Julia's Chocolates. Cathy Lamb

no fear.

      He had been so charming, so possessive at first, wanting to spend all his time with me, sweeping me off my very big feet. He wanted to know where I was all the time, who I had talked to at the art museum, had any men talked to me? Who?

      He had discouraged me from going out with any friends. Not that I had a lot. Okay, I had only two women friends, but he soon thought I shouldn’t see them anymore and I had caved in and agreed.

      At first I was almost sickeningly dizzy with delight. Robert wanted me all to himself! He loved me! That was why he didn’t want other people in my life.

      But then I had started to irritate him, and I felt his scorn like a sledgehammer. He would upset me, I would cry, he would pin me down on the bed and badger me until I sobbed, but then he would so sweetly apologize, blaming his bad behavior on a fight with his high-profile father or the checker at the supermarket.

      Later Robert sometimes lost his cool and sometimes cracked me in the face with his palm or shoved me against the wall, or leaned me over a chair and stripped off my pants even though I protested. Well…later he would beg me to come back to him, to forgive him, and I did.

      And soon I had my ring. I had slept with him, and come hell or high water, I was going to get married. I was going to leave my wasted mother and jailbird father behind. I was going to be proper and respected in a proper and respected family.

      Even though Robert’s violent behavior escalated and scared the living shit out of me more and more as time went on.

      I shook my head, blowing thoughts out of my mind, and rolled down my window, the mountain air cool. I inhaled the familiar scent of pine trees as I paused at the town’s one and only stoplight. I thought I could hear the river rushing by, although I knew that was unlikely because it was too far out of town.

      After running my fingers through my hair, I switched on the overhead light and stared in the rearview mirror. Yep. Looking lovely again. My eyes were swollen, my face a lovely shade of death, my lips puffy and chapped.

      Gorgeous. No wonder the men were breaking down my door. I ate more chocolate.

      I turned right, went past a few other small businesses, and then through a tiny neighborhood where big wheels and bikes were scattered in the front lawns. Taking a turn into the country, I drove about two miles straight out, then took a left at the mailbox with a giant wooden pig attached to the top with his tongue hanging out.

      Like I said earlier, you can’t miss Aunt Lydia’s house, and when I turned into the gravel drive and saw the giant pigs, the toilets, and the rainbow bridge, all freshly painted, just like I remembered from years ago, I parked the car, bent my head against the steering wheel, and cried.

      And that’s how Aunt Lydia found me.

      2

      “Men are pricks!” Lydia whacked a wooden spoon against the giant pan, the strawberries melting into a thick goo that would turn out to be the most delicious jam you have ever tasted in your life. I remember drinking the jam right from the jar as a child.

      It was Aunt Lydia who had turned me on to cooking and, particularly, baking chocolate desserts and cookies when I was a kid. We had spent hundreds of hours right here among her plants and books and birds. It was the happiest time of my life.

      “Big pricks. Little pricks. They are all”—she slammed the wooden spoon against the rim of the pot for the umpteenth time—“pricks!”

      I sipped the herbal tea she had thrust at me the instant I arrived. It was laced with a good deal of rum, so I figured I would have at least three or four teas tonight. Maybe five. I took a shuddery breath. The wood stove she’d settled me by in the kitchen was blowing out heat like a fire-breathing dragon.

      “But!” Aunt Lydia declared, her green eyes flashing, her thick gray hair dancing around her face as if all the energy packed into her was flying through the follicles. “I am so glad you didn’t marry the King Prick, Robert.”

      I ignored the stab of pain that shot right through my heart. “You never even met him.” Why was I defending him? Geez. I am a sick, wimpy woman. And my eye had looked like hard purple and green vomit today, too.

      “I knew by the way you talked, by what you didn’t say. By how I could never call you at your apartment because he would tell you to get off the phone.” Her eyes flew open so I saw all the white. “I didn’t want to spend any time with King Prick. Do you think I should have Janice make me another pig and name him King Prick?”

      I opened and closed my mouth. A giant pig named after my ex-fiancé. There was some appeal.

      “No!” Lydia shouted, arguing aloud with herself as she stomped her tiny foot. “I won’t. I don’t want any piece of him near my property. Oh, Good Lord.” She sorted through the cabinets above her head. “I am ALMOST out of cinnamon! I can’t BELIEVE it!” This last part she yelled so loud the multitude of birds in three giant cages went crazy.

      “I’ll go get you some cinnamon—”

      “No! Heavens, no, Julia. I’ll get some tomorrow. But I JUST CAN’T BELIEVE IT!”

      This is classic Lydia. The smallest problems leave her totally exasperated, even furious. Astounded. And yet, the big problems, the terrible things in her life that had happened, like losing her father and brother as a child in a car accident and being stuck in that car with two dead people for hours while the police dismantled the car, she rarely talked about, and when she did it was with strength and courage and acceptance.

      And she never talked about being raped by a stranger when she was twenty-five. That was about five years after she had a miscarriage and a drunk doctor slipped with the knife and made Aunt Lydia forever infertile, and then her husband left her. My mother had told me about that.

      Aunt Lydia’s phone rang again, but she didn’t answer it. In the other room I could hear her birds singing to each other. “Cinnamon. Well, I don’t need it for the jam. But I was going to make cinnamon rolls for the girls tonight. It’s Psychic Night, and we’re having it here, I did tell you, didn’t I?”

      “Psychic Night?” I choked a bit on my tea, but I could feel the rum floating through my body, and it felt like a river of pure warmth. Or maybe that was the wood stove that was so hot my back felt as if it were on fire.

      She pushed her gray hair out of her eyes and peered at me. “We’re discussing the power of breasts.”

      My mug dropped onto the table. “The power of what?”

      “The power of our BREASTS!” Aunt Lydia held two fingers in the air, then pointed at her own breasts. “You know what they are! Your mother and I and you”—she glared with indignant accusation at my chest—“all have the same big boobs. And there’s power there. We have to rein it in and use it for our own benefit.”

      “Absolutely,” I muttered. “I need to rein in my Breast Power.”

      “That’s right! Rein in your Breast Power!” Lydia rolled the words in her mouth. “Brrreeeassstt power! Perfect! We’ll call it Breast Power Psychic Night. Every week we have a new title. I’m so glad you’re here, honey. Here, come and stir the jam for me.”

      I brought my big breasts with me as I got up obediently and started stirring, watching the strawberries getting smaller and smaller, the color a brilliant burgundy and soft red. It fascinated me, and I couldn’t look away as Lydia picked up the phone and called her friends.

      I heard her talk to a Katie, a Caroline, and a Lara. It was only on the last phone call that I really listened in.

      “No, no, don’t bring a thing, Lara,” Lydia tossed a dish towel from one hand to another like a ball juggler. “I’m making The Brownies. I ran out of cinnamon! Can you BELIEVE IT? No cinnamon!” She tsked herself deep in her throat. “So a little pot would be okay? Right, just enough to take the edge off of life, that’s a good way of putting it, dear. And good luck with that infernal Bible study. Oh, for God’s