Mary Lou's Cookbook

A Story by Tim Wilkinson

If youthful happiness seems a dream, once the time has past, is adult wakefulness reality

Title: Mary Lou’s Cookbook

Word count: 2,364

Author: Tim Wilkinson

Mary Lou’s Cookbook

By Tim Wilkinson

Published in, The Path, Literary Journal-Volume 6, Number 1, summer 2016

Publication date Jul 11, 2016

“What are you reading?” Shelia asked, her tall, lean frame stretched over the back of the plush, high backed chair, her chin resting lightly upon the top of Wayne’s head.

“Oh, nothing really, a recipe book.”

“Really? You?”

“Yes---and why does that surprise you?”

“Oh, I don’t know, just not what I’d expect you to be reading. Thought the classics, or ripe and bloody vampire stories were more your style.”

“True.”

“What is it? I mean what kind of recipe book, or who’s?”

“My Grandmothers actually. It’s a collection of her favorite recipes, or rather the favorites of her children and�"the family.”

“Grandmother, really? How cool. I didn’t know you had any family.”

“I don’t. And what exactly does that mean? Did you think I was hatched in an incubator or grown from a spore or something?”

“No silly. I just never heard you speak of your family before. Do you keep in contact with any of them? What about your parents?”

“Like I said, I have none.”

“No what, family, or parents?”

“No either.”

“Why? Have they passed away, your parents I mean, good ole dad and mumsy?”

“No, not passed, just away.”

“So where did the recipe book come from?”

“A cousin of mine. Seems she broadcast it to her address book and I suppose I was still on it.”

“You say that like your surprised. Is there some reason why you wouldn’t be on her list? Don’t you have any contact with her?”

“No, not really, just the incidental mass mailing, like this.”

“I’d hardly call that incidental. Sounds more like treasure to me. So tell me, why? Why don’t you keep in touch?”

“Oh, it all seems a bit pointless, really.”

“Pointless? How can your family be pointless?”

“Do you really want me to go there? No good can come of it. Besides, it always puts me in a bad mood. Do you really want to spoil your chances for a little poke and tickle?”

“Yes, I do want you to go there, really! Is there some reason why we can’t---And, have a bit of poke and tickle?”

Wayne paused before answering, his voice tired and dismissive. “Really Shelia, it’s complicated.”

“Is it? Do tell.”

“Like I said I’d rather…”

“Come on. Please,” Shelia pleaded, moving around to the front of the chair and sitting cross-legged on the floor before him, her eyes to his, intent and interested.

Wayne, his resistance fading swiftly to resignation expelled a deep, defeatist sigh. Then lowering the small, paper sheathed book onto his lap, leaned his head back against the chair, raised his eyes to the ceiling. And began.

“Okay, if I have to. But remember, it was all your idea,” he pouted.

“Agreed, now spill the dirt.”

“Well, I mean it’s no dank, dark secret or anything. I don’t keep in touch with them, haven’t heard from them in decades, nor them from me. It’s simply really, I just don’t know them---not anymore, and they don’t know me. And even if they did---well I have no doubt that they wouldn’t want to anymore.”

“Why would you say that? I think you’re wonderful.”

“Wow. Now that does make a difference, doesn’t it? The new grand total of all who think I’m wonderful is now up to, what? Let me see--one.”

“Now stop it. It can’t be that bad, can it?”

“Can. Now can we drop it? He said rather tersely. “And just why do you feel the need to push this so? Exactly what do you gain by tearing me down and exposing all my weaknesses? What sick, perverted pleasure do you get by seeing me squirm? Huh?”

Taken aback by the harsh tone of Wayne’s voice, Shelia grew silent for a moment, then added, “Wow! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I just thought…”

“No, no I’m sorry, forget I said that. I’m not angry with you and I shouldn’t have said that like I did. It’s, well like I told you, these things always put me in a funk. I didn’t mean to be an a*s. Let’s just say there are things you don’t know, and leave it at that. Can we?”

“Okay, sure. We could do that…But no, we won’t. I’m not just the gal next door you know, so if you expect to slither up inside of me each and every time the mood strikes you, you by God owe me the honor of knowing a few things about you not fit for primetime. This is me you’re talking to here. The woman who‘s been sharing your bed, and a hell of a lot more. Get it? So pony up talk to me. Why, why don’t you try to keep in touch with any of them?”

“It’s just a thing I’ve had to do Shelia.”

“Splain.”

“Not sure if I can.”

“Try anyway.”

“It’s sort of like this…Some people choose not to watch the news or read the paper, because it bothers or upsets them, because it stresses them out or makes them angry or anxious. So they stop watching, stop reading, and give it up. And because of this, in an odd sort of way, they are happier, happier not knowing the dirty little details of all the horrible things that they know are going on around them. It’s sort of a self-preservation technique, or a self-protection device. It’s kind of like that with my so called family, if that makes any sense.”

“But it doesn’t really, does it? When does ignoring reality change it? Besides, how can your family do that, bring you down I mean? Doesn’t family do just the opposite; provide clarity and a sense of belonging---understanding and compassion, even forgiveness? How can that stress you out, upset you, or make you angry?”

“I have no family, remember?”

“So you say. But they’re alive. They’re still out there. You said so yourself. Doesn’t that mean anything? Don’t you want that? Don’t we all? Don’t we need it, all of us?”

“Really Shelia, think about what you are saying. Who values and reveres one’s health more than the one who has lost it?”

“Okay then.”

“But do we? Do we all want it, Shelia, family I mean? Do we all need it? I can only say that I suppose we do---because I don’t know. I really don’t. All I can say is that you’re sure as hell asking the wrong person. What I do know is that I can’t. I can’t have it. I can’t make it appear where it isn’t, and I can’t bring it back from wherever it is that it’s gone. What’s more---I decided a long time ago to cut the strings, and it works for me. It works for me because I can’t take it anymore. Because when I don’t, when I don’t keep those thoughts at bay, when I let my guard down and find myself thinking about them, or those times, it makes me too sad, and frankly, it just hurts too damn much. So I avoid it. I‘ve had too. It, they, just depresses me every time I think of them. Just like today, I mean getting this recipe book in my email, this accidental or guilt motivated inclusion into their lives. Face it, my cousin didn’t send this to me, but to a nameless, soulless list. There is no intention or sentiment behind it, nothing but the robotic mechanics of an anonymous and lifeless email server. It’s no more meaningful than a dollar that slipped out someone’s pocket and fell into my path. And let me assure you, it does nothing to cheer me up or make me feel a part of something. As for clarity, clarity of what? Clarity of purpose or origin, of sentiment or connection? Well I have none of those things. I have no clarity when it comes to them, no connection, and no sense of origin or purpose. No, it’s all too painful and for reasons that to me are starkly obvious.”

“No Shelia, what you’re suggesting that I reach for is a thing that I can never have. It’s too late for me to have a father, a loving mother, or protective older brother. It’s too late for me to become the hero or even the friend to some dotting sister or admiring little brother, and likewise, too late to form a lasting, or intimate relationships with cousins, aunts, nieces or uncles, regardless of any professed, and I might add false, interest or involvement that they feign to have in my life. No, that time and that chance have past. You know as well anyone that we can’t go back, no one can. And that what is dead and gone, is dead and gone for evermore. So every time I see a little something about them, what they are doing, their gatherings or reunions, when I see a photo, or read any of their correspondence between each other that might, for reasons unknown, whether out a sense of guilt or some misplaced sense of responsibility or duty, accidentally or otherwise makes its way to me, I feel nothing but sadness, nothing but loss and an overpowering wave of regret and depression. So yes, I damn well avoid it, and them, whenever I can. Fortunately for me that’s not too difficult, as for them I ceased to exist decades ago.”

“But why Wayne. How can you feel that way? How can you think that for them you do not exist? The recipe book proves that wrong, even if it proves nothing else.”

“You’re wrong Shelia. Don’t you see? What one does, or has done, can’t be undone. What one says, or has said, can’t be unsaid. No, I’ve been long accused and convicted of dozens of crimes that I have never committed, and a greater number that I have. As for forgiveness, there is none, not for me, not here and certainty not from them. Don’t you see? I’m an outsider, will always be an outsider, and over the past forty years I’ve had no choice but to accept that. Doesn’t mean I have to like it. Doesn’t mean that I do like it. What it means is that that’s how it is, and how it will ever stay. I’m sorry Shelia, but you’re wrong.”

“How can you think that way Wayne? Why does it make you sad to receive something like this? I think it’s sweet of her to think of you, to include you. Don’t you have any memories of good times and happy emotions between you and her, isn’t there anything stored and locked away inside from when you and she were young? Something good, and kind, and wonderful--- anything?”

“Memories? Sure, a few. Of her, maybe even a lot. But you have to understand that that was another world, another life. And that life and that world are gone. Why? Because it is. And how do I know this? I know this for that very same reason. I know this because of those memories, memories that remind me of a dream, a dream I once had, a very long time ago, one that I hardly remember. A bright and happy dream where everything was fresh, and young, and pure; where love was real and futures bright; where everyone I knew was strong, and bold, and right, and goodness and kindness were the center of everything. Where strawberry haired angels with pale and silken skin, and eyes of eggshell blue walked amid roses as red as the tone of her lips; where life was an adventure, each day a joy; where the waters were clear and cool, the sun warm, the breezes fresh and lightly scented; where all those around me were caring, happy, and everywhere were possibilities, friendships, affections and joys.”

“Sounds lovely. So what happened to that dream? Where did it go and why did it pass?”

“That’s just it, Shelia. It was only a dream, albeit a lovely, fantastical dream, but still only a dream nonetheless. And dreams---well they don’t last. In the end you’ve got to wake up. And I did. I woke up as all dreamers eventually do, and I saw the truth for what it was. And that’s when I knew that I was truly alone, that nothing and nobody among all those I’d ever known were actually there to remain, and that all I’d previously thought or believed was false. Sure it was simple time, lovely, and pure, but a fairytale. It wasn’t real. For in reality no one is true and nothing is clean. No one’s real and nothing lasts. There is no such thing as unconditional love and the sun simply rises. It scorches one’s eyes and sears one skin; and the water at the bottom of the pond is fetid, putrid and cold, filled with fish s**t and semen; and the air, once scented, perfumed, and fresh, stinks of nothing but drugs, and blood, and sex. And family, well family is only a word, isn’t it. No, what I learned, and what I remember from when I first awoke is that I am me and they are them, and that, as they say, is that.”

“But I will say this. The worst thing of all and the bitterest of all my insights was the realization that never would I dream that dream again. And true to course I never have. For dreams, like wishes, are little more than muddled fantasies, no better than lies, lies we use to mask the truth and soften the sting of a hard, selfish, and senseless world.”

“But I love you, Wayne, and I’m not going anywhere. Is that also a lie? Do you really believe that?”

“No, I suppose not. I hope not. But then you don’t really know me, do you? And perhaps…”

“Perhaps what?”

“Perhaps you, you and I that is�"well, perhaps I’m dreaming still.”