Fuck Him Very Much
WINONA
“Wait, nine courses? How is that possible?”
Calvin laughed through my phone, which I’d affixed to Flo’s dash as I drove home from picking up groceries. It was a Saturday, a full week since I’d fled Mitchell Harrington’s house. A normal activity, even though my life still felt completely upside down.
“It’s totally normal at a place like this, Win. They’re like, little mini-courses. But you’ll still end up stuffed.”
Calvin had just finished his phone call with the restaurant manager in New York. His dream job. Though he still had another two years of culinary school to finish, they wanted to take him on as an apprentice, part-time until he graduated.
It was the best news I’d heard all week. I was so, so proud of him.
I pulled onto my street. “Tell me again about the peach thing.”
“Oh yeah. It was killer.”
Calvin described again in detail the dessert featuring my favorite fruit. I could almost taste it. Until I took in the white van in my driveway and everything turned sour.
Panic coursed through my veins.
Adam’s found me.
But there was no way he could be here. Even if he'd somehow been paroled, my stepfather was still a federal offender, barred from leaving Canada.
As I got closer, I made out the sign on the side and let out a long breath, my body flush with relief. JB’s Handiwork.
“Calvin, I’m going to have to call you back,” I told my brother. I promised to call him tomorrow.
Johan “John” Bakker was seventy-five and had been my mentor when I used to work at Miller’s. We left the company at the same time, he to retire, me to start my own outfit. He’d fully failed at retirement, setting up a handyman business with a few of his buddies that did a little bit of everything around town.
“John!” I exclaimed as I hopped out of Flo. John, who’d been snoozing in the front seat with the window open, startled to life with a little snort.
He grinned when he saw me. “Hello,” he said as I came up to the side of the van, leaning in for a hug. “How's it doing on?”
I laughed long and hard at John’s purposeful fumbling of “How’s ya gettin’ on?” Another of my regular Newfoundland expressions I used to use with him every morning back at Miller’s. I’d missed John. He was a father figure to me when I needed one the most.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I asked him now.
“You wouldn’t believe it if I called,” John said, his Dutch accent still thick despite him having lived in the US for longer than I’d been alive. “So I thought I’d come tell you in person. Plus, I was hoping you might have a few of those cakes in the freezer. You know the ones.”
I laughed again, letting him know I did actually, and that Iwas just talking to their maker on the phone before I’d seen him.
Fifteen minutes later, we were in my kitchen with a pot of coffee brewing, a plate of defrosted chocolate cakes on the table between us.
“So, is everything okay?” I asked once he’d finished two whole pieces of cake and a story about his grandkids. He looked healthy. His son and his family sounded like they were doing great. But I still fought the bundle of nerves tight in my chest at seeing him at my house. I still wasn’t sure whether this was a good visit or a bad one.
“Yes, yes, things are fine. Better than fine, truth be told,” John said, resting a hand on his belly as he sat back in his chair. “Now don’t be alarmed, Winona, but I’m here to do some work for you. The whole crew will be too, once we sort out exactly what it is we’re doing.”
I laughed, confused. “John. I didn’t call you for anything.” I was sure this was a joke. An excuse for a social visit. But something weird tickled up my spine at his expression, which was happy, but almost…bewildered, too.
“I know you didn’t, sweetheart. But you’ve got a benefactor.”
Just like that, I froze, the happiness I felt cracking like tempered glass. “Is that right?” My voice was taut.
“Yes. See, I got a call…”
John explained how he’d gotten a call from a woman just yesterday offering to pay for services at my house. When I asked what kind of services, he said ‘all of them’. John’s crew had retired painters, carpenters, landscapers, roofers… and anything they didn’t do—or for bigger jobs—they helped contract out. This ‘benefactor’ apparently had prepaid for quite literally everything my place could possibly need. All those little jobs I’d put off for years, either because oftime or lack of funds or… a stubborn belief that I didn’t deserve anything more than the basics.
