Gerald C. Matics -- Author

Copyright © 2007 by Gerald C. Matics

Published in Fantastic Horror (February 2009)

Victor's stepson Fran and his wife Natalie have it all: a beautiful house, a successful business, a happy marriage — and now a new son.  That's about to change as Victor comes for a visit . . . and the Sisters follow him home.

            It was getting on towards evening when they met Victor's train at 30th Street Station.  Fran's stepfather was tall and broad-shouldered with a noticeable paunch, a shock of salt-and-pepper hair with matching beard and mustache, and eyes that pierced Natalie to her soul when he shook her hand before giving her a tentative hug.  Natalie held Jason while Fran and Victor embraced, then they introduced the boy to his step-grandfather.  Victor laughed when Jason, on the cusp of one and nobody's fool, kicked his stomach and tugged at his slightly scraggly beard, and pronounced the boy Fran's beyond question.

            Natalie and Fran traded looks while Victor busied himself with Jason.  He doesn't know? her expression said.  Let's not get into it now was his answer.

            "The car's this way," Fran said, leading.

            "Damn, it's good to see you, partner," Victor said.  "Been way too long."

            "We'll have plenty of time to catch up.  I took the next couple days off from the restaurant so we can take in some sights."

            "How about we catch up on some food first?" Victor asked.  "They downsized the meals in coach again."

            Natalie laughed.  "I think I know where we can get a decent meal."

            They ended up at the restaurant anyway, at a sidewalk table where they could watch passers-by stroll Rittenhouse Square in the early summer warmth.  Fran had his chief assistant prepare veal saltimbocca with baby asparagus spears.  Between bites, they skirted the subject of Victor's long absence from Fran's life by talking about how well he and Natalie were doing.

            "This place is fantastic," Victor said around a mouthful of food.  "I love the decor."

            "Terry's doing," Fran said, referring to one of his two partners.  "I couldn't decorate an outhouse.  Ask Nat."

            "Don't be so hard on yourself, honey," Natalie said.  "You could decorate an outhouse as well as anyone."

            Victor chuckled.  "Bet he's a great cook, though.  When he was eighteen I taught him everything I knew."

            "In spite of which I became successful."  Fran turned to Natalie.  "Taking cooking lessons from Victor was like . . . like taking golf lessons from Dorf."

            "Hey, is that fair?" Victor asked.  "Look at this belly.  I may not know cooking, but I sure know eating."  He leaned down toward Jason in his high chair.  "Ain't that right, boy?"

            "Mugumph!" Jason shouted.

            After dinner Victor yawned politely behind his hand, and they decided to take the party home.  The sun was setting when they got back to Germantown, and coronas appeared atop the streetlamps as they crused up the street and turned into the driveway.

            All the lamps except the one directly in front of the house.

 Two hours later Jason was asleep in his crib and the adults, after drinks and long conversation, were climbing the stairs to retire for the night.

            "Kids," Victor said outside the guest room, "no fooling.  That was a fantastic meal.  Fran, I think your mom would have been awfully proud.  And Natalie, you're a wonderful woman to open your house to a broken-down old man."

            Natalie blushed.  "You're not broken-down."

            "Gently used, maybe," Fran said, turning away to hide the moistness in his eyes.  They said goodnight, and Victor went into the guest room and closed the door.  Natalie laced her hand with Fran's and tugged him gently away.

            "What a nice man," she said as Fran closed their bedroom door.  "I wonder why it's taken so long for him to surface."

            "Mmmm.  I didn't feel right confronting him about it.  Maybe tomorrow."  Fran walked into the bathroom, peeling off his shirt.  "He is nice, though," he said around the corner as he washed his face.  "Makes me feel guilty all over again for the lousy way I treated him."

            "You were young.  Teen years are tough on everybody, let alone a kid who's about to be an orphan."

            "All the same, he didn't deserve it."  Fran came out of the bathroom and looked at her, still dressed and lying on her side on the covers, one arm supporting her head.  The blouse had pulled up a bit on that side, and above her jeans he saw a strand of unspoiled stomach.

            And she was looking at him.

            "Were you thinking about dessert?" he asked.

            She smiled slyly.  "I was thinking," she said, "about my favorite dessert."

            He grinned.  "Coming right up."

            Quietly he left the room, pausing in front of the nursery to peek in at Jason — the cover rose and fell evenly on the boy's chest as he dreamed whatever babies dream — before creeping downstairs to the kitchen.  He felt his way in the darkness, counting down the flight of steps from thirteen to one as he had many times before; late-night snacks were an aphrodisiac to Nat.

            He started with some whipping cream, placing it in a saucepan to boil, then adding bittersweet chocolate and taking a whisk to the mixture.  He stirred in some Amaretto liqueur and quickly chopped a handful of almonds with the easy sureness of an experienced chef, then stirred them in.  He popped into the refrigerator for strawberries and arranged several on a small platter, on which he also placed a fondue pot.  Carefully he poured the still-hot confection into the pot.  From a drawer he produced a match, struck it and bent to light the small candle beneath the pot.

            Fran paused, looking around.  Nothing.  Nothing had caught his eye, no sound had been made, nobody had entered or left the room — yet he was eerily convinced he was no longer alone. . . .