned to have one at the end of this night. She uncorked the last bottle of wine and poured herself a hefty amount. Turning the gas burner on low, she leaned down, pulled her hair back, and lit her cigarette.
She inhaled deeply. She had smoked on and off since university. Mostly at parties or while travelling but now, now smoking was reserved for more intimate and solitary moments. Like tonight.
Sylvia looked around her kitchen. It was overflowing with plates stained red from the tomato sauce, asparagus left limp, abandoned mid-meal. Pots were coupled by the sink and the eggbeaters sticky from the dessert. She sipped her wine and smoked her cigarette. She would have to clean up, get rid of the stains and smells, but not yet. She looked at the clock. 2:15am. She liked that it lasted so long. She’d savour the memory minute more.
It had been a welcoming neighbourhood when she first arrived. Casseroles arrived in the hands of trim women, children gripping tightly off their pant legs or chasing each other through her front garden. The casseroles had tasted bland, but she was happy for the welcome and looked forward to more encounters.
The moving truck arrived and Sylvia’s days were full of unpacking and decorating. She’d watch the neighbours out on their front lawns talking while their children rode their bikes up and down the cul-de-sac.
Sylvia had no children. Not yet. Maybe not ever. She thought of her husband. He was a good man. An honest man. But he lacked passion. And he travelled. A lot. She bent down and unpacked another box. Its contents belonged in the bathroom. She dragged it across the hardwood floors, liking the tactile scratchy sound it made.
Opening the third drawer down on her side of the bathroom, lay the book. A silk-stockinged leg was thrust across the cover from a body unseen. The stiletto heel was black and strappy, the toe pointed. Sylvia reached for the book, held it to her breast and brought it to the front room. Closing the blinds slightly she opened the book and began to read.
The doorbell rang. She rose from the chair, finger holding her spot between page eight and page nine, and cleared her head. She opened the door. It was Tib from next door. Her cheeks were pink and her hair wind-blown. She looked in need of a drink of water. She came with an invitation. Was Sylvia a runner? Three times a week they all met at 6:15am and ran to keep in shape and to keep young and to keep their bodies from sagging. Sylvia stood a little taller and said she would think about it.
Tib turned to leave but then her eye caught the book in Sylvia’s hand. “Can you believe they wrote that book, right here, in this neighbourhood? In your house?” She giggled then moved in closer. “I hear they were swingers.” Then stood back and laughed. “Hard to imagine now with all those wrinkles and thick waists and tits down their knees.” Tib turned. “See you in the morning.” She raised her arms up and pumped her muscles.
Sylvia closed the door, climbed the stairs to her bedroom, put the book under her side of the bed and returned to the bathroom. One by one, she lifted the shampoos, conditioners, face creams and hand lotions onto the shelves.
Running had become a routine. Sylvia hated it, but she was the only one. Loudly and energetically, six neighbours met under the soft morning light, at first, then the lighted street lamp as winter drew nearer. They ran in the rain and the snow and the warmth of the chinook winds. Merrily and exuberantly they talked. Sylvia listened. She could not talk and keep up. She ran slightly behind and breathed and listened and cursed her body which resembled that of an elephant. She longed to morph into a gazelle and join the others ahead of her.
Her days at home became long without the demand of moving boxes. She had painted the kitchen, the bathroom and the family room. She no longer wanted to paint. She found herself at the front window, often, watching who passed by her new house. She was lonely. Her husband was gone, and even when he was home, she was lonely.
In Edmonton she had studied as a poet and then had worked as a librarian. She wrote a little and read a little since, but she felt stagnated. She needed something to get her back on track. It had been several months before she reached under the bed and pulled out the book again.
She started at the beginning. The first short story began with a bang. Literally. Before long, Sylvia had finished the book. She put on her shoes and coat and walked to the corner store. She bought a package of cigarettes, placed them quickly into her coat pocket and headed straight home.
Turning the corner she ran into Molly who was just heading off to pick up her kids at the school. “Did you hear?” She asked breathlessly, “Poker at my house. Friday at 7pm. Bring a bottle of wine.”
Sylvia nodded then continued on home. She locked the front door and walked straight to the back door. She brushed some twigs off her garden chair, lit her cigarette and inhaled deeply.
She coughed. It didn’t taste as good as she remembered and she felt light headed. But this didn’t’ stop her. She inhaled again and again until the cigarette was finished and her memory of it was restored. She sat back and looked up at the tree branches above her head.
The book had moved her. Made her stir. Made her remember what being sexual really meant. She moved to her bedroom and closed the door.
After her second cigarette of the day, Sylvia felt restless (and a little nauseas). There was something she had been missing. She booted up her computer for the first time that week and sat back with trepidation. She logged on and pulled up the Internet. She typed the word ‘sex’. In 0.04 seconds results 1-10 of 688 000 000 flashed on her screen. She scrolled past the two dictionary definitions, past Playboy’s site and settled on an article titled “Combining Long-Term love with Erotic Desire”. She began to read but quickly reminded herself that she hadn’t come to the computer looking for a mirror, she had come to step away from one.
She pulled up the next 10 sites. Settling on the one titled “Sex in the kitchen,” Sylvia double clicked. It was a video and lasted just 4 minutes.
Leaving it on her screen in a paused state, Sylvia returned with vodka on the rocks and hit play. And again. Then one more time. The vodka was empty. She refilled it but returned not wanting any more images. The words in the book had been more profound.
She clicked onto her email. There was mail from her husband, away this time in K.L. She read it then steamily responded. She hoped he was on the computer at the time and would reciprocate instantly. They had never engaged in email sex, but perhaps, considering his travel schedule, they should. Sylvia refilled her drink.
The morning found her face down on her keyboard, the keys imbedded into her soft cheek. She raised her head and looked for what had hit her. It was on the desk beside her; an empty bottle. She was up in time to meet the others to run. But first she quickly checked her emails. Nothing. She crawled into bed.
Poker started promptly at half past eight. Sylvia had been the first to arrive and had sat alone until about 8:15. Molly was still bathing the kids and then she had to read them each two books. Sylvia found the vodka and poured herself one with soda. Finally, slowly, the others arrived.
It was less a poker game then more of the same talk. Some new faces-the nonrunners-who offered new insight into the same stories. None of them involved Sylvia. They had lived together a lifetime, it seemed. She thought to mention her previous homeowner and the others who wrote with her.
“It was a long time ago,” they said.
“The sixties.” Someone offered.
“Your former homeowner was the last to leave the neighbourhood.”
“Have you read the book?” Sylvia asked.
“Oh, no. Porn doesn’t interest me.”
“I haven’t time to read.”
“We’re mothers,” one giggled.
Sylvia walked over to the buffet and stood before the bowl of cheezies, the nuts and the long slender trough of olives. She didn’t know what she wanted. She poured herself another vodka, and then remembered what she had read and watched the night before. She placed her plate down on the table. She knew exactly what she wanted to do.
“I’d like to invite you to dinner next Saturday,” Sylvia announced before the next hand was dealt and before the discussion of what game of poker would be played.
The enthusiastic response brought some colour to her cheeks. She turned down the profuse offers to bring a dish, or an appetizer. “No, this is my way of saying thanks for welcoming me to your neighbourhood.
She loved to cook, as did her mother. For her mom it was more than nourishment. Feeding people was a way to express her love. If you refused her food, you refused her love. Sylvia took this with her as she planned her menu.
It would be a buffet, Sylvia decided, but with courses. First the appetizer, then the main course, followed by a dessert. She would cook with fresh food, local, and organic, wherever possible. For while she was excited about feeding her neighbours any semblance to fast food would not be satisfying.
She began to pore over her cookbooks. She wanted to bring in some ethnic flavours, but not too spicy as to turn the women off. Perhaps something French, something saucy. And she would barbeque, perhaps a loin. Sylvia quickly made her grocery list then headed to the meat market followed by the farmers’ market.
It had rained hard for several days and much of the produce was dirty, but it was gorgeous and juicy and plump. She carefully chose some button mushrooms, cucumbers, turnips and radishes, asparagus and some apples for her pie.
She cooked solidly for two days and had set the table with her marriage china, grandmother’s linen, a vase of nosegays and candles procured for romantic evenings. Her dinner guests brought wine, and laughter and the chill from outdoors. They had dressed for the evening, unbidden. Sylvia had only seen them in the uniforms of mothers and athletes. Tonight, they came as, women. Sylvia uncorked the wine.
The talk began as it always did. Birthing stories, half-marathons run, the local school, but by around the third bite of the salmon appetizer, the talked changed. With a morsel of fish in her mouth, Molly spoke of its unexpected flavours. Soon words were replaced by ecstatic oohs and aahs. Tib reached over and unscrewed another bottle of wine.
The hours of pounding and the heat from the flame of the stove were worth it. With eyes half-closed, the rest of the meal was received with rising pleasure.
By coffee-time, Molly had risen, a bit unsteadily and recited a poem.
Coffee arrives, that grave and wholesome Liquor,
That heals the stomach, makes the genius quicker,
Relieves the memory, revives the sad,
And cheers the Spirits, without making mad…
“Who is this Anon person anyway?” Tib yelled and a lively discussion ensued.
By dessert, the last of the opened wine had been empty. Twelve bottles were lined-up perfectly along the back of the buffet. Food had been spilled, dripped and spotted the fronts of blouses. Upon seeing this, Tib unbuttoned her sweater and threw it towards the utility room.
“Filthy Pig” she shouted to the depths of her wine glass. She then lifted her head and exclaimed. “You know what I love most about food?” (It didn’t look like she enjoyed food that often) “Is that it never bites back. It’s already dead.”
Uproarious laughter filled the dining room.
“If you eat a tongue sandwich,” someone shouted over the smashing of a glass on the floor,” does it taste you while you taste it?” More laughter.
Then Tib stood uncertainly, but raised her empty glass with command. “Food is always there. It simply says, take me I’m yours.” She looked towards Sylvia, “Let‘s do this again.”
Choruses of agreement rose up together and then, completely full and satisfied, Sylvia’s neighbours left.
Sylvia rose from her place amongst the culinary wreckage in her kitchen. She toasted the former owner of the house, butted her cigarette out and quickly drained the last of her drink. Her husband would arrive by 9am the following day. She wanted the kitchen cleaned for him. She was ready to cook him breakfast.
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