mothamongwasps
A Hedgewitch
Marcie was leaned over the contents of the refrigerator, brows furrowed. Doing mental kitchen math.
They hadn't been able to get the car out of the drive in three days. It wasn't a record or anything, but it was getting to be an inconvenience. There were Campbell's cans stored deep in the back of the pantry, but that was the kind of thing that she supposed she ought to keep around for if the power died, or if this bullshit falling from the sky went on much longer. Campbell's was desperation food.
She was lucky to live in a small suburb in a city that cared enough to wire things up right. Power was still on, furnace still running. Marcie had certain bones to pick about the basement apartment in the little duplex, but she was on the level with the furnace and the boiler, and the winter had so far been cozy.
It had stayed fairly pleasant despite what they'd been reading about the weather outside.
"Marce." June's sleep-matted head appeared above the fridge door. Marcie jumped and only narrowly avoided hitting her head.
"Jesus-" She hissed, hand to her chest.
"I'm going stir-crazy, Marcie." June's painted fingernails scritched at the stainless steel. "I have cabin fever."
"You do not."
"Well I'm bored, then. It's Christmas."
"No shit," Marcie rolled her eyes and cocked her head. "Was that the last box of mac'n'cheese? That you had for breakfast?"
Junie cringed a little at the question. "Yeah. I'm sorry-"
"Don't be. Just wondering." She wasn't going to give her sister a hard time for feeding herself. She hadn't told her about trying to save the nonperishables or anything; hadn't even really been following that rule herself. "I guess I'm going to have to actually cook. It's mostly eggs and condiments in there."
June grinned. Even at twenty-three, she still grinned like a giddy kid whenever Marcie dug out the mixing bowls. And Marcie couldn't help but love that about her.
June was the baby of the family, had never quite needed to learn to do the domestic stuff. She got by on serious hustle and take-out food. A delightful and practical bombshell of a girl who'd never learned to cook. Living a bigger, bolder life, and doing it well.
This was (the extension of) the first time they'd gotten to see each other in six months.
Marcie had a whisk in in a bowl of vegetable broth and sour cream, beating it smooth, and June was drying the fry pan and setting it on the stove to heat, as per her sister's instructions. The last three eggs in the fridge went into the bowl; a custard began to take shape. Salt, some pepper. Half a goddamn tin of dried rosemary. The elder sister handed the bowl off to the younger. "Stir that."
Because she needed to saw through a stale loaf of sourdough.
The silence between them was usually warm and comfortable. No need for anxious small-talk, generally speaking. They had known each other for 23 years. All of June's life, and most of Marcie's. Not to mention that they'd been stranded together for three days in Marcie's small apartment. At a certain point, you only said what you needed to.
It was several minutes before either of them spoke again, and it was June, who was tasked with not letting the butter burn in the pan.
"...Are you mad at me?" She asked, quietly enough that Marcie turned around as if to assure she'd heard anything at all.
"What?" She was holding a dripping, custard-soaked bread-round.
"Are-"
"No, I heard you. Why- ooh-" She caught a drip in her palm and pivoted back to turn it the other side over in the egg mixture. Asked, over her shoulder, "Why would I be mad?"
She'd suspected the whole time that June had not meant to tell her about it; she probably would have held it in, if their visit had been as short as they'd planned. Junie was supposed to spend a single night, and got snowed in. Had missed her flight out, by now, but the airports were closed anyway.
"I dunno... Maybe not mad. Disappointed?"
The only reason Marcie hesitated was that there was a finite period during which one could soak stale bread before it was no longer a solid, and she came to the stove to put the first two slices down in the pan. The butter bit and sizzled. The aroma that rose was savory, heavenly.
"That you want to come home, you mean." Marcie could feel June nod, next to her. "Of course not." She went to pick up two more dry pieces, to start the soak. Turned to watch her younger sister, who watched the french toast in the pan.
"Why?" Marcie asked. "Are you?"
"... I don't know. No." Silence. "Kinda." She pushed one of the slices with a fingertip, and Marcie was there to hand her a fork.
"Flip 'em."
Junie did. Frowned at the pan, tapping one tine lightly against the edge of the cast iron.
"It's all mom says. When she talks about me." The younger sister reached up to brush a strand of copper hair back over her ear. Didn't like her bangs in her face when she was thinking heavy thoughts. "New York. You, she talks about work, and the art stuff you're doing. Edie's getting married, so-"
Marcie snorted. "Yeah, but that's all she talks about, when she mentions Edie." Their middle sister. She lived a city over from Marcie, about an hour's drive. "Not, oh Edie's getting another degree, Edie's gonna be a nurse. Just the wedding. It rubs her wrong too. When she talks about me, she always manages to mention I'm single-and-not-looking. Says it all sad, like it's a problem. That's just mom. She's- here." Marcie handed her companion a plate, and June stuck the finished slices with the fork to transfer them. "She's into weird, arbitrary details, but only because she thinks happiness is contingent on them. She misses big cities, but doesn't have the energy for them. She's proud of you. She thinks it's brave." And Marcie laid down the next two slices to sizzle in the browning butter.
"But I'm leaving." June said. And that word carried so much weight. The full weight of a year of hustling, of networking, of making the lights of New York, NY, work for her. All of the glamour and exhaustion. The weight of a good job, and no real friends.
"Yeah. I know," said Marcie, who was sampling the onion jam she'd brought home from work last week. Sweet-savory, spreadable. With the same spoon, as there were no cooties between them, she smeared the first two slices of French toast with the earthy jam, and offered them to June.
"I personally think that's pretty fuckin' brave, so-" And just as her sister reached for the plate, Marcie pulled it back an inch to nod at the pan.
"Hey- flip those."
June did.
They hadn't been able to get the car out of the drive in three days. It wasn't a record or anything, but it was getting to be an inconvenience. There were Campbell's cans stored deep in the back of the pantry, but that was the kind of thing that she supposed she ought to keep around for if the power died, or if this bullshit falling from the sky went on much longer. Campbell's was desperation food.
She was lucky to live in a small suburb in a city that cared enough to wire things up right. Power was still on, furnace still running. Marcie had certain bones to pick about the basement apartment in the little duplex, but she was on the level with the furnace and the boiler, and the winter had so far been cozy.
It had stayed fairly pleasant despite what they'd been reading about the weather outside.
"Marce." June's sleep-matted head appeared above the fridge door. Marcie jumped and only narrowly avoided hitting her head.
"Jesus-" She hissed, hand to her chest.
"I'm going stir-crazy, Marcie." June's painted fingernails scritched at the stainless steel. "I have cabin fever."
"You do not."
"Well I'm bored, then. It's Christmas."
"No shit," Marcie rolled her eyes and cocked her head. "Was that the last box of mac'n'cheese? That you had for breakfast?"
Junie cringed a little at the question. "Yeah. I'm sorry-"
"Don't be. Just wondering." She wasn't going to give her sister a hard time for feeding herself. She hadn't told her about trying to save the nonperishables or anything; hadn't even really been following that rule herself. "I guess I'm going to have to actually cook. It's mostly eggs and condiments in there."
June grinned. Even at twenty-three, she still grinned like a giddy kid whenever Marcie dug out the mixing bowls. And Marcie couldn't help but love that about her.
June was the baby of the family, had never quite needed to learn to do the domestic stuff. She got by on serious hustle and take-out food. A delightful and practical bombshell of a girl who'd never learned to cook. Living a bigger, bolder life, and doing it well.
This was (the extension of) the first time they'd gotten to see each other in six months.
Marcie had a whisk in in a bowl of vegetable broth and sour cream, beating it smooth, and June was drying the fry pan and setting it on the stove to heat, as per her sister's instructions. The last three eggs in the fridge went into the bowl; a custard began to take shape. Salt, some pepper. Half a goddamn tin of dried rosemary. The elder sister handed the bowl off to the younger. "Stir that."
Because she needed to saw through a stale loaf of sourdough.
The silence between them was usually warm and comfortable. No need for anxious small-talk, generally speaking. They had known each other for 23 years. All of June's life, and most of Marcie's. Not to mention that they'd been stranded together for three days in Marcie's small apartment. At a certain point, you only said what you needed to.
It was several minutes before either of them spoke again, and it was June, who was tasked with not letting the butter burn in the pan.
"...Are you mad at me?" She asked, quietly enough that Marcie turned around as if to assure she'd heard anything at all.
"What?" She was holding a dripping, custard-soaked bread-round.
"Are-"
"No, I heard you. Why- ooh-" She caught a drip in her palm and pivoted back to turn it the other side over in the egg mixture. Asked, over her shoulder, "Why would I be mad?"
She'd suspected the whole time that June had not meant to tell her about it; she probably would have held it in, if their visit had been as short as they'd planned. Junie was supposed to spend a single night, and got snowed in. Had missed her flight out, by now, but the airports were closed anyway.
"I dunno... Maybe not mad. Disappointed?"
The only reason Marcie hesitated was that there was a finite period during which one could soak stale bread before it was no longer a solid, and she came to the stove to put the first two slices down in the pan. The butter bit and sizzled. The aroma that rose was savory, heavenly.
"That you want to come home, you mean." Marcie could feel June nod, next to her. "Of course not." She went to pick up two more dry pieces, to start the soak. Turned to watch her younger sister, who watched the french toast in the pan.
"Why?" Marcie asked. "Are you?"
"... I don't know. No." Silence. "Kinda." She pushed one of the slices with a fingertip, and Marcie was there to hand her a fork.
"Flip 'em."
Junie did. Frowned at the pan, tapping one tine lightly against the edge of the cast iron.
"It's all mom says. When she talks about me." The younger sister reached up to brush a strand of copper hair back over her ear. Didn't like her bangs in her face when she was thinking heavy thoughts. "New York. You, she talks about work, and the art stuff you're doing. Edie's getting married, so-"
Marcie snorted. "Yeah, but that's all she talks about, when she mentions Edie." Their middle sister. She lived a city over from Marcie, about an hour's drive. "Not, oh Edie's getting another degree, Edie's gonna be a nurse. Just the wedding. It rubs her wrong too. When she talks about me, she always manages to mention I'm single-and-not-looking. Says it all sad, like it's a problem. That's just mom. She's- here." Marcie handed her companion a plate, and June stuck the finished slices with the fork to transfer them. "She's into weird, arbitrary details, but only because she thinks happiness is contingent on them. She misses big cities, but doesn't have the energy for them. She's proud of you. She thinks it's brave." And Marcie laid down the next two slices to sizzle in the browning butter.
"But I'm leaving." June said. And that word carried so much weight. The full weight of a year of hustling, of networking, of making the lights of New York, NY, work for her. All of the glamour and exhaustion. The weight of a good job, and no real friends.
"Yeah. I know," said Marcie, who was sampling the onion jam she'd brought home from work last week. Sweet-savory, spreadable. With the same spoon, as there were no cooties between them, she smeared the first two slices of French toast with the earthy jam, and offered them to June.
"I personally think that's pretty fuckin' brave, so-" And just as her sister reached for the plate, Marcie pulled it back an inch to nod at the pan.
"Hey- flip those."
June did.
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