An Immovable Beast
By Carol Celeste, Long Beach Branch
Carol Celeste wrote this deft riff as an entry in the 19th International Imitation Hemingway Competition.
Then there was the rat. It was a fine rat and a clever rat having eluded the traps long after its clan had life snapped away. Impressing Maggie with my kitchen skills would be hard enough without the threat of Mr. Gnash sharpening his teeth as I moved for dessert. I rinsed the pasta after scooping it from the sink where it had landed when I dropped the hot metal colander that I picked up with bare hands, and I mashed the chunks of too-ripe tomato into a sauce when I discovered their condition and added a strong shake of cayenne to hide the musty taste. But I could not hide rat noises. For three months Miss Kitts and I had tried to move that rat. I wanted Maggie to like me as much the rat did. I wanted her to stay for dessert.
The bell rang. I sprayed pine scent to cover any betraying bodily odors. I kissed her hard. She parted her lips and I felt my world move. I swallowed my swelling Bazooka.
“What’s that?” she asked, breaking away.
“I didn’t hear anything,” I lied.
“You must have to know that I meant a noise.”
“You’re right. It was probably the neighbors.” The second lie always comes easier.
She followed me to the kitchen. I saw a gray blotch with a darker gray cord extending behind it in the center of the floor. I spun Maggie and nudged her to the living room. “It’s bad luck to watch a chef work,” I explained. She turned away, unimpressed.
Mr. Gnash ran when I swung open the kitchen door. I slammed it and jumped across the room and stomped. My shoe landed so that the gap between the heel and sole formed a tunnel over the tail. The gray streak vanished under the stove.
“I hear it again,” she called moments later. “It sounds like rats.”
“Only one,” I mumbled. I filled the glasses from the wineskin and served the plates in the kitchen and carried it all to the table. She sat and looked at the meal and smiled politely but did not reach for her fork. Mr. Gnash scurried overhead. When Maggie glanced to the ceiling then stared wide-eyed at the capers, the size of peas and dark not olive green, I knew I would not get the dessert I hoped for.
“Let’s go to Harry’s,” I said. She looked at me in her questioning way.
“Harry’s Bar & American Grill,” I explained.
“Do you have tickets?” She sounded pleased.
“For Harry’s?”
“For Venice.”
I meant Century City, down the block, but what the hell. I went to my office and checked my credit card balance and frequent flyer miles. We could make it to Harry’s in Paris. I could not move Mr. Gnash but there was still hope for Maggie.
Carol Celeste coaches life-writing
at writingtoheal.com.