Ready to be Served

The sound of boiling water hitting the flames jolted me into action as I whipped my head around and lunged for the dial to lower the temperature. Where was the box of pasta? I found the dark blue spaghetti box on the marble counter. I grabbed salt, threw it into the boiling water, and dumped the pasta in, trying not to splash. Then I refocused on cutting basil.

I moved through the kitchen on instinct, every motion practiced and quiet. The knives were already laid out in order of use, their handles aligned just so. Natalia liked things precise. Measured. She once corrected the angle I set the spoons in the drawer, laughing as if it were a joke, her hand lingering there a moment too long.

I wiped my palms on my apron and rechecked the sauce, stirring slowly, careful not to splash. The simmer had to stay low—too much heat ruined everything. I tasted it, adjusted the salt, then tasted again. I could do this part blindfolded. Cooking was the only place I didn’t hesitate.

The house itself seemed to hold its breath as I worked. No music. No hum of life beyond the steady boil of water and the rhythmic tap of my knife against the board. I kept my eyes down, my movements efficient, as though the kitchen were a stage and I knew my role by heart.

The scent of stewed tomatoes and rich Chianti filled the air, mingling with the freshly cut basil. I had about fifteen minutes before Natalia and Joffrey would be home, so I had to get done fast. I hurriedly grabbed two dinner plates from the pantry and set them into the oven set on warm. Hot food, hot plates rang like a tune in my head as I recalled my days working in high-end restaurants in the city. This was nothing like those days. As a private chef, this kind of cooking was much easier. Most days anyway.

After I placed the spaghetti-filled plates back into the oven, I quickly finished the rest of the cleanup and wrapped my knives in my knife roll. I took a quick scan of the kitchen, making sure everything looked better than I had found it, then headed out. I always hesitated to glance up at the huge crystal chandelier that hung in the foyer. When I looked back down from the chandelier, I looked to the right because something caught my eye. It was a dark blue, satin shoe. It was peeking out of the door of Natalia’s office. It looked like one of her stilettos; she clicked around in the few times I had seen her. I turned towards the door and approached it. I bent down to examine the shoe, and just as I was about to pick it up, I heard the turn of a key in the front door.

I quickly stood up and turned towards the door. Suddenly, I felt as though I stumbled upon something I shouldn’t have. As though wherever that shoe came from was not something someone wanted me or anyone else to see. I regained my composure and forced a slight smile as it must be Natalia and Joffrey returning from work. I always tried to finish their dinner before they got home so I wouldn’t have to endure small talk with them, but today was not one of those days, I suppose.

The door opened wide and let in a gust of icy, damp air. I shivered from the starkness of the air and noticed that it was Joffrey who had come home first. Clad in a tan suit and a grey tie, he strode through the doorway and nodded in my direction. I offered a brief hello and walked past him. He glanced past me, and I turned just in time to see his head lower to the shoe on the ground. He dropped his briefcase on the floor and knelt to pick it up. The shoe looked like a child’s when placed in his large hands. He turned it over in his hands and then abruptly turned to face me.

I stared at him wide-eyed, frozen and speechless. My mind raced, unsure of what to do or say, so I turned to leave. Joffrey’s cold stare burned into my back as I hesitated, feeling chills and my hair standing on end, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

My shaky hand reached for the brass doorknob. Just as I began to turn the knob, I heard a dull thump. I flinched at the sound of the shoe falling from Joffrey’s hands. I heard heavy footsteps begin to fall away from me until they disappeared. Now panic-stricken, I rushed to turn the knob, but it wasn’t turning. My hands were starting to get clammy as it began to dawn on me.

The door was locked. As I fumbled with the lock, I felt fear mounting in my chest, and my breathing grew erratic. I felt a hand clutch my shoulder tightly. I gritted my teeth and reluctantly turned to face Joffrey. Except it wasn’t Joffrey who was clutching my shoulder.

It was Natalia.

My eyes were startled by her appearance. She had a frightened gleam in her eyes with mascara tears dripping from them. She was wearing tights ripped up to her thighs, her navy-blue dress tattered and muddy, and she stood lopsided, missing something.

Her shoe.

Footsteps echoed in the kitchen, growing louder. Natalia looked at me, then hastily retreated into a closet beside her office. I raced to the front door just as the footsteps picked up speed. I slammed open the door and almost fell on the small flight of steps. I felt the slight grasp of fingertips, and I spun around, ready to defend myself.

Joffrey looked back at me with fear in his eyes as Natalia pulled him back into the house. His piercing cries for help went unanswered as her pale, scrawny arms dragged him through the hall. When they were no longer in sight, the front door slammed shut with such force that it rattled the windows all the way up to the third floor. Tears left my eyes as I realized two things.

Natalia was dead, and she had saved me.

Joffrey looked back at me with fear in his eyes as Natalia’s pale hands closed around his arm. Her grip was impossibly firm. He tried to wrench himself free, his shoes scraping against the floor, his cries sharp and panicked as she dragged him backward into the house.

I didn’t wait to see more.

I stumbled down the steps and ran, my breath tearing out of my chest as the front door slammed shut behind me. The sound carried through the quiet street, rattling the windows all the way up to the third floor.

I didn’t stop running until my lungs burned.

Later—much later—I thought about the plates warming in the oven. The pasta was perfectly cooked. The basil is cut clean and bright. Dinner was ready to be served.

The house would stay quiet while the food would go cold.