Last year, around Christmas, I wrote a little short story called THE UNIVERSAL REMOTE. It featured an eccentric junk dealer by the name of Mr. Cain, who may or may not be the oldest human on the planet. Earlier this week I got an idea, and suddenly Mr. Cain was back for another visit - a tale of justice and sweetness that go perfectly together! Let me know what you think of it:
JUST DESSERTS
A Short Story by
Lewis B. Smith
Maggie Cooper looked in the mirror and studied her face closely. Her cheeks were stained by tears, but they were drying. Her eye was only starting to swell, but she could tell she’d be sporting a heckuva shiner in the morning. Two of her front teeth were throbbing, and her gums were bleeding, but the teeth weren’t loosened in their sockets this time, at least. There was a small cut along her jawline, probably from one of Todd’s fingernails when he’d slapped her, and she carefully dabbed the blood away. The bruises on her arm and backside she could ignore; they would be concealed by her clothing. But she hated when he marked up her face; the questions that got asked and the pained looks that followed when she assured her few friends that she’d just fallen – again! - were almost too much to bear.
Five years. Five years ago, she had married her high school sweetheart, and her life had become a hellish nightmare of pain and abuse not long after. Todd was a star football player in high school, scouted by the big universities, but then when he went to training camp at UNT he’d blown out a knee in a collision with another player. His dreams of NFL stardom withered, his scholarship went away, and after walking on crutches for the better part of a semester, he dropped out and got a job at his dad’s garage. The knee still throbbed, but instead of going back to the doctor, Todd started drinking to numb the pain. And then the beatings had begun.
It didn’t take much to set him off – if Maggie was too loud, or too quiet, he would lash out. If she welcomed his romantic attentions, he would slap her around and scream that she was a slut; if she was indifferent or stoic, he would claim she didn’t love him and punch her. Nothing she did was enough, and the schoolgirl crush that had consumed her during her senior year had faded into dread and loathing, combined with pity.
Pity, that was the thing he hated most, and it was the one thing that she couldn’t stop herself from feeling. She was genuinely sorry for his blighted dreams, but she had no idea how to pull him out of the quagmire of anger, despair, and pain that he’d sunk into. Unwilling to blame himself, or simply accept his injury as one of life’s hard knocks, he took it out on her. Every week. Every time he drank. The punches, the open-handed slaps, the angry shoving, and the occasional sexual assault, all left her in a miserable vortex of fear, dread, and pain.
“Woman!” Todd bellowed from the kitchen. “When are you coming out of that dang bathroom?”
“Be right out, babe!” Maggie said, forcing a smile. She dabbed her face one more time and headed down the narrow hallway of their mobile home to the kitchen.
Todd was staring at his plate, with the bones from the pork chop he’d eaten stacked neatly to the side. The pork chop was too dry, he’d complained a few moments before, which was all it took for him to slap and punch her a half dozen times before sitting down to supper. She noted that hadn’t stopped him from finishing it.
“Are you gonna eat?” he snapped. “If I have to chew this shoe leather, you should, too!”
“Sure, hon,” Maggie said quickly, and sat down, neatly cutting up her own meat. It tasted fine to her, even if it had gotten cold while she was in the bathroom.
Todd stared at his phone, scrolling through his Facebook feed, where she knew he chatted with other women nightly. Sometimes he would leave for the weekend and not come back till late Sunday evening, and although he claimed these were “fishing trips,” she suspected that he was meeting with one of his online girlfriends. She found herself not caring anymore – let someone else endure his abuse and greedy attentions for a couple of days! She wished he’d just run off with one of them, but that was the thing – Todd didn’t believe in divorce.
“I make one vow, I keep it!” he told her the week before they married. “You wanna get rid of me, baby, you’ll have to kill me!”
The comment seemed funny when they were dating, but looking at him now, Maggie felt nothing but fear. She had no desire to kill him, but she was terrified that one day he might kill her. In fact, the previous month he had bought a large life insurance policy – for both of them, he said, but when she asked to read it, he’d slapped her for doubting him and demanded she sign it then and there. The glimpse she’d caught of the top page showed only her name filled into the blanks. What was she to do, she wondered? How long could she live like this?
“Where’s my Jack Daniels?” he shouted suddenly, so loudly that she dropped her fork. She quickly stooped to pick it up, and then carried their plates to the sink.
“You finished it last night, sweetie,” she said with a smile that belied her despair. “While you were watching the Mavericks play.”
“That was the last bottle? Dang!” he said. Oddly enough, as cruel and abusive as he was, Todd never swore. His strict Baptist father had beaten him every time he said something stronger than “damn!”, and his mother had followed it up by washing his mouth out with soap. A shame they didn’t punish him for punching out his girlfriends, Maggie thought.
“I can get you some more if you want,” she said. The only thing she dreaded more than his drinking was Todd deprived of whiskey – or anything else – that he wanted.
He suddenly smiled, and for a split second she saw the lanky young football star she’d fallen in love with all those years before. That was the saddest part, she thought. Somewhere, masked behind all the pain and anger and fear, the Todd she’d danced with at the senior prom was still there, and these rare occasions when she saw him shine through made it almost impossible to hate him.
“You’re a peach, Maggie,” he said. “Run get me a fifth, and while you’re at it, I want some dessert, too. I’m craving something sweet.” Then his smile twisted into something lecherous and cruel, and he continued; “Maybe something even sweeter after that, what do you say?”
She knew that anything they started after he’d had a drink would end in her getting punched again, no matter how she responded to him, but the blows would come sooner if she refused him. What could she say?
“That sounds nice, babe,” she mumbled. Like she always did. “Can I have a twenty?”
“What happened to the money I gave you Saturday?” he snapped.
“Groceries, hon – groceries and rent,” she stammered.
“You think my paycheck just grows on that pecan tree outside?” he snapped. But then he dug in his wallet and handed her a twenty and a five, his desire for booze supplanting his stinginess.
“Hurry back!” he snapped, and then shoved her towards the door. She stumbled and nearly face-planted on the lawn. There was a strip mall a couple of blocks away, and she sobbed silently as she walked down the weedy sidewalk that connected it to the trailer park where they lived.
The package store was at the far end of the strip mall, and the larger storefront closest to their neighborhood had been empty for some time. She knew that it had sold, because the windows had been covered with butcher paper for the last week, but as she approached it now, she saw that it was open for business. A garishly painted sign had been hung over the door, and a sandwich board was set up on the sidewalk out front with a powerful floodlight aimed at it, even though the sun had not fully set yet.
“Mister Cain’s Junk Emporium, Liquor, and Snacks,” she read, and chuckled despite herself. “That’s an eclectic combination!”
She read the slogan across the bottom of the sign: WE HAVE EVERYTHING YOU NEED, WHETHER YOU KNOW YOU NEED IT OR NOT!
“Wonder if they’ve got a formula to cure wife beaters,” she mused. But her natural curiosity took over, and she pushed the door open. The place smelled of new paint and dusty antiques, and along one wall a giant cooler filled with bottles of beer, soda, and whiskey quietly hummed. She walked down the aisle, looking at the various pieces of junk and bric-a-brac that were crammed onto every shelf. Some of the items were beautiful, some were hideous, and some were macabre. One clear glass jar was filled with yellowish fluid in which floated what certainly looked like the severed head of a monkey! It was the kind of place Maggie could enjoy looking for hours, and she resolved to come back tomorrow when Todd was at work.
But right now, she was on a mission from His Highness to retrieve whiskey, and God help her if she took too long! She saw a fifth of JD in the cooler and picked it up, then turned to the other side of the store, where a rack was filled with pre-packaged candies, chips, and boxes of dry mix.
“Good evening, young lady!” a raspy voice wheezed in a slight British accent. “Welcome to my humble establishment.”
She hadn’t seen anyone behind the counter when she walked in, but there he stood now – a tall, skinny old man in a tweed suit, leaning on a silver-headed cane. His hair was parted in the middle, and two tufts of it stood up on either side of his head, reminding her of the Wolverine character in those X-men movies – without the muscles or aura of menace. If anything, the man behind the counter radiated kindness and an old school sort of charm.
“Are you Mister Cain?” she asked.
“I am indeed,” he said, “and it is a pleasure to meet you, Miss - ?”
“Cooper,” she said. “Maggie Cooper. And it’s Mrs., not Miss.”
“Ah, a young matron!” he said. “Well, I could not have asked for a lovelier first customer. I trust you are well this evening?’
Maggie gave him her usual strained smile.
“I’m fine and dandy,” she said. “Just getting some whiskey and a bit of dessert for my man.”
“You look troubled,” he said. “And, if I am not mistaken, you will be sporting a distinct black eye in the morning. Your ‘man’ must not be much of a gentleman.”
Suddenly all pretense flooded out of her, and she found herself on the verge of tears for the . . . well, she couldn’t remember how many times she’d cried that day. Or that week. Or that month.
“He used to be,” she said. “He was so sweet to me when we were dating! But ever since he got hurt, he’s just been so . . . so cruel to me. It’s like he blames me for everything that has gone wrong in his life! I’ve tried so hard to be a good wife, but he just finds things to get angry at, no matter how hard I try!”
Suddenly she was crying for real – deep, racking sobs that shook her young body and left her face feeling hot and flushed. Mr. Cain walked around the counter, striding quickly despite a distinct limp, and from the pocket of his old-fashioned suit, he produced a neatly folded, clean handkerchief.
“There, there, my dear,” he said, his voice oddly soothing. “You carry a heavy load for one so young. I cannot respect a man who hits women. It’s one thing for a man to lash out at another man – goodness knows my brother and I have been coming to blows for what seems like eternity now – but the weaker sex was meant to be cherished and protected, not terrorized.”
Maggie blew her nose hard, and despite the pain of her bruised face, felt better. The handkerchief smelled of sandalwood and mothballs, and she wondered briefly how old it was.
“You sound like someone out of a Dickens novel,” she said, “not like a shopkeeper in the twenty-first century!”
“The Victorian era had an elegance of expression that has always appealed to me,” said Mr. Cain, “and Dickens captured it very well. Now listen, Mrs. Cooper. I do not bear false witness in my advertisements – I do, in fact, have just what you need, even if you don’t know you need it. But there is only one box in stock, and it is in the back, so please wait here for a moment.”
He disappeared to the back of the store, the silver-headed cane rapping smartly on the wood floor as he faded from sight.
“Mr. Cain and his cane,” she said out loud, and chuckled. Then she looked at the polished hardwood and scratched her head. She could have sworn this building had plain linoleum floors the last time she visited it! She was wondering how much this rich polished floor had cost when she heard Mr. Cain approaching the front again.
“Here you are, my dear!” he said. “This is the perfect dessert to soothe the temper of an angry, bitter man. It’ll be the best thing he’s ever tasted!”
She looked at the box, which had a picture of a French chef who looked a bit like Mr. Cain, but fatter and jollier. The label was in a flowing, bright golden script that read: “Chef Abel’s Just Desserts!”
The blurb at the bottom read: “The sweetest treat you’ll ever taste; even sweeter than the taste of justice!”
“That is an odd slogan,” she said.
“It’s one of my brother’s recipes,” Mr. Cain said. “He is an excellent chef, but his prose is rather deplorable. Nonetheless, I promise your husband will relish every bite!”
She looked at the back and read the directions: “Take one package of JUST DESSERTS and mix with half a cup of water and one egg. Place it in a standard soup bowl and microwave on high for two minutes for a souffle that will taste like angels crying on your tongue!”
“Angels crying on your tongue?” Maggie repeated with a chuckle. “That doesn’t sound like deplorable prose to me! My English teacher would have given extra credit for that turn of phrase.”
“Well, I can promise that if you prepare this for your husband, he will give you some extra credit for preparing such a pleasing dish,” Mr. Cain said. “Now, let’s see – for the bottle and the box of mix, that comes to twenty dollars.”
“That’s fair enough,” she said, and handed him the twenty.
“I would just make him one serving,” Mr. Cain said, “and perhaps save the rest for a special occasion.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said. “I don’t know why, but talking to you makes me feel so much better!”
Mr. Cain favored her with a wistful smile.
“It is a rarity, in this wretched modern world, to meet an innocent soul,” he said. “You deserve a better hand than life has dealt you, Mrs. Cooper. Perhaps things will look up for you soon.”
“That would be nice,” she said, “but I’m not banking on it!”
With that Maggie turned and walked out of the store, giving the old man a wave as the door swung shut behind her. Walking back to the trailer, she took the box of mix out of the bag and studied it. Suddenly something occurred to her.
“Chef Abel is his brother?” she said. “Like, Cain and . . . Abel?”
She turned around for a moment and stared at the store front, but as she did the lights went out and the OPEN sign went dim. She shook her head and slowly walked back to the trailer park.
“Took you long enough, you stupid bimbo!” Todd snapped when she walked in.
“Sorry, sweetie, but a new store just opened, and I had to look around for a bit!” she remarked. “Here is your bottle, and I will have your dessert ready in just a few minutes.”
“All I wanted was a freaking candy bar,” Todd said.
“I think you’ll like this even better,” Maggie replied. “I’ll have it for you shortly!”
“You’d better!” he snapped. “You’re normally slower than a herd of turtles stampeding through peanut butter!”
She kept her best smile going as she walked into the kitchen, and then got down a small mixing bowl and tore the lid off the box. There were three packages inside, each labeled ONE SERVING. There was some small print at the bottom that she had to hold up to the light to read. GUARANTEED TO BE THE TREAT EVERY CUSTOMER DESERVES, it read. She shook her head at the odd sentiment, and then opened the packaged mix and dumped it into the bowl. She added half a cup of water and then broke an egg into the mix, stirring till it was the consistency of brownie batter. A rich, sweet smell rose from the bowl – chocolate, cinnamon, and a hint of something else – roses, cloves, maybe mint? Her mouth watered just smelling it.
She popped it into the microwave for two minutes, as the instructions read, and when the bell dinged, she opened the door and saw that the batter had risen into a perfect dome-shaped souffle. The bowl was still hot, so she eased it onto a saucer with her oven mitt and put a fork beside it, then headed into the cramped living room, where Todd was watching the Texas Rangers getting drubbed by the New York Yankees.
“Here’s your dessert, sweetie!” she said in a sprightly tone. Despite the bruises from today and the likelihood of more tomorrow, she felt genuinely cheerful.
“What’s this crap?” he asked in surly voice.
“A special treat from the new store,” she said.
He sniffed it suspiciously, then raised an eyebrow and almost smiled. He took the fork and dug into the hot dessert, shoving a huge bite in his mouth. Todd’s eyebrows shot up and he rolled the food around his mouth for a moment before swallowing.
“Holy snot, baby, that’s the best thing you’ve ever made me!” he said in genuine wonder. “It’s delicious! What is it called?”
“JUST DESSERTS,” she said, smiling back. “The ad says it’s supposed to taste like angels crying on your tongue!”
“I dunno about that, but this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted!” he exclaimed. “It makes Hostess Zingers taste like moldy dog poop in comparison!”
He wolfed down every bite, then stood with a smile that was almost tender, and took her by the hand and led her back to their tiny bedroom. And when he was done, for once, he didn’t hit her.
The next day Maggie got a call from Todd’s work just before noon. Mr. Cooper, her father-in-law, was a big, stoic tree trunk of a man, stern and unforgiving, and generally unflappable. Maggie was shocked when she picked up the phone and heard him speaking in a high, panicked voice.
“Maggie, please get down here!” he said. “Oh, dear Lord, this is awful! There’s blood everywhere!”
She sank into the old chair she kept near the phone, unable to process what she’d heard. Finally, in a very small voice, she said “Blood?”
“We were pulling the transmission on Deacon Bowers’ old Cadillac when the thing slipped off the blocks and landed on Todd,” he said. “I think my son is dying! I’ve called the ambulance, but he is asking for you. I don’t even know how he is still alive, Maggie. His legs . . .”
She heard screaming in the background, and numbly she hung up the phone and pulled her sneakers on. It was nearly a mile to the garage, and Todd had taken their only car. She ran, pounding the pavement like she was back at a high school track meet, and despite the coolness of the autumn day, she was covered with sweat when she got to the garage a few minutes later. An ambulance was pulling up outside.
“TODD!” she shrieked as she entered the workstation.
“Maggie?” a querulous voice said. She could see the huge Caddy, lying on one side, and protruding from under it were two legs, clad in green Dickies work pants, shod with the steel-toed boots that she had seen Todd pull on before leaving that morning.
She walked around the car and there he was, lying in a huge puddle of blood. His face was white as a sheet, except for the twin rivulets of blood coming from the corners of his mouth. She looked at his lower torso, for a moment not understanding how his feet could be so far from his body. Then she realized that the weight of the car had not only crushed but severed both his legs.
“Maggie,” he said again, hardly more than a whisper. “Please come here, sweetie.”
Tears streaming down her face, she went to her husband’s side.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so damn sorry for the way I treated you. I know I was an awful husband. I had no right to smack you around like that. None of my misery was your fault. Please . . . forgive me.”
“I forgive you, babe,” she said, and for a moment his bloody lips twisted up in a smile that reminded her, for one last time, of the boy she had fallen in love with. Then he gave a slow, gurgling sigh, and died.
Five years later, Maggie looked up at the battered sign hanging over the door of her workplace. The paint was peeling away from the wood in places, but the bold blue letters superimposed on a cross were still legible: FIFTH STREET WOMEN’S SHELTER. The smaller slogan beneath was getting harder to read, but she knew it by heart: A PLACE OF HOPE AND HEALING. She adjusted her skirt and climbed the steps to start a new day.
Several women and children were sitting in the common area. One young woman with a scar across her chin was feeding a baby, and another was playing with her daughter, a little girl about four. Two more children were engrossed with Barbie dolls pulled from a battered box full of toys in the corner while their mothers read from PEOPLE magazines. All of them looked up and smiled when Maggie walked in.
“Morning, ladies and littles!” she said with a smile that was heartfelt. “Just remember, you can make it today!”
“What are we gonna make, Mommy?” asked the four-year-old.
“A new life, Becca-boo,” her Mom said. “A new life for both of us.”
Maggie’s smile broadened at that, and didn’t fade until she’d left the lounge behind and went back to the business office. Her boss, Pastor Kevin, was staring at a spreadsheet and looking exhausted.
“Still no donations?” she asked.
“We got $200 in this morning,” he said. “That will buy diapers for a few days. But we’re still a month behind on the building rent, and on our electric bill. No one wants to donate any more. If something doesn’t happen this week, we need to start preparing our ladies for the worst. Maybe we can find places for some of them at the other shelters closer to the city.”
Kevin Wortham was a quiet, strongly built forty-year-old who had run the mission for ten years – at first with his wife, Sonja, and then, after she had been killed by a drunk driver three years ago, with Maggie’s help. Over time, Maggie had become the assistant director in all but name. She admired Kevin, and (if she was completely honest with herself) found him quite attractive. But if he was romantically interested in her, he’d shown her no sign of it.
It turned out Todd did have a small life insurance policy after all, and that had left Maggie with enough to bury him and escape from the trailer park where they had spent most of their unhappy years together. When Brad Cooper, Todd’s dad, died of a heart attack a year after Todd passed, he had left Maggie his house – Todd was an only child and Mrs. Cooper had been gone for several years. Maggie was just financially secure enough to be able to work for the pittance the mission paid her, but she didn’t have any extra – especially not since she had donated most of her savings to bail them out the previous year.
She knew she would land on her feet if the mission closed, but the thought of it grieved her. Pastor Kevin had a true heart for abused and neglected women and children, and he had created a place where they could feel safe. She wondered how he would go on if he was forced to send them all away; he considered them to be his flock as much as the churches he’d pastored had been – although the wolves that stalked these sheep were less metaphorical than the forces of darkness he’d battled from the pulpit. On two occasions he’d had to block the mission door, baseball bat in hand, as abusive ex-boyfriends tried to force their way in to “teach that slut a lesson!” Neither irate abuser had gotten past to him, although one had left minus some teeth. Maggie remembered thinking at that moment that this man was the kind of protector she’d needed during her own marriage.
“Well, it’s time to drive Jill and Susan to the pediatrician’s office,” he told Maggie. “Can you hold the fort down?”
“Sure thing, boss man,” she said with a smile.
“And if there is any trouble -” he started to add.
“I have a .38 in my purse,” she replied, “and 911 on my phone!”
Maggie spent the morning on the phone, dialing various businesses and wealthy individuals, trying to pry donations out of them. The local economy had been weak since the aircraft factory that employed half the town had relocated the year before; many wanted to help Pastor Kevin, but few were able to. She called Dr. Collins, the building’s owner, to request an extension on the mission’s rent, but he was firm.
“I admire the work you and Pastor Kevin are doing there, but I simply can’t eat the loss right now,” he said. “I don’t like doing this, but if you two cannot come up with the rent by next week, I am going to start the eviction process.”
“That is your right, sir, but you will be destroying the only place of safety most of these girls know when you do,” Maggie replied.
Collins heaved a deep sigh, and for a moment Maggie thought he might hang up.
“Times are hard for us all,” he said. “I can give you one more week.”
“We will do our best to come up with it,” she said. “These girls have nothing – nothing but their bruises and their children. We’re doing all we can to help them rebuild their lives. It is a sacred mission, sir.”
“Well, I’m giving you another week to continue it,” Collins replied. “But I have bills to pay, too.”
A week was better than nothing, Maggie thought after she hung up. It was getting close to eleven, and it was time for her to go help with lunch. Sister Juanita, the octogenarian cook, fed the girls well, but she was getting slower every year, and meals got served quicker when Maggie was in the kitchen. She put some cheerful music on the radio and began cutting up carrots and potatoes to add to the pot, while Juanita browned the stew meat. Pastor Jeff and his van load of women and kids arrived just as lunch was ready.
After the soup bowls were filled and big hunks of cornbread cut up and served with the stew, Maggie brough a big bowl out to Kevin. The pastor looked bone weary and as close to despair as she had seen them.
“It’s going to take a miracle to keep this place open,” he said. “All our local donors are drying up. The need is greater than ever, and the means to meet it have never been slimmer. So many people need my help, Maggie, and soon I won’t be able to give it to them anymore!”
“Have faith, Pastor,” she said. “How many times have you told me that?”
He looked up at her and smiled ruefully.
“Today I feel more like you are being my pastor,” he said. “I just want to give up right now. It’ll pass, it always does, but I’m weary, Maggie. I wouldn’t blame you if you bailed on this place and got yourself a decent job, maybe went to meet some nice young man.”
“I don’t want a nice young man,” she said. “The last one I married wasn’t nearly as nice as I thought he was!” You’re the man I want, the thought sprang unbidden into her head, so suddenly she nearly said it out loud.
“You definitely deserved better than Todd Cooper,” he replied. “But not all men are like him.”
“You sure aren’t,” she replied. “You have done a great deal to restore my faith in humanity.”
“Well, then, I guess I can’t give up, can I?” he said. “Even when I feel like it. I’m going to pay a visit to the City Council, see if I can get them to up our monthly appropriation. A fool’s errand, in this age of austerity, but at the very least maybe I can make them feel a little guilty for cutting our measly scrap of the budget. Will you be OK till Cecil comes?”
Cecil Woodhouse was a former bouncer whose daughter Kevin had rescued from an abusive druggie boyfriend several years back. For all his tattoos and fearsome muscles, Cecil adored his girl, and he provided security for the mission every night from the time Kevin and Maggie left at 6 PM until 7 the next morning, when Kevin came to work. No one would bother the pastor’s flock when Cecil was around – that was one thing no one doubted.
“Safe as houses,” Maggie said. “You go pry some money out of those pruney old tightwads!”
Kevin laughed – the average age of the City Council members was well over seventy – and gave her hand an affectionate squeeze as he left. He was truly the best man she had ever known, thought Maggie. But, for now, there was work to be done, applications to be processed, and young, battered women in need of her help. Maggie whistled as she went back to work.
That night, she returned to the modest bungalow Todd’s dad had left her – she often wondered if this house was his posthumous apology for the way his son had treated her – and cooked up her own supper. She’d spent a good part of the afternoon corralling the littles while their moms were filling out job applications and doing online courses, and she’d worked up an appetite. She decided that breakfast would be a good supper, and so she pulled on six slices of bacon and a couple of eggs out of the fridge. As the smell filled the kitchen, she decided that maybe some pancakes would go nicely with the meal and reached for the top shelf where she kept the dry goods.
When she opened the cabinet door, there was another box in front of the pancake mix she’d bought two days ago – a box she’d last seen five years before, when she threw it in the trash after Todd’s funeral. Good old CHEF ABEL’S JUST DESSERTS, returned from the dead – or from the county landfill, as the case might be! She took it down and stared at the picture, and at the slogan, which had seemed cute at the time but just plain creepy now: “SWEETER THAN THE TASTE OF JUSTICE.”
She turned off the stove and sat down, staring at the box in her hand. It was the same box, no doubt – the top was opened and pulled back, and one of the three packages inside was missing. But how had it returned? And why? She cast her mind back to the conversation she’d had with Mr. Cain that day.
“I’d make just one serving,” he’d said, “and save the rest for a special occasion.”
She’d done that, all right – and hours after that one serving, her abusive, miserable husband had died, lingering just long enough to apologize for the hell that he’d put her through. Todd had indeed gotten his “just desserts”!
She pulled the package out and studied the label on the inside again; she couldn’t remember the exact wording. GUARANTEED TO BE THE TREAT EVERY CUSTOMER DESERVES, she read. Well, Todd had gotten what he deserved, no doubt. But what about Pastor Kevin? He was the best, kindest, most decent human being that she knew. What would his just desserts be? Maggie stared at the box for a long time, and then dropped the package of mix in her purse and returned the box to the shelf. That done, she finished cooking her bacon, eggs, and pancakes, and ate a hearty supper.
The next morning, she made a point of arriving at the mission early. Cecil was out front, leaning against the door, thumbing through a well-worn paperback.
“Mack Bolan again?” she asked him.
“You know it,” he said. “They are stupid, trite, formula adventure stories for men who never mentally left eighth grade – so I love them!”
“Let’s see – he blew into town, killed some mobsters, rescued a girl, bedded her, then other mobsters killed her to get even, and Bolan wasted every one of them!” she guessed.
“You guessed it!” he said with a laugh. “You sure are here early. Everything OK?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m going to bake a treat for Pastor Kevin. The poor man could use a pick-me-up.”
“You know he’s in love with you, right?” Cecil said.
“Well, he needs to get off his duff and tell me that,” she replied. “A girl can only wait so long!”
“He thinks he’s a broken-down old man with nothing to offer,” Cecil replies. “He told me once you are way out of his league.”
“He’s the one who’s out of my league,” she replied. “You go get some rest now, big man.”
“I believe I will,” Cecil said with a yawn. “It was a quiet night, but vigilance never sleeps!”
“You’re a walking cliche from a bad action movie,” she said. “But I sure do thank God you are here to protect these ladies.”
“I see my Amanda in every one of those frightened, bruised faces,” he said. “And I hope that each and every one of them has a daddy who is praying as hard for her to come home as I prayed for my girl.”
She watched the big, burly man as he strode off into the cool morning, reflecting for the dozenth time he was a true example of how you should never judge a book by a cover. He looked like a big, aggressive alpha male who might be an abuser himself, but he was a doting father and loyal husband, as well as a faithful churchgoer – quite a turnaround for a guy who used to beat up drunks for a living!
The girls who were resident in the mission were beginning to stir, and Maggie nodded and waved as she headed to the kitchen. She pulled the package out and read the directions one more time, and then pulled a bowl down from the cabinet. As she stirred the egg and water into the mix, she paused for a moment. Did she really want to do this?
“The treat every customer deserves,” she said to herself.
She remembered running down to Mr. Cain’s shop the day after Todd had died; the store was empty, the bare linoleum floors visible through the window bore no resemblance to the glossy hardwood she’d walked on when she conversed with the odd proprietor. Had he ever even really been there?
She’d almost decided that she imagined the whole thing, except the box was still in her kitchen when she got home. Her hands had been shaking as she dumped it in the trash. But . . . here, now, looking at the mix and smelling its sweetness, what she was doing felt right. Why else had the box shown up again, after all these years, if not to be put to good use? Smiling, she placed the bowl in the microwave.
A few moments later, Pastor Kevin came into the kitchen, looking a bit less worn out than the day before. His face lit up when he smelled the aroma coming from the bowl Maggie was pulling out of the microwave.
“What on earth is that?” he asked. “It smells wonderful!”
“A special treat for you, after a hard day yesterday,” she said. “I thought it might lift your spirits.”
“I could use it,” he confessed. “Those old farts on the City Council CUT our budget instead of increasing it!”
“Pruney old tightwads, like I told you,” she said. “Now, sit down and eat up. This is just for you!”
Kevin took the bowl into his office and plunged his fork into the rich brown souffle. He lifted a bite to his mouth and groaned in sheer enjoyment.
“This is AMAZING!” he said. “Where did you get this?”
“It’s from a mix,” she replied. “Never have found it again, though, so enjoy!”
He took another big bite and beamed at her. After he chewed and swallowed, he shook his head.
“It’s indescribable!” he exclaimed. “It’s like, like -”
“Like angels crying on your tongue?” she asked.
“Exactly!” he said. “Where on earth did you come up with that phrase?”
“That’s what it says on the package,” Maggie replied.
Kevin threw back his head and laughed, and as he did, it seemed as if years of worry and stress were erased from his face. Maggie laughed too, unable to resist his infectious joy. It took both of them a couple of minutes to quit giggling, and when they did, Maggie saw Ellen Reynolds, one of the young mothers who lived in the mission, standing at the door of Kevin’s office.
“I’m sorry, Ellen,” Pastor Kevin said. “What do you need?”
‘There’s an old lady in the lobby asking to see you,” she said. “She looks. . . well, she has a Bentley with a chauffeur waiting for her outside. I would see her if I was you!”
“By all means, show her back here,” Kevin said, straightening his collar.
“Should I go?” Maggie asked.
“No, you’re as important to this mission as I am,” he said. “Whatever she has to say, she can say to both of us.”
Moments later, a tall, lean old woman dressed in black came stumping into the office, leaning on a black, lacquered cane with a head that looked to be made of pure gold.
“Pastor Kevin Wortham,” she said. “I spoke to you on the phone once, years ago, but we never formally met. Do you remember a girl by the name of Renee Morgan?”
“Oh, yes!” Kevin said. “She was one of the first girls I helped. She came staggering in here, eight months pregnant, with two black eyes and a broken nose. I had to chase that no-good beast who roughed her up away from the mission with a baseball bat!”
The old woman smiled at that, and Maggie thought that she must have been quite beautiful some fifty years ago.
“I am Regina Morgan,” she said. “Renee was my granddaughter. She ran away from home at sixteen and was gone for three years. Her mother had died young, and my son, God rest his soul, was not a good father. It was you who urged her to call me after you got her cleaned up and the baby safely delivered. You saved my granddaughter’s life and gave her back to me, when I was resigned to growing old alone. She and I remain most deeply grateful for your help, Pastor.”
“That’s what we do here,” Kevin said. “We help those who have no place else to go.”
“Renee and I have been talking,” she said. “My husband has been gone for many years, but he was the founder and president of the Wellford’s Sporting Goods chain. He left me and our family very well provided for. Renee and her son will never lack for anything when I am gone.”
“That’s good to hear,” Kevin said, “but I’m not sure -”
“They will inherit half of the family fortune,” Mrs. Morgan said. “The remainder I am leaving in the form of two bequests. The first of those is to this mission, in the sum of twenty million dollars.”
Kevin leaped up from his chair in shock, then had to grab his desk as the blood drained from his face. Maggie rushed to his side and helped him sit back down as he mouthed that impossible figure over and over again.
“However,” the old woman continued with a small, tight smile on her lips, “That bequest is contingent upon the second one also being accepted.”
“What is the second one?” asked Maggie. Kevin still could not speak.
“That, Pastor Wortham, is for you,” she said. “For you personally, not to be donated to charity, in the sum of three million dollars. You have devoted your life to helping those in need, and you are entitled to live in comfort and dignity. Will you accept this gift?”
“I don’t deserve it,” he said. “I helped Renee because it was the right thing to do. I don’t want to be rich.”
“But if you want the mission to have the other sum, you must take what I am giving you,” Mrs. Morgan said firmly.
“Then I guess I have no choice,” Kevin said. “I have no idea what I will do with so much money.”
“I was sad to hear of your wife’s passing,” Mrs. Morgan said. “But you are still a young man, and now you have the means to provide for a family. Maybe you should start one.”
Kevin shook his head in amazement, and he opened his mouth two or three times before he found the words to speak. When he finally did, his voice was choked with emotion.
“I don’t know what to say,” he said. “We were about to have to close this mission for lack of funds. I have been heartbroken for months, terrified I would have to tell these poor young women and their children that we could no longer take care of them. You – you've given them a new shot at life. You’ve given ME a new shot at life. I have been a pastor for twenty years, ma’am, but for the first time in my life, I have no words.”
Regina Morgan smiled again, and she walked around the desk and gave Pastor Kevin a kiss on the forehead.
“You saved my grandbaby,” she said. “You are a good and worthy man. I have no doubt you will save many more young women with what I am giving you. I will send the money by bank draft this afternoon to the mission, and here is a check for your own bequest. Good day.”
With that she turned and left the building, her cane tapping on the floor as she left.
“What on earth happened?” Kevin said, shock echoing in his voice.
“You got your just desserts,” said Maggie.
They were married one year later, the service performed in the common area of the new, expanded Fifth Street Mission building. Maggie had a dozen maids and matrons of honor, all of them former mission rescues. Kevin was everything that Todd had failed to be – a kind, gentle, loving husband who cherished his much younger wife like a precious gem. Together, they made the mission one of the most successful charitable organizations in the nation, and donations poured in from all over the state, and then all over the country. Soon they were able to purchase a new, three story building to house the mission.
Three years after their marriage, Maggie gave birth to their son, Kevin Junior, a sturdy, unflappable child who quickly grew into a miniature version of his father, complete with a gentle and compassionate heart for anyone who was hurting. A year later, their daughter Elizabeth was born. The family moved into an apartment built into the top floor of the mission and Kevin kept right on rescuing battered and abused women and children from the streets. Some did not want his help and went back to the sinkholes of abuse that had ensnared them, but most he restored to health and wholeness, and many he reunited with their families. Maggie was proud to be married to a man who she regarded as a real-life superhero.
Ten years after their wedding, she began to lose weight for no apparent reason. She welcomed it at first – her figure had suffered from bearing two kids – but then the blinding headaches started. She tried to keep those a secret from her family, but one day when she passed out in the kitchen while Kevin was taking the kids on a school field trip, she woke up to find one eye swollen and bloodshot – and completely blind.
A trip to the doctor turned into an appointment with an oncologist, and the news was not good. She had an aggressive brain tumor, and its tendrils had spread deep into her right frontal lobe.
“We can do chemo and radiation,” the doctor said, “but it has already spread very far. I am not sure it will respond.”
“And if it doesn’t?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“You probably will not last the year,” he said. “I know that is blunt, but you deserve to know the truth. This type of cancer is nearly always terminal.”
“Thank you for your honesty,” Maggie said. “I need to go home and think about this.”
She caught a cab back to the mission, and then took the back elevator to the apartment. There were enough employees now that the mission ran just fine without her direct involvement – still, she was generally down there every day. Not this day, though.
She found herself craving a cup of coffee, but when she opened the cabinet, she saw the red box and gold letters, held up by the smiling chef who looked like a plumper version of Mr. Cain. She hadn’t thrown the box away after what she and Kevin called “the magic day” ten years before, but she hadn’t seen it in several years, either. She took it down and saw that one package still remained. The enormity of her situation caught up with her, and she began to cry.
“I don’t deserve this,” she said.
She took down a bowl, cracked an egg into it, poured in half a cup of water, and then tore open the envelope and dumped the mix into it. She stirred it rhythmically for a long time, then popped it in the microwave for two minutes. She watched the souffle rise in the bowl, and the sweet aroma filled the kitchen as she carried it to the table.
“Thank you, God, for a good life,” she said through her tears.
And took a bite of her just desserts.
