One Glass

The smells of the fresh baked dinner drifted through the apartment, making the space almost cozy under the sweet aroma. On the stove, a cooked chicken, half carved, and a tin of carrots coins sat side by side. Dim lights lit up friendly faces at the kitchen island and laughter filled the air. 

“He did not say that!” A woman exclaimed, leaning toward the older woman across from her. Her stool tipped forward under her. Her blonde hair was escaping its bun, but she was too entranced by the story to notice, or maybe it was the wine. On the counter in front of her, her chicken lay half-eaten on its plate and her wine glass had only a drop of red left.

“Mary, I swear to God he did.” The other woman replied, waving her carrot laden fork at the third member of their party. Her wild blue eyes prodded the woman as she added, “Jules, you tell her!” 

Julia shook her head, but she was smiling when she stood. “He’s your husband. Hey, either of you want more wine?” 

“Aggie might need to lay off the wine with stories like that,” Mary joked as she passed her glass, but as it reached Julia, it slipped through Julia’s fingers. 

It shattered on the floor- 

-and suddenly all Julia could remember was the way Mr. Jenkins had reacted when she dropped those plates all those years ago. 

When she was twelve, her life had changed forever. Now that she was approaching forty, she could confidently say that hadn't been for the better.

She remembered the way the cops had stared pityingly at her when they sat down across from her in the living room. There had been two of them, one who couldn’t take his eyes off her and one who couldn’t even look at her. The latter one was the one who told her: her parents were dead and she was being put into foster care. She didn't remember the exact words or the tone, just the message, and how it was as though someone had dropped the floor out from under her. The realization that she was an orphan hit her like a truck, but that couldn't compare to the fact that she knew she was alone now. She had no other family, and that was how she met Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins. 

Mr. Paul L. Jenkins was a short, potbellied man with a stone-cold gaze.  

Mrs. Grace May Jenkins was a tall, skinny woman with a pinched, unfriendly smile. 

When they were together, they yelled and screamed.

In other words, they couldn’t have been in love, and yet they claimed they were. The cops believed them.

From the second the cops left, she had been put to work, but it helped distract her from her grief, or at least that’s what she told herself. Every shortcut one could take to do a chore, she knew and used, no matter how unsafe. If she did something wrong, she faced the consequences, but that was just part of learning. The bruises she sported surely meant she would learn from her mistakes.

Damage from these chores was impossible to think of until years later, but even now she caught herself thinking of it in rosy light.

Agatha and Mary still brought up the time they had found her repainting a desk, inside with the windows closed, and the time she'd been cleaning the kitchen without gloves on. Agatha said it was a miracle she didn't have some kind of cancer from all those chemicals.

When the Jenkins had adopted her after a year, she thought she was the luckiest child around, or perhaps those were Mrs. Jenkins' words.

“Some children never get adopted, you should be thankful for what you have,” Mrs. Jenkins would snap at her when she did something wrong, "Don't be so ungrateful."

Years later, her therapist would inform her that her stay with them had been responsible for the majority of her mental health issues, from insomnia to depression. 

She was assigned a plethora of memorable tasks over the years, but one of the most memorable was was to bring Mr. Jenkins’ meals from the kitchen to him and his friends in the living room. 

Mrs. Jenkins slopped the TV dinners out of their sad, brown containers and onto plates, shoving four meals at her and barking instructions to bring them to the rowdy men. She never liked the way they looked at her, but it was worse to refuse.

Julia balanced the plates precariously on her arms. The heat from the meals nipped at her, but she ignored it as they wobbled. She stepped into the living room with careful steps, placing one foot in front of the other, over and over, as she crossed the room, stepping onto the threadbare rug. Her eyes caught on a fresh stain beside the couch. She knew she would have to clean it later. Did they have any stain remover left?

She noticed the beer can in front of her all too late. 

She only remembered glimpses of what happened; tripping, the plates falling and shattering, Mr. Jenkins dragging her by her collar into the bathroom, fists and-

“Jules?” 

Julia looked up to find Agatha's hand in hers and both women staring at her expectantly. Concern painted both of their faces as they waited for a response.

“Sorry, I just-”

Agatha squeezed her hand, cutting her off with, “Hey, no need to apologize. It's just a glass and they aren't here.” 

“If they were, we'd kick their bums though, right Aggie?” Mary interrupted, taking the surviving glass from Julia. Julia couldn't help but smile as Agatha replied, “Oh yeah. They'd run back to their little house crying. Let's clean this glass up."

As the sounds of laughter and the comforts of their friendship refilled the room, Julia let go of a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. She was okay.

Here, it was just her, her friends, and some really good wine, and it was safe.