Helen’s Kitchen, 3:30 a.m. by Brian Clark

Returning from the bathroom for the second time that night, her eyes heavy with sleep, Helen squinted down the dark hallway at the faint white glow coming from the kitchen.

Did I forget to turn off the light? she wondered.

Sighing, Helen hobbled down the corridor, wincing at the throbbing pain in her hip. She turned left into the kitchen and immediately discovered the source of the glow: the refrigerator door was wide open.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Helen, you really are becoming senile,” she muttered.

She took another faltering step, reached out to shut the door and froze.

At first, Helen wasn’t sure if what she was seeing was real, if she could trust her tired eyes and sleep-deprived brain. So she squeezed her eyes shut and gave her head a shake. But when she opened them, he was still there: a strange man sitting at her kitchen table, eating her tuna casserole.

Still bleary, Helen gawked at him, more baffled than afraid. Her vision was fuzzy without her glasses, but she was able to make out his long curly hair and dark bushy beard.

She struggled to say something, but all she could manage were a few wordless croaks. Finally, she blurted out, “That’s my dinner!”

What a ridiculous thing to say, Helen thought, and almost laughed.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

Seemingly unperturbed, the intruder continued spooning tuna into his mouth, head down, eyes on the food.

“Well, I’m calling the police,” Helen said.

She turned to exit the kitchen. By the time she crossed the hall and entered her living room, she realized she had just said another dumb thing, this one possibly dangerous. So she stopped and listened, fully expecting to hear the man coming after her. But all she heard was the spoon clinking against the dish and a rumbling belch.

Her hip pain momentarily forgotten, Helen scurried over to an end table beside the couch, picked up the phone and punched nine and one—then hesitated, her finger poised above the one. Now all she heard was the sound of her own breathing.

She hung up the phone quietly and cast a wary glance towards the kitchen.

Maybe he came from the park, she thought.

Trying to keep her voice steady, she called out, “The police are on their way! Better leave while you can!”

She waited. “Did you hear me? The police are coming!”

There was another resounding burp.

Taking a deep breath, Helen hurried to her bedroom, put on her housecoat and glasses, and shuffled back down the hall to the kitchen.

Hope you know what you’re doing, Helen.

Stopping in the kitchen entrance, she leaned forward and peeked inside. Still seated at the table, the stranger was now helping himself to a container of store-bought potato salad. He was perfectly centred in a shaft of light coming from the fridge, like a stage actor bathed in a spotlight.

Holding her housecoat closed at the neck with shaky hands, Helen took two cautious steps. “The police will be here any minute,” she said, a quiver in her voice.

The man ignored her and kept eating.

She took a closer look at him. His shoulder-length hair wasn’t just curly, it was a mass of greasy tangles. His beard was flecked with grey—and spattered with her tuna and potato salad. He was wearing a dirty denim jacket and filthy fingerless gloves. His age was hard to judge—he could have been thirty-five or sixty-five.

Helen cleared her throat. “How did you get in?”

Without looking up, the man threw a quick glance at the back door in a corner of the kitchen.

Helen took a look, but saw no obvious damage to the door or frame.

“Oh God, was it unlocked?” She cursed under her breath. “Look, even if it was, you can’t just …”

She trailed off. And the stranger just kept eating.

Helen took another step closer. “Are you from the park?”

Just then he started to sputter and cough up yellowy bits of potato salad.

“Oh dear.” Helen grabbed a carton of milk from the fridge, poured a glass and placed it on the table in front of him. He took a couple of gulps and the coughing attack subsided.

“Are you all right?” Helen asked.

He gave a slight nod and took another drink. Then, slowly, he looked up—wiping a strand of grimy hair off his forehead—and Helen got her first good look at his eyes. They were dark and dim and lost—and familiar.

She gasped. “Oh my goodness, you’re … you’re Kevin Harper. Aren’t you?”

She crossed her arms and stared at him, her mouth unhinged. “Yes. It is you! You’re Sylvia and Reg’s boy. My God, you gave me a scare. What on earth are you doing in my kitchen at three-thirty in the morning?”

He looked down and fidgeted with his hands, but said nothing.

“Come on, Kevin, I’ve known you since you were a baby. I was your grade-three teacher. Talk to me. I mean, really, do you make a habit of breaking into people’s homes?”

Still looking down, Kevin finally spoke, his voice thick and gruff. “I didn’t break in. I opened the door and walked in.”

“That’s just semantics, Kevin.”

He coughed and took another drink of milk. “And I didn’t realize it was your house. I came in along the back lane, checking doors. I haven’t eaten in two days.”

Helen let out a long breath and shook her head. “Oh, Kevin.”

She closed the refrigerator door, switched on the overhead light and sat down across from him, groaning as she eased into the chair.

“Tell me something, Kevin, how did you know I wouldn’t call the police?”

He looked up at her. “I didn’t.”

“Weren’t you afraid of being arrested?”

He shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Kevin looked around the room and furiously scratched the crook of his left arm.

“Are you okay?” Helen asked.

He stopped scratching but ignored the question. “So, where’s Mr. Lawrence, still sleeping?”

She slowly shook her head. “No. Curtis passed away three months ago.”

“Oh. I didn’t know.”

Kevin drummed his fingers on the table. “He taught me how to shoot a puck.”

“Pardon me?”

“Mr. Lawrence taught me how to shoot a puck. In our driveway when I was a little kid. My own father never did anything like that.”

He stood up quickly. “I should go.”

“Wait. Just hold on a second, Kevin. There’s a shower stall in the basement bathroom. Why don’t you go clean yourself up. Because you kind of, um…”

“Smell? Is that the word you’re looking for?”

“Yes, actually.”

Kevin looked down at his feet. “Okay.”

“You’ll find a towel under the sink. And I’ll dig up some of Curtis’s old clothes for you. I’ve been meaning to take them to the Goodwill. They’re probably a little big for you, but they should do. I’ll leave them outside the door.”

After placing the clothes in a plastic bag and dropping it outside the bathroom door, Helen brewed a pot of coffee, convinced there would be no more sleep for her that night. When Kevin returned to the kitchen wearing Curtis’s brown corduroys and green lumberjack shirt, she handed him a steaming mug and insisted he sit back down at the table.

Helen poured a coffee for herself, sat down and smiled at Kevin. His hair hung damp and limp to his shoulders, and his beard glistened.

“Feel better?”

He nodded.

“Good, good.” She sipped her coffee. “So, I know you’ve been estranged from your parents for some time now, but you do know they moved away about six months ago, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I heard. Mom thinks Toronto has become too dangerous or something. Imagine that. So they bought a condo in St. Catharines. My sister told me. She’s kind of a go-between.”

“Is that Kathy or Beverley?”

“Kathy. Beverley won’t have anything to do with me.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

Using both hands, Kevin raised the mug to his lips and took a loud sip.

“I’ve stayed in touch with your mother,” Helen said. “We talk on the phone now and then. She’s told me about your … your situation.”

Kevin barked out a sharp, humourless laugh. “My situation? Is that what she calls it?”

He grinned sarcastically, an unsettling flash of yellow teeth. “Pray tell, what did Mother tell you about my situation?”

“Well, you know. About the drugs and the fact that you live on the street.”

Kevin jumped to his feet, and the chair tipped over with a clatter. “Well, isn’t that just great! What else did she tell you? That I beg for money? Eat out of garbage cans? Did she tell you I stole money from them? Did she tell you I tried to … tried to … that I …”

He stammered to a halt, breathing hard.

Helen sat back and folded her arms. “Kevin,” she said as calmly as she could, “please sit down. You’re starting to scare me.”

Kevin looked down at the chair, as if only now realizing what he’d done. He set it upright and sat down, but continued to seethe and started clawing at his left arm again.

“Settle down, Kevin. Come on now, settle down.”

He put his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes. “Sorry,” he said, barely audible. “I guess it really doesn’t matter.”

Helen was surprised when the next sound to come out of his mouth was a guttural chuckle.

“You still talk like a teacher,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“You know. Settle down, Kevin,” he said in a gently mocking tone.

“Oh. Yes, I guess I do. Sometimes it comes out when I’m talking with my grandkids.”

She got up and refilled the mugs.

Kevin said, “Hey, do you remember in class when it would be quiet ’cause we were doing a test or something and someone would start making cricket noises and you couldn’t figure out who it was? Remember?”

“I remember.”

“Well, ah, that was me.”

She gave him a sideways look and smiled. “You little devil.”

“Oh wow! You knew!”

“Well, I had my suspicions.”

They sat in silence for several moments, letting a ticking wall clock fill the stillness.

A faraway look came over Kevin’s eyes and he exhaled a gentle breath. “I was just thinking how much I always liked coming here when I was a kid, hanging out with Trent and Josh, listening to music, watching movies. It always seemed like a happy home.”

“Yes, it was—most of the time. I’m really going to miss it.”

“You’re leaving?”

Helen nodded slowly. “After Curtis passed, it became obvious that I shouldn’t be here alone. So the boys sold the house. And in twenty-three days, I move into a retirement residence.”

She clasped her hands together and dropped them on the table. “To tell you the truth, I’m kind of dreading it. I mean, the place seems nice. I stayed there a couple nights. They’ve got quite a lovely dining room, and a lounge and library and garden. Even a pool. But it sure doesn’t feel like home.”

“Hmm.” The corners of Kevin’s mouth turned up into a slight, mischievous smile. “Well, that really does sound awful. Ya know what, we had a lounge in the park. That’s what we called it, anyway. It was Lonnie’s tent—the biggest one there. And we had a pool, too—one of those blow-up kiddie pools.”

Helen tilted her head and looked at him blankly. Then her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. “Oh my God, I am so, so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to be so insensitive.”

Kevin let out a raspy laugh. “It’s okay. I was just having a little fun with you.”

“Well, as my mother used to say, I am mortified.” Helen expelled a long, weary sigh. “So, you are living in the park, are you?”

“I was. The cops booted us out this afternoon. I went down into the ravine and found a spot. But then sometime around midnight, a bunch of kids came by and started throwing rocks and bottles. So I just ran. I wandered around for a while, found myself in the lane back here at some point.”

He scratched his beard. “Maybe on some level I knew this was your place. I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking real clear. But I want you to know, I’ve never done anything like this before. Never!”

He stood up. “I really do need to leave now. Would it be okay if I use the bathroom first?”

“Of course.”

While Kevin headed for the basement stairs, Helen hurried to her bedroom, slowing when her hip began to protest.She dug a suitcase out of the closet and began filling it with Curtis’s clothes—underwear, socks, pants, shirts, sweaters, a windbreaker. Crossing the hall into the bathroom, she gathered up soap, shampoo, deodorant, toothpaste and a toothbrush, hustled back to the bedroom and dumped them into the suitcase. She removed several bills from her purse and put them in her housecoat pocket. 

Helen paused, looking around the room, and felt a sob rise in her throat. She clamped a hand to her chest and stifled it, then wiped away tears.

She zipped up the suitcase and wheeled it to the kitchen, arriving just as Kevin returned from the basement.

“I put together a few things I thought you could use,” Helen said.

Kevin looked down at the suitcase and frowned. “Well, the thing is, I really can’t be dragging that around. And someone will just steal it anyway.”

He knelt down and opened the suitcase. “Do you have one of those cloth grocery bags, a big one?”

“Oh, sure.”

Helen pulled one from the cupboard and handed it to him. Kevin searched through the suitcase, selected some items, shoved them in the bag and got to his feet.

“I left my old clothes in the bathroom. Maybe you could just throw them out. Or burn them,” he added with a snicker.

Helen nodded and forced a smile. “Oh, wait,” she said, placing her hand on his arm. “Can’t send you off without some food.”

She grabbed another cloth sack and opened the fridge. “Oh my. Not much here. I’m going shopping later today.”

 Her voice took on a brittle tremor as she selected items and placed them in the bag. “Well, here’s a couple of apples. They’ll keep the doctor away. And, ah, a banana. A little bruised but okay … A muffin. Um, another container of potato salad. It was two-for-one, you see, and I know you like potato salad. Just eat it before it spoils.”

She closed the fridge and opened a cupboard door above the counter. “Goodness, this is kind of bare, too. But here’s a can of spaghetti. Some people like it cold. I’ll make sure I give you a can opener. Oh, and some cookies and juice boxes. They’re for the grandkids, but I can get some more.”

She rattled open the cutlery drawer, removed a few utensils and dropped them in the bag with the food.

“Here,” she said, handing him the sack. “Sorry there isn’t more.”

“That’s okay.”

They stood quietly for a moment, looking out the kitchen window. The eastern sky was showing the first blush of dawn.

“A new spring day,” Helen said. “A new day full of … possibilities.”

Kevin said nothing.

“How old are you, Kevin? Thirty-five?”

“Thirty-six.”

“There must be programs available. Addiction programs. I mean, you’re still a young man, Kevin. You could be …”

She hesitated and took a long, stuttering breath.

“I’m just an old lady. I can’t help you. Not really. All I’ve got are these meaningless platitudes. But look.” She pulled the bills out of her pocket and held them out to him. “That’s sixty-five dollars. It’s all the cash I have in the house. Please take it.”

Kevin glanced down at the money, then back up at Helen.

“Please,” she said, “just promise me you won’t spend it on … you know.”

He looked down at the cash again and for the longest time just stared, emitting a low groan. “No,” he said finally. “I can’t. It would just be a lie. Keep it.”

With that, he turned around and headed for the back door. He pulled it open and stood there, gazing at the pink tint of daybreak. “How come you didn’t call the police?” he asked.

Helen came up behind him. “Well, I guess I came to the conclusion that you were just hungry.”

“Oh.”

“I move out on the first,” Helen said. “If you want to come back before then—”

“You won’t be seeing me again,” Kevin said, barely above a whisper. “And I’m sorry about Mr. Lawrence.”

He stepped outside, a bag in each hand, and made his way along the garden path toward the back gate. He didn’t look back.

Brian Clark

Image by 👀 Mabel Amber, who will one day from Pixabay – Legs of a man carrying two soft shopping bags full of things.