Deadly Cupid Experiment

Thursdays are peach cobbler days. Most Thursdays, at least. My wife, Deborah, always made the most delicious peach cobbler for me on Thursdays, and on Tuesdays she made fresh cookies. On lucky Fridays I was greeted with my favorite dessert: vanilla pudding. She made it from scratch- not from the small JELL-O boxes of powder they sell at grocery stores. It was buttery and soft and cooled my tongue after a hot week of commuting.

Although my commute to work was only 15 minutes, it seemed like forever stood between me and my peach cobbler Thursday. I was swimming in an ocean of cars, navigating the busy boulevard like a salmon finding his spawning ground. I plan to eat a slice of cobbler for every minute I’m in the car, even if I’m completely stuffed with a rack of ribs and rosemary roasted potatoes. A glass of milk always helps it go down and tastes great competing with the hot baked treat.

I always thought Deborah would make a great mother. The kids would come home from school, throw their bags down in the kitchen and make a huge ruckus about their return from the torturous care of teachers at Grove Park Elementary. Deborah would appear from the kitchen with a tray of cookies, perfectly timed to be pulled out of the oven as the kids walked through the door. The most important element of cooking is timing, and Deborah had all the time in the world. It was me that was the problem.

We couldn’t have children for some reason. We’ve been trying for years now, ever since we married six years ago. A small ceremony near Jacksonville, Florida, in the Fall, when it was cheaper and we didn’t have to compete with the April shower lovers marrying under the rain in anticipation of blooming flowers. We wed when the leaves were falling and the trees were stretching to the sky, naked and exposed. The leaves in Florida aren’t as pretty as other states, though. When I rake the leaves in my yard, it’s the hard crunch of dead Sycamore leaves that I fear constantly. I sometimes wished we lived in upstate Georgia or Asheville, North Carolina, so the path to my car would have my walk a driveway paved with yellows and orange and cyan, but instead a drab path that no one would ever write a poem about. Her parents lived in Jacksonville, and I knew she would never want to leave them.

I was nearing the house now and I could already smell the cobbler on my plate. It was strong and familiar, even while passing the cheap burrito stand and Popeye’s chicken and biscuits that usually dominated the aroma of this street. There weren’t any bums out today, which was a huge relief. I always feel really panicked and anxious when a bum approaches my car. I try to look straight ahead at the road, or pretend I’m fiddling with the radio. I was never really fiddling with the radio, because my car had XM satellite radio, and it was always tuned to Octane, 80s rock for lameasses, and it was always at the same volume level. But I wouldn’t have to do that today, I could just drive straight to my wife and my pie and relax on the couch after a long day of data fields and cost benefit analysis of different cooling systems for buildings, which my company sold all over the southeast.

My car and house have great cooling systems. I can’t stand to sweat at all, and being a pretty big guy, almost anything will make me sweat. I always get the Freon in my car filled up at the start of every summer, when young couples are blooming like the wildflowers on Old Jennings Road, after a beautiful holy union at Sacred Heart Church. That’s where I would have my ceremony, if I could. If I were Catholic at least.

I was finally at my house, and all I had to do was traverse the difficult driveway. Whomever built my driveway decided to only use a third of the cement, maybe to cut costs or because they liked the challenge of driving over two narrow concrete ledges. The ledges were surrounded by a mote from last night’s two inch rainfall, and the five inch cliff was too much for my small Hyundai to climb over. I had to drive as straight as an arrow, and I would be home free.

I unlocked my door and opened it slowly, to try to let the aroma waft into my nose slowly. Sure enough it did, weak at first, but growing stronger and stronger as I opened the door wider and wider. I brushed my feet against the doormat that read “Got Dirt?”- a stupid birthday present from a cousin who obviously doesn’t know me. I just couldn’t risk Stephanie dropping by and going berserk over its absence.

Deborah looked great. Really great. It’s her smile, I think. It’s that motherly smile, the smile that makes the cookies taste softer and sweeter. It attracts your eyes, and it was all that you looked at when you talked to her. I asked her for a slice of cobbler before dinner. She knew I was home half an hour early, so she complied. She always does, even if I come home late. It’s that smile.

The cobbler was absolutely superb. I think she gets the peaches from upstate Georgia, where the driveways are littered with leaves the color of strawberries, tangerines, and pears. The state must be sweeter with so much fruit. She used cinnamon in her cobbler, and it made all the difference in the world. She was modest about her cobbler, but it was my favorite dessert. I think I liked it more than Friday pudding, because this tasted softer and sweeter with her smile, softer and sweeter than her vanilla pudding.

A rarely heard my house phone ring, so I was a bit startled by its ring. I hoped it wasn’t a telemarketer or someone from work. It was 8 minutes until 5, so there was a good chance. I wouldn’t answer the phone; I’d just go back to my cobbler. The name was unknown, but the number looked familiar. Not the bad familiar of your boss asking you to come in early, or the aunt who wants to ask you to fix her rain gutters. I answered the phone and heard a stern woman’s voice on the phone. She asked for me specifically, and I said this was he.

I listened intently. She had the test results from Dr. Jones, our family doctor. I was getting frustrated that Deborah didn’t have a bun in the oven, even though we’d been trying for six years. We began taking tests and giving out blood like we were O negative. She said a word I hadn’t heard recently, so I asked her to repeat it. “Diabetes,” she said.

“Diabetes?,” I asked.

“Yes.”

That was all she needed to say. There was a pause on the phone. I didn’t quite know what to say. I had to go in for more tests? I might have diabetes?

She didn’t have the answers I wanted. She couldn’t tell me why my body doesn’t control insulin properly. She wouldn’t tell me why my love was killing me.