>>> Item number 8288 from WRITERS LOG9302C --- (217 records) ----- <<< Date: Mon, 15 Feb 1993 10:45:18 JST Reply-To: WRITERS Sender: WRITERS From: Mike Barker Subject: SUB: Family Cookbook Dan - is this what you had in mind? rather an odd little piece - not sure at all about it. mike --------------------------------------------------- Family Cookbook m. barker 1993 1925 words I pulled the letter from my pocket and checked again, standing in front of the little bookstore. I had the right address, and they must be holding whatever my aunt had bought for me. As I opened the door, listening to the bell tinkling overhead, I wondered, for the hundredth time since the letter came, just who this aunt I had never heard of was. The musty, dusty odor of old books surrounded me. I looked around, seeing the wall on my right stacked with shelves of books, and the ranks of shelves filling the narrow storefront promised more books. However, there was no sign of a person. I walked forward, turning slightly to avoid brushing the books with my coat. I had the momentary thought that I should be advancing with an epee extended, and laughed at the absurd image this conjured. Then he stepped into the aisle, blocking it. A short, black troll of a figure with the light behind him, making me choke momentarily. "Sir? May I help you, sir?" He stepped backward again, and the light showed an elderly storekeeper. Graying hair fringed a shiny pink dome above slack features, a tightly buttoned shirt peeping out of a dark green sweater, and tweed pants worn with age - the momentary shock of the dark troll in the aisle of books turned into a slightly comic figure. I stepped forward to the end of the shelves as he backed up. Here was a smaller open space, with a chair, small desk, and a small rug. He settled into the chair and rested his left hand on the stack of books sitting beside it. "Yes, sir? Are you looking for something particular?" I got the letter out again and unfolded it. "I believe you're holding a package for me. My name is Graem Delthin." His lower lip protruded and his forehead wrinkled. "I don't believe so, sir." "This is 249 Milton Street, isn't it?" "Why, yes, sir, it is." "But you're not holding a package from a Martha Whitford for..." "Oh, you're here for the birthday present. Yes, of course, Mrs. Whitford said you would be here today. Now, if you'll just wait a minute, I'll fetch it." His face had smoothed out, and he jumped up, then quickly started to slip into the next aisle of books. As he stepped in, he looked back at me again, and it almost seemed as though he shook his head. I thought it was just an illusion caused by turning his body to squeeze through the narrow space between the shelved books. I heard him walk part way toward the front of the shop, then hinges squeaked. I stepped sideways and saw that there was a small safe built into the wall of the shop there, and he had the door opened. He took a deep breath while I watched, then reached in and picked up something. He held it in one hand, then closed the safe. Without turning, he started backing out again, the package in his hand held away from his body. In a moment, he was back. He kept the package in his outstretched arm, and swiveled on one foot as if his arm were stiff. "Here you are, sir. Your birthday present." I started to take it, then paused. "Don't you want to see the letter? And maybe my driver's license or ..." "Oh, that's quite all right, sir. No one else would possibly want, that is, no one else could possibly have known to ask. So, if that's all, sir, I do have a number of other items to take care of today." I accepted the paper-wrapped package. It felt as if it was a book, which might explain leaving it in this shop. Still, I hoped to find out a little more. "Could I bother you for just a few more minutes? You see, I'm an orphan, and this is the first I've heard of Martha Whitford. Do you know her?" He looked toward the front of the store, then at his shoes. "Well, no, not exactly. She's divorced, you know. You say you're an orphan?" "Yes, and Martha Whitford says she's my aunt. So you can understand my interest." He sat down, slowly. "Ah. Mrs. Whitford is your aunt. Yes. I see." He looked suddenly at the stack of books beside the chair, then at me. "Well, sir, it has been a pleasure, but I'm afraid I'm really quite busy today. Perhaps we could chat another time. Today, well, today would be quite difficult." A drop of sweat trickled down the edge of his hair. He reached up and blotted it. I lifted the book a little, and he drew back as if I had lifted a snake into his face. "Certainly. Well, thank you for holding this for me." I crab-walked sideways up the aisle again, this time holding the book in its wrappings under my arm. The door tinkled again as I opened it and stepped out. I turned right and walked away, wondering what kind of delusions the bookstore keeper suffered that led to such odd behaviour. I was only a few steps up the street when I heard the bookstore door tinkle. The keeper stepped out and pulled the night security grate across the front of the store and locked it shut. Then he stepped back inside. In my flat, with the lights on, I carefully cut the string and unwrapped the book. Even before I could see it, I suspected what I would find. It was old. The brown cover was worn, flaking at the corners, and the paper inside had suffered damage over time. Still, what I had thought might be there was. The book was sealed, like a diary or journal, with a heavy lock holding the band. Looking at the lockhole, shaped like a circle with three projecting arms, I knew where the key was. My hand trembled as I lifted the chain around my neck. According to the people at the orphanage, the chain and key had been with me when I was found on their doorstep. Surprisingly, they had saved it, returning it when I finally left. The key fit, and the lock opened. I took the key out, pulled the band aside, and lifted the cover. The sheet of fresh white paper inside the cover was a surprise. The message was quite short, though. "Dear Graem: "I hope you enjoy these recipes. They have been in the family for some time. While I cannot visit you yet, I'm sure you'll enjoy them as much as I will enjoy finally meeting you. I hope to see you this evening. Sincerely, Martha Whitford" A cookbook? I laughed. Obviously my aunt was a bit of a nut. I turned the pages, and quickly realized that this had been journal, where someone had written recipes. No title page, no index, and... Baked stuffed cthulu? Now where had I heard that word? "First, locate the dwelling of the cthulu, taking care to avoid letting it catch you. Then wait until it has eaten a large party. Now capture it..." This was insane. What kind of recipe...? I flipped a few more pages. Ah, this looked simple. "Vegetarian hash - locate a vegetarian, preferably one that foregoes all meat including eggs and fish, as their flesh is far more tender than all others. Hang them by their heels and slit their throats, collecting..." I flipped the book shut and leaned back, staring at the wall. What kind of insane joke was this? Then I looked at the book again. I reached out and touched the cover, feeling the cracked and weathered binding. Leather. It had to be leather. And the paper inside was thick, heavy and apparently aged. Could this be some practical joke, perhaps by, by... I couldn't think of anyone who would do such a thing. I got up, fixed a cup of tea, and sat down again at the table. I pulled the book closer, then started through it from the beginning, looking for some clue as to its author and trying to ignore the recipes. Still, some of the names caught my eyes... "Batwing stew" "Vampire Goulash" "Black Widow Delight" "Finger and Eye Pickles" I closed the book again, and wondered. My aunt, if she was my aunt, said these were family recipes. I licked my lips. As I stared at the cover, one of the cracks reminded me of that time another boy scraped his knee playing soccer. And I remembered the strange craving I had felt, the pull to lick the blood welling up on his skin. I licked my lips again, and thought about the meat pie sitting in the fridge waiting to be heated and eaten. Somehow it no longer seemed like a tasty dish, rather like something that should be thrown out in the trash. I sipped at the cold tea, then opened the book again. Memories of dreams carefully pushed away while looking at the ordinary life all around me started to pour through my mind. It may have been hours later when I heard the steps outside the flat. I was reading about boiled earthworms and slugs, if I remember correctly. Collected in a graveyard at midnight, naturally. The door of the flat creaked open, although I always locked it when I came in. And she stepped in, as I had expected. Her hair was blonde, her eyes grey. She had a coat loosely wrapped over her shoulders, although her arms weren't in it. She took it off and hung it up, then turned to me again. "Graem? Ah, I see you've been reading the family cookbook. Are you enjoying it?" I stood up, clumsy with hunger. "Oh, yes. But have we met before?" She laughed. "No. I'm Martha, of course. You look just like your father. Almost exactly as he did that last day." My head dropped, and tears came to my eyes. "He's dead, then? And mother?" A hand took my chin, and lifted it. "Yes, your father is dead. Your mother is doing well, but.. well, she suggested that I should introduce you to the family traditions." I dropped my hand on the book. "This? I'd rather meet my mother." The hand took mine, then slowly stroked up my arm. "Naturally, I can understand that. But, Graem, she.. she didn't think she could control herself, meeting you after all this time, and it just wouldn't be right. The family has rather strict rules, you know." She squeezed my arm as she said this. I tried to think what she could mean. "No, I don't know. I haven't seen or heard from anyone since I was left at the orphanage, how could I know what kind of family I had?" She patted my cheek, then pulled at it, gently. "Oh, of course. I forget sometimes, you see. Maybe later I can call and have her come over, join us for a bite. But you did read the cookbook?" "Not everything. Why?" "Ah. Did you read the recipe for Black Widow Delight?" I thought about it, then shook my head. "Good. That is, I'm sure you'd enjoy it. Why don't you sit down here, and I'll prepare you for it..." I sat down, and that was -- The End --