Hungry Hearts Page 13

  Downstairs in the Happy Horse, he filled the mop bucket and was about to lock the door when one last customer came in.

  “You got any tea eggs, kiddo?” said Mr. Ingersoll.

  Charlie went over to greet his old friend, wishing he could hug him. “Thank you for what you did today.”

  “You did the hard work. Well, you and that new friend of yours. What’s her name?”

  “Andie.”

  “There’s something special about that girl.” Mr. Ingersoll winked, and Charlie fidgeted. Andie was special. And brave. And all-around cool.

  “How’s Lou? Did she have a good time today?” Charlie blurted, changing the topic to Mr. Ingersoll’s daughter before he started blushing. Louisa and her boyfriend had stopped by the festival earlier, thankfully after the Slender One’s visit.

  “She’s wonderful, actually. Her boyfriend proposed.”

  “Whoa, really?”

  “David was waiting until Christmas to pop the question, but I think Hungry Heart Row made an impression. Lila gave him a special pastry.” He got a glint in his eye. “And Shirley pulled him aside and told him to get on with it already.”

  “That sounds like my grandma,” Charlie said, chuckling. “Lou must be happy.”

  “She’s over the moon. I only wish that I could walk her down the aisle.”

  “You can still do that, even if they can’t see you.”

  Mr. Ingersoll shoved his hands into his pockets. “I don’t think I’ll make it. It’s time for me to go.”

  Charlie gripped the mop handle. “Go where?”

  Mr. Ingersoll looked around the Happy Horse, inhaling its soy sauce scent. “I need to move on.”

  “But—” Charlie stopped himself and took a breath. He wasn’t ready for this good-bye, not by a long shot, but if anyone deserved to rest, it was his old friend. “I understand, Mr. Ingersoll.”

  “I’ll be back for the festival next year. Haven’t missed one yet.” He placed a ghostly hand on Charlie’s shoulder as Charlie blinked back tears. “Go get a tissue.”

  That made Charlie laugh.

  Mr. Ingersoll gave a little salute before he began to fade. “See you next year, kiddo.”

  Charlie lifted a hand. “See you, Mr. Ingersoll.”

  The shop went quiet. A lump formed in his throat, and it wouldn’t go away no matter how hard he tried to swallow it. So he stood there in the store, alone, mop in hand, thinking about how lonely his mornings would be without Mr. Ingersoll bugging him about coffee and eggs.

  A ping from his phone made him jump. He went to turn it off—he didn’t feel like texting anyone—but the message was from Andie.

  Boo! I’m texting you from the great beyond.

  Charlie’s heart did a little flip-flop. He wasn’t sure how to reply when another text popped up.

  Random question—do you know a good dessert place in Hungry Heart Row? My friend Fiona and I are a few blocks away. Want to come with?

  His thumbs hovered over the screen. He needed to mop the floors, but then out of nowhere he heard Mr. Ingersoll’s voice over his shoulder.

  “Take her to Butter. Order the sweet potato pie. Trust me.”

  Charlie whipped around. There was nobody there, only the fading smell of a campfire. He smiled to himself and looked down at his phone.

  I know a place. He sent Andie the address. Meet you in 10?

  His stomach fluttered when she texted back:

  Sounds good! My treat, Ghost Whisperer.

  Charlie called upstairs to his parents that he was heading out for an hour. Then he stepped into the night, ready for the ghosts that he might encounter on his path and excited to see the girl waiting for him down the block.

  Gimme Some Sugar

  BY JAY COLES

  “Leo!” I hear Momma scream for me upstairs.

  I rush up and into her room, hoping right now isn’t the moment, that moment, the moment she’s spent the last few months warning me about. My mother is dying and just three months ago was given the ultimatum of paying a shit ton of money for surgery or having a handful of days to live. Momma doesn’t make a whole lot, so we survive mostly on whatever checks she gets for disability, and I’ve not been able to find a job either. So, I take comfort and find solace in cooking.

  “Hey, Sugar,” Momma says, her head wrapped up in gauze, legs elevated like she’s been in some really bad accident. Doctors say she has a brain tumor and has to keep her legs elevated. Sugar is her nickname for me. It’s better than Stretch, which some people call me at school because I’m six feet tall. “Help Nurse Nicki real quick.” Nurse Nicki is Momma’s nurse who lives with us. And right now Nurse Nicki wants me to hold Momma’s feet in place while she adjusts the sheets underneath her body. I’ve had worse jobs, so I don’t even hesitate with assisting.

  After helping, I head downstairs to the kitchen, take out all the ingredients I need to make this Cap’n Crunch French toast recipe I found on the Internet last night. I cook when I’m anxious. I see the flyer on the counter next to the stove and microwave—the one that I found on the subway last night. An ad I couldn’t believe, it was almost like an omen or something, about a food competition in Rowbury with a five-thousand-dollar prize. It occurs every three years and is happening in five days. It’s a televised event for the whole world to see, too, which has me a little nervous, but I can’t let that distract me. This year, the flyer says it’s being held at the community center.

  I have a two-, three-, four-, maybe even five-second crisis with myself. I want to go so damn bad. I want to challenge myself. I want to visit Rowbury again, where my grandma lives and owns a soul food restaurant. I miss it there. The last time I was there was two summers ago, and I tried Korean food for the first time. Grandma’s probably the most respected person in our family and rightfully so. Grandma’s hard working and has been through so much and is still standing strong. I want to see her and taste her fried chicken again. But none of my wants are as big as my one need. I need that money. It could pay for Momma’s surgery and could save her life. And besides all that, I’d get to do something that I really like doing: cook. Even if I don’t win that moment, which would be absolutely devastating, and I wouldn’t even know what to do or how to feel, I think it could be good for me. I’ve been so caged up here in Muncie, Indiana, and haven’t really done anything as thrilling as this competition sounds.

  But.

  I don’t know.

  I try to distract myself, cranking up the music I’m playing. “No Regrets” by Lecrae is blasting through my cheap, bulky headphones. I crack open two eggs and beat them in a bowl with some rice milk, pouring a few tablespoons of cinnamon and sugar, then some brown sugar and nutmeg.

  After putting some Cap’n Crunch cereal into a small sandwich bag, I take a frying pan and beat the bag until the pieces are all smashed and powdery, like a great dry rub.

  I pick up a piece of bread and dip it in my French toast mix. Then I dip it in the crushed Cap’n Crunch and cook it in the frying pan until it’s a nice, golden brown and ready to flip on the other side. While my French toast is cooking, I make a small fruit salad with some leftover strawberries and blueberries and some seriously ripe bananas that have been sitting on top of the fridge for over a week now.

  I don’t know what it is, maybe the smell of the sweet maple syrup heating up in the microwave or what, but I’m suddenly remembering back to when Momma was well and Dad wasn’t drinking so much, back to when things felt right and normal, and I felt whole and didn’t have to deal with anxiety or panic attacks or pills, back to when I could go to Knight High School and feel like my friends and live a normal life. Momma used to make me French toast and fruit salad. Now I’m doing it for her.

  The flyer.

  I’m gazing at it, thinking about all the possibilities. I’ve always wanted to do something with food. I’ve always wanted to show off the skills that have been passed down to me from my ancestors.

  This could be it. Right? But what if everythi
ng fails, and I actually, like, burn the whole place down from a grease fire? Or what if I put something in my food, and someone has an allergic reaction and, like, dies? What if I disappoint Grandma or, hell, myself by losing with one of her recipes—one of her recipes that I know is worthy of every damn award in the world? What if I get there and I . . . lock up on camera, if it’s televised? I can see it now—me, frozen in place and dead faced, like a deer in headlights. Oh, God. What if I faint?

  Ugh.

  A billion other what-ifs float around in my head, banging up on one another, causing nothing but chaos upon chaos, like that time I thought it would be a good idea to try out for my school’s play of Peter and the Starcatcher and fainted before saying my first line.

  I gasp and hold in a breath until I can clear my thoughts. I crank up my music a bit more. Music is such a powerful thing, and a few months ago I realized how music was like water in the way it drowns out things you don’t want to deal with or things that are hard. For me, listening to music helps me mellow out and eases the anxiety.

  After I finish cooking the French toast, I slap on some butter and drizzle the warm syrup on top of it. I scoop out some of the fruit salad onto a plate and take it upstairs to Momma. I have to feed it to her since she’s lost some of the movement in her hands.

  I show her the flyer. I place it on the metal tray that’s connected to her medical bed in her bedroom. She can control it with the push of a button and brings it closer so she can read the flyer.

  “Hungry Heart Row Food Competition, huh?” She pauses and looks up at me, then goes back to reading. “Wow. That’s a lot of money at stake.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I need to do this, Mom.” The way the words fall out of my mouth almost sounds like a desperate plea more than just asking for permission, and it’s like she picks up on that.

  She starts crying. And when she cries, no matter why, I do as well. I’m a watery mess, and it’s way too early for this. It’s in this moment, though, that I notice her skin. Up close, I can see that it’s not the familiar brown that I remember. Up close, I can see that she’s becoming more of a sick gray, turning into something that will one day no longer be Momma, but just a shadow of her that’s slowly drifting away from me.

  “I’m so proud of you,” she says so sweet and slow, sweet and slow like the maple syrup running down the side of her hand. Her eyes tell me she thinks I should do it.

  She pulls me into a hug. I squeeze, but not too tight. I wish the two of us could stay like this forever and ever. “I love you,” I say, the words coming out with a breath. I can’t imagine a universe where she doesn’t exist or even one where she did exist and then stopped existing.

  “I love you more, Sugar.” I can smell the maple syrup on her.

  A pause. I can almost feel the world spinning.

  “I want you to go,” she whispers through tears sneaking into her mouth. “I want you to go and do your thing, and I’ll be here cheering for you.” She’s the most supportive person in the world.

  “I’m going to win the money for you, Momma,” I say, a lump in my throat. I blink the tears away, which takes more than one attempt.

  “No, no, no, no,” she goes. I imagine her shaking her head like she used to be able to. “It’s not about the money. You’re gonna go and have fun, and you’re gonna feel alive. That’s all I want, Sugar.”

  I move, and her automatic-sensor lights cut on. I was hoping she couldn’t see my face, but I’m sure she does. She doesn’t say anything, though, and I guess in some way, we’re both enjoying the place we’re resting in, a place between deep sadness and bittersweet hope.

  * * *

  I go online and register for the competition, feeling beads of sweat fall into my eyes. My heart beats hard inside my chest, but I’m ready for this.

  After a while, I begin to pack, taking little breaks to cry or slow down and shut my eyes when I need to, throwing everything into a suitcase, not even caring what’s in there. I’m filled with too much excitement and also anxiety right now—so much excitement and anxiety I might even have a panic attack. I end up calling Grandma to let her know I’m coming and that I’m doing the Hungry Heart Row Food Competition, and before we hang up, she screams with enthusiasm for about two minutes straight.

  * * *

  The next day, I’m so insanely happy, I wake up with butterflies fluttering in my stomach. I’ve never felt like this before.

  I get showered and change into a pair of jeans and the Black Panther T-shirt I preordered when the movie came out, grab my headphones and my suitcase. I wave good-bye to Nurse Nicki and give Momma a good-bye kiss, a light peck on the forehead that lasts longer than usual, and then I’m out the door, headed to the train station for Rowbury, something heavy and churning in my stomach. I’ve not left her alone like this in years. And I’ll potentially be gone for a whole week.

  The entire nine-hour train ride I bought with money I saved up, I flip through my phone for all the things I could make for the competition. I scroll through so many websites and so many recipes, but none feel right, none feel good enough, none feel like winners, none fill me with that fluttering feeling in my stomach that tells me when a recipe is . . . special. And that’s just what I fucking need, man. The thought that it’s happening so soon, this week, and not later on in the month has my chest constricting and my jaws on fire again.

  I inhale, taking the deepest breath, hands shaking. It’s yet another strategy I read about online in some anxiety forum to help train your body to fight back against the symptoms of a panic attack. Sometimes it works. But most of the time it doesn’t. I pop in one of my pills and try to nap on the train, listening to the new collab album by Beyoncé and Jay-Z.

  * * *

  I arrive in Rowbury and take yet another bus to the heart of Hungry Heart Row. I almost forgot how amazing this place really is. It’s certainly a lot different from the ghetto where I live, mostly because the only shops we have are run by either white folks or black folks, but here—here there are so many other cultures and cuisines and histories, and I love it.

  A breeze blows, and I grasp my elbows. I forgot the weather was like this this time of year. One time I was here in Rowbury for grandpa’s funeral, and it was humid as hell for autumn. The weather gods have blessed me this time around. I’m walking down the sidewalk, and it hits me that I don’t really even remember the way to grandma’s restaurant, since she moved to a new location this year. It’s called Butter.

  There’s a white boy with red hair and a thin, red mustache holding a sign that says TOUR GUIDE. He’s passing out brochures about Hungry Heart Row and maps of all the wonderful places to eat. I notice he’s got a Hungry Heart Row Food Competition flyer pasted on his sign.

  He locks eyes with me, and I immediately look away. Shit. Eye contact with strangers has to go in the top five weirdest things about life. He’s walking over to me.

  Shit. I have to look at him now. And I can’t slip my headphones on like I don’t hear him. I mean, I could, but that would be hella rude right now that he’s standing so close.

  He smiles. “Hi. Welcome to Hungry Heart Row. Brochure or map?”

  “Map, please,” I say.

  * * *

  After stopping at some really awesome halal food cart by the park on my way to Grandma’s restaurant and getting probably the most delicious chicken gyro I’ve ever had, I stop by a few restaurants just to smell around. The smells are my favorite and make me feel more at home sometimes than in Indiana. I linger inside a few places to maybe even get some inspiration for what to make for the competition, including a dim-sum place and some delicious pastry shop, too. Along the way I take in everything—the food carts, the restaurants, the architecture, the smells again, the people, hell, even the trees that are a plethora of colors—everything is so beautiful, and I didn’t know how much I missed it here. The girl in the pastry shop is wearing a name badge with the name Lila and a shirt that says HUNGRY GHOST FESTIVAL and the dates; it’s happenin
g in a couple of weeks. She seems like she really likes it around these parts. I buy a blue concha before heading out.

  Once I find my way to Grandma’s restaurant, after what feels like a zillion wrong turns and dead ends, I walk in and smell all the bomb soul food—her famous fried chicken with all the creole seasonings, thyme, rosemary, and tarragon. I even get a whiff of her famous sweet potato pie, and I’m practically drooling.

  Grandma is cleaning off a table with a wet rag when I creep up behind her to surprise her.

  I hug and squeeze her from her back. She smells like fresh rolls and cinnamon butter.

  She gasps at first, spooked out, and then whips around fast. “Grandson!” she shouts—so loud half of the restaurant probably stops eating and ordering. “Gimme some sugar!”

  She kisses me on the cheek. It’s a wet, gross-feeling kiss, but really shows me just how much she’s missed me. Up close, I can see all the stress wrinkles and gray-white hairs that have appeared since the last time I saw her.

  We hug a second time. “Good to see you, grandson. Saturday, you gon’ blow Hungry Heart Row outta the park. You just better ’member everything yo’ granmammy taught you.” She knows about the competition and she knows about Momma and she knows why I’m here, and she thinks I’m using one of her recipes. I’ve not even decided on what I want to make yet, which is probably terrible to admit. “Hey, you just ’member it’s all in the butter. I keep trynna tell your cousins that, and they don’t listen for the life of ’em.”

  Butter is probably Grandma’s favorite ingredient, and she puts it in nearly everything. I believe she’d put it in her raisin bran in the mornings if she could.

  One year, she made deep-fried sticks of butter and dipped them in chocolate sauce and melted peanut butter. I’m not gonna lie. It was pretty flame, but I’m sure at least one of my arteries clogged up.

  Grandma takes me into the kitchen of the restaurant and introduces me to all the workers. For many years, it’s just been a family-run restaurant; my cousins were the bussers and waitresses, aunts and uncles did the cooking, and grandma just did the managing and taste-testing. I’d apprentice with her some summers I spent here, which were mostly when I was a little kid. That was long before grandpa died. Ever since he died, grandma had to hire other people—people outside the family, but still people she could trust, people who could handle a stick of butter, I’m sure.