Chapter Eleven

Miranda and Floyd cook dinner together before their visit with Alice.

My doorbell rings as I pull the remainder of my chicken legs from the fridge, and set them down on the counter.

I rush to the door, brushing my hair out of my face, and fling it open to see Floyd leaning in the doorway.

“Hey,” I say. “Is fried chicken going to be okay?”

“Sure,” says Floyd. “Anything’s better than the TV dinners I’ve been eating lately.”

“You can cook,” I say, moving out of the way to let him inside. “Why’ve you been living off TV dinners?”

“Not much point in cooking for just one person,” he says, looking around my duplex apartment.

“Well, tonight there are two of us.” I smile, leading Floyd into the kitchen. “And tonight, we will be making fried chicken.”

I open up the cupboard and pull out a sack of flour and a roll of wax paper.

“We’ll need these,” I tell him. “And also…” I open up the fridge and extract a carton of eggs. “These!”

I set everything down on the counter and grab a bowl from the cabinet.

“Have you ever made fried chicken before?” I ask.

Floyd shrugs.

“Not really in the traditional way,” he says. “When I fry my chicken, I just chop it up into pieces and cook it in a pan with some olive oil.”

“Well, then, this should be a fun learning experience for you.”

Floyd sticks his tongue out at me, and I laugh, opening the egg carton and picking out five large eggs.

“First, we’ve gotta put some eggs in a bowl,” I say in a silly voice, pretending I’m on a cooking show. I crack the eggs against the side of the bowl with one hand, and spill them into it.

“Ooh, look who’s showing off for me,” Floyd taunts.

I shove him with my arm.

“For me, it’s easier to do the whole thing one-handed,” I tell him. “I hate getting both hands dirty, if I can avoid it.”

Floyd nods with his usual “not bad” face, and watches as I crack some more eggs.

“You want to try it?” I ask, offering him an egg. He shrugs and takes it, turning it over several times in his fingers, as though trying to find the perfect spot for cracking it.

Finally, he holds up the egg and taps it gently on the side of the bowl, where it remains intact.

“I can’t even crack a damn egg,” he says.

“Alright, here.” I pick up a different egg and hold it where he can see. “Let me show you, now. You’ve gotta hit it just a little bit harder, but not too hard, or it’ll explode everywhere.”

I thump the egg on the side of the bowl, and a nice, neat crack forms.

Floyd cracks his egg carefully, and watches me for the next step.

“Now take these two fingers and hold onto the top part of the egg…” I demonstrate, letting my index and middle fingers hug the top half of the shell. “And then, with your other two fingers, grab the bottom, and then let them separate the shell. You can use your thumb a bit like this, to make sure you don’t drop it.”

In one motion, I divide the two halves and let the eggy innards drip into the bowl.

Floyd follows suit, ever so carefully, and manages not to drop the shell.

“That’s good!” I tell him, as he chucks what’s left into the garbage can. “Now, wasn’t that easy? And you only need to dirty one hand.”

Floyd nods, and watches as I grab a fork from the drawer.

“Now we have to mix these eggs up a bit with the fork to break up the yolk and everything.”

With one hand, I begin to beat the eggs with the fork. With the other hand, I pull open the fridge and grab the gallon of milk off the top shelf.

“I like to put just a splash of milk into the eggs,” I tell Floyd, uncapping the jug one-handed.

“You’re pretty coordinated, there,” he remarks, as I pour a small amount of milk into the egg concoction, stirring.

“You get used to that when you live alone for a long time. If no one’s there to help you, you have to do it all yourself, right?”

I stuff the milk back into the fridge, past a stoney-faced Floyd.

“That should do it,” I tell him, setting down the fork and moving over to the sink to wash the goo off my hand. “Now would you do me a favour, and spread a length of that wax paper across the counter? The scissors are right over there.” I nod in the direction of the scissors and then go back to lathering up my hands.

When I’m finished, I dry them on a towel and take my place again by Floyd’s side, where he’s laid out a nice strip of wax paper for me.

“Okay, now it’s gonna get real messy,” I tell him. “If you’re a wuss, there’s an apron right over there.”

Floyd wrinkles up his nose in one of those “you’ve gotta be kidding” faces and shrugs me off.

“Suit yourself,” I say, picking up the bag of flour and tugging it open. “We’re gonna dump about a metric ton of flour onto the wax paper now, so stand back.”

Floyd remains where he is, so I shrug and start pouring the flour, accidentally spilling an amount on his shoe.

“I told you to stand back!”

Floyd turns to me, his face a mixture of amusement and deviousness. Slowly, he lifts his foot, and before I know it, he kicks the powder into the air, whitening the front of my shirt.

I stumble backwards, mouth and eyes wide open at Floyd’s satisfied expression.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be, is it?”

I reach into the bag and grasp a nice handful of flour, as Floyd takes a few steps backward.

“I don’t think so,” I say. “You’re not getting away from me, you big jerk!”

As he turns around in an attempt to scramble out of the kitchen, I heave the flour bomb into his back, where it explodes into a white fog, dusting his already blonde hair into what looks like a pretty powdered wig.

I laugh as Floyd stops and straightens up, turning around to face me. He’s still got that look on his face, and I know that I’m about to be in big trouble.

“Give me that!” he shouts, lunging at me.

Hearing Floyd raise his voice startles me, and I lunge out of the way, screaming.

The floured linoleum is slippery, and I find myself slipping and sliding until I collapse onto the floor, where the bag of flour explodes everywhere.

“Well, thanks for saving me the trouble of revenge,” says Floyd, reaching out a hand to help me up. “But you do look like a zombie now, so maybe you should go clean yourself up and I can finish the chicken and sweep up this mess.”

I take his hand, trying hard to stifle a sneeze, and get to my feet.

“You’d really do all that?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says. “We’ve still got, like, two hours before we have to leave anyway. Plus, it’s my fault you spilled all this flour. Just tell me what I need to do next, and then you can go take a shower while I finish up.”

I smile and pick up the remainder of the flour.

“Just coat the wax paper in flour,” I instruct. “Dip the chicken into the egg mixture and then into the flour, and then put it all in the pan. You should be able to handle the rest, I’m sure.”

Floyd nods.

“Now go get cleaned up,” he tells me. “I’ll take care of it.”

I smile and pat him on the shoulder as I leave the kitchen and head down the hall to my room.

I don’t think that I’ve ever seen the fun side of Floyd before, and being with him like this is like meeting a brand new person. I’m not quite sure why, but for some reason, I always pegged Floyd for a stiff. He never seemed to be the type of person that would shop at bookstores, or get into flour fights. But maybe he just doesn’t act that way in front of Alice.

In a way, it seems easy to understand why. Alice has always been a very organized and serious person, and if what Floyd said is true, she’s probably too busy for simple things like throwing flour around the house. But if two people in a relationship never spend time having fun and doing pointless, silly things, then what is the point?

Surely the two of them have had their moments of silliness. I’m just never there for it.

Turning the shower on, I lock the bathroom door and toss my dirty clothes into the laundry basket, before sticking an arm into the running water to make sure the temperature is suitable.

I turn the knob to make it just a tad warmer and then step in.

The water feels scalding hot on my cold feet, but everywhere else, it’s perfect. I let out a huge breath, enjoying the feeling of the warm water raining down on me.

On the other side of the wall somewhere, I can hear the other toilet flush, followed by a muffled “SORRY!”

The water heats up and begins to steam, but I stay where I am, wondering if Floyd’s idea for me to take a shower was his clever way of going to the bathroom in private.

“IT’S FINE!” I call back to him, realizing how awkward it seems to be talking to him while I’m in the shower.

Butterflies flap around in my stomach as it dawns on me that Alice would probably not approve of this situation, despite how harmless it is.

I lather up my hair, wondering whether it would be better to be honest and straightforward with her, or to just keep this whole afternoon a secret.

It’s not like anything threatening has happened here. We’re just friends, hanging out before going to visit her in the hospital.

I rinse the soap out of my hair.

There’s no reason that Alice has to know unless she asks about it, and if that happens, then I will be perfectly honest. It’s not like I’ve got anything to hide.

Still, the idea of us being alone together in the same house while I’m taking a shower seems like something that would send her right off the deep end, no matter how sweet and carefree she can seem.

I shrug it off, stepping out onto the bathmat and seizing my towel from the hook.

I haven’t done anything wrong, so I have no reason to be afraid of Alice.

After running the towel through my hair a few times, I hang it back up to dry and reach for my neatly folded stack of clean clothes, pulling on my underwear.

With the mirror fogged up, I can’t really see much, which is probably good, since I’m sure that washing my hair has sent it right back into its frizzy afro look.

Once fully dressed, I open up the bathroom door to invite some fresh air in to unfog the mirror so I can take care of the frizz before it gets too bad.

The outside air feels nice and cool after the hot shower, and as it rushes in, my reflection begins to come into focus.

I pull my blow dryer and my flat iron out from under the sink and plug them both in.

As I start to blow dry my hair, I notice that although it is still pretty curly, it’s not nearly as tightly bunched up as it used to be. Maybe all of the straightening has had a good effect on it.

Once it’s dry through & through, I attack it with the iron as quickly as possible, pin it back at the sides with a couple of little red heart barrettes, and just for the hell of it, I slap on some fresh makeup.

Feeling fresh and lovely once more, I trot out to the kitchen where Floyd is arranging the chicken on a couple of plates along with some mashed potatoes.

“I hope you don’t mind that I cooked your taters,” he says. “I always have them when I eat fried chicken, so I thought it’d be good.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” I say, looking around the kitchen, which seems cleaner than it was before Floyd even arrived.

“Wow,” I say quietly. “You sure did a number on the kitchen… It looks great. I’m surprised you had enough time to do all this.”

Floyd chuckles.

“You really underestimate the time that you spend in the shower, don’t you? Look what time it is.”

I glance at the clock to find that my shower, hair and makeup excursion took over an hour.

“Oh, jeez,” I groan. “I’m sorry. Were you bored? Did I keep you waiting long?”

“Oh, not really,” Floyd smiles. “There was plenty for me to do, especially after the flour disaster. But I managed to get it all cleaned up nicely without burning the chicken, and I had time to make mashed potatoes, too. I’d say you made perfect time.”

“Well, that’s good,” I say, relieved. “Shall we eat?”

Floyd nods, and together, we grab our plates and move out to the table where we sit down across from one another.

“Well, this is nice,” I say, tearing into my chicken, which is surprisingly better than when I make it. “I never get to have anyone over for dinner. This chicken is great, by the way. Did you do something different to it?”

Floyd smiles.

“I added a secret ingredient,” he says, purposely digging into his mashed potatoes.

I set the chicken down and stare at him.

“Calm down!” he laughs. “It’s nothing gross. I just added a little cinnamon, because for some reason I find that chicken tastes pretty good when you add a bit of that in. You like it?”

I sigh, picking it back up and taking a huge bite.

“It’s good,” I tell him. “I’m gonna have to remember that for next time.”

When I try the mashed potatoes, I decide that he must have added a bit of cinnamon to those, as well.

In my mind, I wonder how a guy who is so skilled at cooking could have ever gone through life without ever making fried chicken at least once. I always felt that fried chicken was one of the first things a person learns to cook. But Floyd is such an unusual and mysterious person.

Smiling down at my plate, I realize how glad I am to be getting to know him better.

 

After a total of six chicken legs and four helpings of potatoes between the two of us, our stomachs aching from the weight of the meal, Floyd and I do the dishes together and get ready to leave.

“Alice drove herself there,” he says. “So we’ll be taking my car.”

I nod, locking the door, and stumble down the front steps to where Floyd is standing next to one of those puny little fuel efficient cars�"the kind with only two front seats and nothing else.

“You drive this thing?” I ask.

Floyd pats the car.

“Yep. This is my baby,” he tells me.

“How is it? I mean… Don’t you feel kind of small and terrified on the road?”

“Yeah, at first,” says Floyd. “But you get used to it. Though, if it’s your first time riding, I’d suggest buckling up and leaving anything you have with you on the floor. Hop in.”

Floyd opens his door and plops down inside, motioning for me to get in, too.

I walk around to the other side and bend down to open the door, getting in as carefully as possible.

“I feel like I’m getting into a clown car.”

Floyd laughs as I shut the door and buckle up, setting my purse on the floor at my feet.

Silently, we take off in the direction of the mental hospital, River Ridge.

“So how do these things work?” Floyd asks, breaking the silence. “Is she gonna be bound up in a straight jacket inside a padded room, all doped up on tranquilizers?”

For some reason, the question strikes me as simply hilarious, and I burst out laughing, much louder than I intended.

“I don’t think so, Floyd! They only do that sort of thing to people who are hostile, usually. So unless Alice has been attacking fellow patients, I think we’ll just see her as normal, everyday Alice.”

“Well, that’s good,” says Floyd. “It’s a big enough drama without having to�"Oh, God!!”

Floyd sees it at the same time as me, and slows down as my lungs lock up and my heart races.

Up ahead in the road, a man falls from somewhere that I can’t see. He lands on his back in the middle of the street and doesn’t move.

My eyes fill with tears, and I can’t seem to make myself breathe. Did he jump off a building? I can’t handle this… Not another suicide. Not so soon after Jacques…

“What the hell?” says Floyd, driving up to where the man’s body lies motionless in the street. I look around for anything he could have jumped from, but there doesn’t really seem to be anything around.

Floyd rolls down his window.

“You okay, man?”

I bite my lip as he sits up a bit, his head rocking slightly from side to side.

“Can I have a ride?” I hear him call.

“Yeah, sure,” says Floyd. “Where to?”

The man in the road continues to sit in the middle of the street, swaying slightly.

“49^th and…”

“This guy’s strung out on something,” Floyd murmurs to me. “You okay?”

I nod.

“49^th and what?” Floyd asks the guy. “Harrison? Browning? California?”

“California!” he calls back, as though finally remembering the name of the street.

“Um… Floyd,” I say quietly. “You only have two seats…”

“S**t, you’re right. Hey, sir? I only have two seats in my car…”

The two seem to just stare at each other forever as cars pass, honking their disapproval.

“Look,” I say. “I’ll just get out and wait here, okay? Just get this guy where he needs to go, and I’ll be here when you get back.”

Floyd looks at me, reluctance painted onto his face.

“Alright,” he says. “But you stay right there under that tree and don’t move until I return.”

I nod in agreement and step out of the car, making sure to grab my purse as I do.

“Alright, come get in,” Floyd shouts to the man, who tries at last to stand. I step backward, watching as he falls over twice before getting a grip on Floyd’s car and using it to help steady himself until he finds the door and throws himself inside.

Floyd catches my eye one last time before he drives off, giving me a stern look of “You better not move from that spot.”

I watch as his tiny car disappears down the street until I am alone under a large oak tree.

Not knowing what else to do, I sit down under the tree, bringing my knees to my chest.

Where I am is a strange neighborhood that I’ve never been in before, and all around are houses and people that are unfamiliar and somehow frightening. My heart still hasn’t slowed down from the one fragile moment that I was sure I’d witnessed a suicide.

Sighing, I take my phone out of my purse to check the time. As I do this, it rings, startling me, and I drop it on the ground, where it shatters.

Shaking, I pick up the pieces and attempt to snap them back together.

The face has fallen off as well as the battery cover, which has allowed the battery to slip out, severing power to my phone.

As quickly as I can, I reassemble my phone and switch it back on.

Before I have a chance to check the time, or even see who called, the phone is ringing again and it’s Floyd.

I flip it open and bring it to my ear.

“Hello,” I say, wearily.

“Are you doing okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” I tell him. “I’m a little shaken up, but I’ll be alright. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to keep you on the phone so that we both know the other’s alright. You know, this way if anything happens to one of us, the other can call the police or whatever.”

“That’s a pretty good idea,” I admit.

Floyd’s voice grows distant and I can hear that he’s talking to the man in the car.

“Right here?” he asks. I can barely make out a low mutter, and then Floyd is sighing. “Can you give me an exact address?” I hear him ask.

The guy mutters again and then cuts himself off to utter a hoarse “Stop right here.”

On the other end of the phone line, there is a lot of garbled racket, and I can’t make out what is going on.

“Floyd?” I ask.

“I’m here, Miranda, just a second.”

A moment later, he’s telling the guy to be careful and to go straight home and rest, and then he’s back on the phone.

“He’s gone,” says Floyd. “Are you still okay?”

“I’m better,” I tell him. “That guy really freaked me out. Did you see where he fell from?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I didn’t really catch much more than the end of it, but I assume he just couldn’t stand up.”

“I thought…” I bite my lip for a moment, trying to catch my breath and calm myself down a bit more. “I thought that he had jumped off a building.”

“Nah. I think he was just way too strung out on drugs. I don’t really know his story, because he wouldn’t talk, other than to give me barely coherent directions. But yeah… he scared the hell out of me, too.”

I frown down at my knees, lost for words. So much has happened in such a short time with little sleep, and all I feel is extreme fatigue.

“Miranda?”

“I’m here.”

“I’m coming up the street now,” he says. “I don’t see you.”

Dizzily, I grab my purse and get to my feet as Floyd pull up in front of me.

“I’m hanging up,” he says.

I nod and close my phone, collapsing into the passenger seat.

“You look kinda dead,” Floyd mentions as we drive away. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m just going through so much s**t. I told you my patient killed himself, right?”

“Yeah… That really blows, man. I’m sorry about that.”

“Well,” I murmur, “When I saw that guy fall, I thought he’d leapt to his death, and it really rattled something inside me. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m going to be able to start work so soon. I told them I could start tomorrow.”

“S**t,” says Floyd. “Tomorrow? What’s your hurry? Most people wait at least a few days.”

“Well, I was excited at the time… But now I’m just… Oh, I don’t know. Maybe a good night’s sleep will be all I really need. Hopefully no jackasses text me all night…”

“Well, just relax and breathe,” says Floyd. “I’ll turn on the radio. I don’t know about you, but music always seems to calm me down.”

With the click of a button, Floyd turns on the radio and the car is filled with a calming melody, which sounds slightly familiar. It isn’t until I see him cringe that I realize why I recognize it.

“Okay. Maybe another station,” he says. “I hear this s**t enough when Alice is around. I don’t think there’s any reason to have to hear it when she’s not even here.”

Floyd changes the station to something with a more upbeat and happy song.

“That’s better. Now just try to relax. It’s probably not good to show up at a mental hospital looking frantic.”

“No,” I say softly, resting my head against the window. “It’s definitely not.”