The lady in Lindsay’s salad dressing would tell her things. Not tell as in speak, of course. But sometimes during meals—while stirring the Creamy Italian with her fork and looking deep into the eyes of the face that appeared—Lindsay
would become aware of things that logically, she had no way of
knowing. Thus, she knew that the holly arrangement mommy claimed
was sent to them through a lucky mix-up at the post office was
really from her lover, who was an artist, made mugs and plates
with safari motifs, and had bed bugs. She also knew that the
pomegranate daddy was dissecting with the newly sharpened meat
knife was just an excuse, and that another red fluid was soon
to stain its shiny surface.
Mommy had no idea. She was on a diet, and ate balsamic vinegar instead of dressing. No lady lived in the vinegar; it was too sour. Lindsay wondered how she could get the message through to mommy without angering daddy. The lady in the Creamy Italian told her it was unwise to mess with men with knives.
“Mommy,” she tried. “Can
we go for a walk?”
Mommy looked up from her baby greens.
“Why, Lindsay, we’re in the middle of dinner. Look.” She pointed to her husband. The knife flashed. “Daddy’s
making dessert.”
The lady told Lindsay to act fast; that it would happen soon.
“I’d really like to go,” she insisted. She stared into mommy’s
eyes, desperate, hard. For the longest time, their
eyes remained interlocked. Then Lindsay spotted some
sort of reaction.
Chop, chop, came from the cutting board.
“OK,” mommy said. Lindsay’s brain swam with relief. Mommy put a warm hand on Lindsay’s arm. “Just
a short one.”
A dark, hollow voice came from behind.
“Don’t
you think there has been enough meandering
as of late, Marian?”
Lindsay shivered. The lady in the salad dressing told her to grab mommy and run.
Lindsay never got a chance to thank her.
