STEPHEN BUSH

Stephen J. Bush was born in Bath, England, and lives in Xi’an, China, where he works as a biologist. His fiction can be found, or is forthcoming, in Bending Genres, Complete Sentence, Five on the Fifth, Lost Balloon, and Oyster River Pages, among others. 

COMFORT FOOD

After the sad smilers and over-stayers, the tupperwares of cassoulet and hands upon the shoulder; after all that, after the “if there’s anything I can do”, in all its variants, it’d be quiet. Life was meant to go on, subdued and routine. We’d microwave our aunt’s lasagne and watch TV.

Instead, after that first week, she kept returning, pacing the porch while she waited. Each time we answered the door she’d say she was just passing and wouldn’t keep us, and you know how she loved to cook, and at a time like this, well, she thought we might like it as “I’m worried for you, boys, you’re so gaunt”–and before even gratefulness or evasion, she’d with magician’s fingers have slid onto our palms moussaka or haddock or porcini ragù. One of us would take it to the kitchen, to pry the lid open below the fan. We’d alternate, move the garnish to the bin, root for spice.

After a month, though, she emerged at our door, nervous, knuckles as white as clenched lips. We cracked the door, our heads together. She recoiled inadvertently from the smell of unwashed hair.

“Boys, boys,” she began, rubbing her hands like she’d seasoned them. “I’m worried about the ghosts, boys,” she said, and for a second for us to collect ourselves left unreferenced our inactivity. We knew she’d later make it plain: “you’re confusing them.” She couldn’t bring herself to sound accusatory, to tell us we’d been cloistered with the lights off for too long. But we knew what she thought should happen: that the ghosts of the dead must go away from the living, and they’d do that when they recognised the difference. Otherwise, they’d linger near, unsure.

We couldn’t invite her in, but knew her prescriptions. She meant well. When we were kids, distracted from dinners, she’d lean spookily across the table and warn us ignored food gathered mould and that moulds–did we know?–were just like ghosts. That we wouldn’t always see them at first but they’d eventually affect you. Could make you sick. We’d push the plates away, like it was a game. We’d risk it.

“You’re confusing them,” she said again, not fooled, not cruel, looking down. From the angle of the hall she couldn’t see into the lounge. She couldn’t know there were dimples on the sofa we hadn’t sat on, that dust around the house had taken shape. Ghosts would accrete here slowly, thickening in the dark as we watched TV.

The porch felt oppressive, but we couldn’t invite her in. In the sink–too rich, too risky– we’d left cassoulet. We sought each other’s eyes to decide. She’d been so kind, and of course we’d thanked her for all that she’d offered. Don’t bring more, we’d insist, as quickly as we could, if we could, though we knew the unwelcoming were rude. Instead, “we know”, we admitted. We know. We were raised with that folk tale too.

BACK TO ISSUE 13