Chapter Two

Betsy's House

Chapter One

2.

The sun dropped below the high ridge line and the night’s dark shadow began to creep out over the fields. He headed in for supper. A hearty aroma greeted him outside the door. He paused a moment before going in, testing the air for the source. He was surprised when he opened the door and a delicious warm smell enveloped him. Those new dishes must have inspired her, he thought.

The small box was still resting on the table. His place had been set with the dented tin plate. That witch must be out of her mind. He turned to the stove, already a rumbling stirred in his throat. It stuttered out incomplete when all he saw were the covered pots and pans simmering on the stove. The aroma drifted over him again and soothed him momentarily.

He called out for her and there was no answer. He called several more times. There was no response. A half hearted bellow escaped him, but his attention was drawn again to the simmering pots on the stove. It smelled so good and he was ready to eat. Where was she? He went outside and called again. Walking around the house and out into the small garden, he kept calling and getting angrier. She did not answer.

Furious, he stormed back into the house. He grabbed the small box of new dishes meaning to get his own plate when he saw a note by the tin plate set in his spot. It read, “Help yourself.” The small box went sailing through the air and landed with a mighty crash in the middle of the living room. He screamed her name.

His angered deep breathing kept filling his lungs with the intoxicating aroma coming from the simmering pots on the stove. Spent, he resigned himself to serving up his own supper. The cupboards where the dishes were stored were empty. He stepped over the shards in the living room and looked inside the small box. Carefully lifting out each dish still inside revealed they all had been broken. He whimpered just a little and kicked the small box to the far side of the room.

He’d eaten off of that tin plate more times than he could count. Once more couldn’t hurt.

He lifted the lid of the first pot. His eyes were as pleased as his nose. Inside was chicken with tomatoes, peppers, onions and potatoes. Her kitchen garden close to the house was beginning to produce the first summer vegetables. The next pot was filled with fresh green beans from the garden. The oven door was slightly ajar. He looked inside and found fresh baked biscuits. He piled his plate high, hoping everything would taste as good as it smelled.

There was a spiciness to the meal he had never noticed in her food before. The mint he could discern. Other more subtle flavors were harder to determine. There could be some wild ginger in the chicken. It tasted good. He went back for seconds and set the pots off the heat of the wood stove.

Full and finished he went right to his chair in the living room instead of the porch for a smoke. He slid a few shards from the small box of dishes that were near his feet off to the side. She could clean up when she came back. The longer days and new heat of summer was making him drowsy after such a full meal.

Where was she? Why would she leave after fixing a supper like that? He called out her name and didn’t hear a thing. He was already asleep.