Binge
Meggie Royer
The dough was still folded on the counter where his sister had left it, braids slick with oil from her hands. The edges had congealed from exposure, bearing the same texture as clay.
It wasn’t unlike his sister to leave in the middle of baking. She never went far—only to the living room to observe after hearing the sound of gravel on the drive, or to the garden to see what was emerging in spring. Usually nothing burned; at worst, it became a little seared.
Her cell phone rested next to the fridge, its plastic glitter case smeared with yolk. The kitchen was darkening now. Occasionally someone would ring and the screen would light up, artificial blue pulsing through the room.
Whatever his sister had been making was just as much a mystery as where she’d gone. The ropes of dough were too thick to form a pie, too tangled for a strudel. Sometimes, she would shape puff pastry into pockets and fill them with goat cheese and roasted peppers, or layer honey and asparagus with clots of cream. This time, the dough lay there, misshapen and bare, imperfect either by design or passing time.
When they were kids, she had found a single wild strawberry in their backyard, nestled amid the tangle of undergrowth, the only spot of color in the crush of branches. For years, they referred to the thicket as Strawberrytown. The mess had been excavated with the next owners.
From where he stood in the kitchen, he could see a small pinprick of shimmering red in the shadows beyond the house, realizing with a start that an owl had landed in the darkness, its feathers hidden in the yews. The memory lodged in his throat like a fish, and he turned away.
It wasn’t unlike his sister to leave in the middle of baking. She never went far—only to the living room to observe after hearing the sound of gravel on the drive, or to the garden to see what was emerging in spring. Usually nothing burned; at worst, it became a little seared.
Her cell phone rested next to the fridge, its plastic glitter case smeared with yolk. The kitchen was darkening now. Occasionally someone would ring and the screen would light up, artificial blue pulsing through the room.
Whatever his sister had been making was just as much a mystery as where she’d gone. The ropes of dough were too thick to form a pie, too tangled for a strudel. Sometimes, she would shape puff pastry into pockets and fill them with goat cheese and roasted peppers, or layer honey and asparagus with clots of cream. This time, the dough lay there, misshapen and bare, imperfect either by design or passing time.
When they were kids, she had found a single wild strawberry in their backyard, nestled amid the tangle of undergrowth, the only spot of color in the crush of branches. For years, they referred to the thicket as Strawberrytown. The mess had been excavated with the next owners.
From where he stood in the kitchen, he could see a small pinprick of shimmering red in the shadows beyond the house, realizing with a start that an owl had landed in the darkness, its feathers hidden in the yews. The memory lodged in his throat like a fish, and he turned away.
* * *
He wondered how long he should wait before notifying the police. It had been more than 24 hours, but he was an anxious person, easily rattled. It could simply be a false alarm. But her wallet was still here, and so were her keys, the glitter from her phone winking in the light of the fridge. He considered bundling up the braids of dough and throwing them away, then settled for wrapping them around one another like the base of a pot. There was a jar of green olives in the fridge, and a scuffed heel of Raclette, which he carefully shaved with a grater. When he was done, the olives studded the dough like berries. Maybe she would come back for this, he thought—his messy, desperate offering.
Outside, two icicles fell from the roof, shattering as they hit the ground. Her old boyfriend had attempted to insulate the attic several years ago to prevent the ice from forming, but the pink batt still hung limply against the walls like a discarded wedding dress, nothing more than a decoration.
Outside, two icicles fell from the roof, shattering as they hit the ground. Her old boyfriend had attempted to insulate the attic several years ago to prevent the ice from forming, but the pink batt still hung limply against the walls like a discarded wedding dress, nothing more than a decoration.
* * *
The moon swayed low now in the sky, swollen and orange. It was growing late, and he was growing hungry. Carefully, he slid the mound of dough into the oven. The stained-glass window above the sink sent arcs of deep yellow and green through the kitchen, the copper foiling exposed from years of wear. His sister lived far from anyone else, deep in the woods the way she preferred, though he often worried about the creatures that might surround her house. Bears, maybe men. He had taught her how to use a gun, three of them hanging from the wall in the cellar, next to the crossbow and the mason jar of bolts. She had only ever fired one in the time she’d lived here, at a dog who slunk low through the brush towards the house, mouth fevered with foam.
He pulled a package of sausages from the fridge and set up the skillet. Crackling warmth soon filled the kitchen. The bundle of pastry was finished now, olives expelling beads of grease. He ate directly from the center, pulling out the cheese with a spoon. He would have to clean what was left behind, the silver and dishes, the bowls stained with yolk, the casings picked away from the meat.
He pulled a package of sausages from the fridge and set up the skillet. Crackling warmth soon filled the kitchen. The bundle of pastry was finished now, olives expelling beads of grease. He ate directly from the center, pulling out the cheese with a spoon. He would have to clean what was left behind, the silver and dishes, the bowls stained with yolk, the casings picked away from the meat.
* * *
After he had returned the kitchen to its prior state, he prepared the bedding in the guest room, the one with no curtains and a panoramic view of the wilderness. The aspens stood like soldiers just beyond the fence line. He was startled to see a cascade of black sap crawling down the length of the furthest two, a sign of some untold stress like insects. He would have to check them in the morning. For now, there was nothing left to do but wait. The smell from the sausages had permeated the log walls of the room. As he pulled back the covers, a wolf came to the window, so close its muzzle touched the glass. For a moment he thought of the guns a floor below, but its eyes shifted, red in the shadows, and it left the way it had come.
Meggie Royer (she/her) is a Midwestern writer and the Founder and Editor-in-Chief of Persephone’s Daughters, a journal for abuse survivors. She has won numerous awards and has been nominated several times for the Pushcart Prize. Her work has been published in the San Antonio Review, The Rumpus, the Minnesota Review, and more. She thinks there is nothing better in this world than a finished poem. Her work can be found at https://meggieroyer.com/.