Drawtober 2022: Midnight Cravings

Sm. Pickle Pie pizza, 1. Ranch on the side. Cheesy breadsticks, 1. For delivery.

Robbie stared at the order, his stomach churning. Cheese Louise Pizza had a wide variety of pizzas to choose from, but the Pickle Pie was probably his least favorite. There was something deeply unholy about pickles on pizza.

“Hey, Robbie, we don’t have all night.” Suzanne, the shift manager, came up behind him and yanked the printed order out of his hands. He let her. Suzanne had the appearance of a cactus with a demeanor to match, and Robbie had no intention of being on the receiving end of her barbs tonight.

She stared at the receipt and made a face. “Ugh, this bitch again,” she said, turning and walking back into the kitchen.

“What bitch?” Robbie asked, trailing after.

“She always orders when we’re almost closed. She lives on the edge of town. Technically in delivery range. But her house is hella creepy. It’s the old Marshway place, up on the hill.”

“Someone lives up there?” 

“Yeah, I guess she moved in, like, six months ago.” Suzanne squinted at the clock and sighed. “And she did get the order in before midnight. So I guess we’re stuck with it.”

“But Sean isn’t back yet.” Sean was supposed to be the main delivery driver that night. He was a chill guy, but he usually took his time driving back.

Suzanne didn’t say anything at first, just eyed him up and down, and Robbie had the uncomfortable feeling of raising his hand in class when no one else had.

“You’ve driven delivery before, right?”

His heart sank as he imagined scrubbing pickle-smell out of his car. “Yeah,” he said reluctantly. “I can take it.”

“‘Atta boy,” Suzanne said, punching him lightly on the shoulder.

For all that he hated it, the Pickle Pie was surprisingly easy to make, and he lost himself in the smell of the dough, the distribution of the sauce, making sure everything fit together just right (even if he despised adding the pickles). Making the pizzas was his favorite part—if he didn’t have to interact with the customers, this might have been his ideal job. While he pulled the pizza from the oven, wincing at the potent smell, Suzanne boxed up cheesy breadsticks.

“Just head home after the delivery,” Suzanne said, handing him the box. “And I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

Despondent, Robbie nodded. Tucking the breadsticks and pizza into a Cheese Louise-branded plastic bag, he grabbed his car keys and trudged out to his car. The Honda Civic had seen much better days, and the car door screeched like a cat when he pulled it open. He set the bag on the passenger seat (buckling it in so it wouldn’t slide everywhere), plugged the address into the GPS on his phone, and pulled out of the lot.

Chester, Iowa was not where Robbie had intended to spend his life. The town wasn’t bad, nor was it great. It wasn’t much of anything, really. Not very big or very small, not a lot going for it other than being a stop between Cedar Rapids and Dubuque. A waystation, one Robbie hadn’t meant to get stuck in. He had worked in most of the food joints in town, with Cheese Louise the most recent addition to that list. He hadn’t gotten fired or anything. Robbie just got…bored. And once he got bored, he usually quit.

The GPS took him down mainstreet and out into fields of corn and soybeans. To his right, he passed a dark pasture with huge barrels of hay standing like sentinels in the night. He rolled down the window, breathing in the chilly fall air. It was mid-October, his favorite month. Everything felt possible in October. It was maybe the only time during the year where the apathy in his chest—the craving for something different—felt eased.

The turn for the Marshway place came up on his right, and Robbie let his car roll to a stop at the base of the hill. Up at the top, its silhouette carved against the sky in shades of gray and black, was the house.

In hindsight, Robbie should have been more nervous about going up to the old Marshway place. It was the kind of house kids would ding-dong-ditch on Halloween, daring each other to set foot on the porch. Three stories tall, with iron railings along the roof, it looked a little bit like the Addams Family mansion. Robbie had thought the only residents were spiders and ghosts, and maybe a disgruntled raccoon or two. He’d driven past the house a couple of times, and he didn’t remember ever seeing lights on before.

This time, though, there was a dull orange glow flickering behind some of the windows of the house’s three stories.

Taking a breath, Robbie grabbed the plastic bag and pushed open his car door, wincing as the hinges yowled. The night air was cold, biting at his legs and arms and face as he trudged up the dirt path to the house. The front porch sagged in the middle, as though too exhausted to keep itself upright anymore. He crossed the deck gingerly and pressed the doorbell.

Nothing happened.

Shifting from foot to foot, skin goosepimpling from the chill, he tried again.

Still nothing.

“Shit,” he murmured. The bell must be broken.

Balling up his fist, he hammered on the door. He paused, waiting and listening, his teeth starting to chatter.

Just as he was getting ready to raise his hand again, the door opened, sending a cascade of light spilling over the porch. Robbie squinted in the sudden onslaught.

A woman stood there, framed by the doorway. She was younger than he would have expected, with wild orange hair currently trying to escape a small, black hat. A pair of glasses teetered on an arched nose, and she wore a long, black dress—or, at least, it would have been black if it weren’t covered in a variety of multi-colored stains. On her feet, incongruously, were a pair of old bunny slippers.

She looked at him hopefully. “Pizza?”

“Umm, yeah.” He held out the bag, then recalled himself. “Cash or card?”

The woman fumbled in her dress, withdrawing a clump of bills and handing them to him without bothering to count. She held out her hand for the bag.

“What are you making in there?” Robbie asked, tucking the wad of bills away. A god-awful smell was wafting out the open door.

At his question, the woman, who’d been in the process of pulling out the box of cheesy breadsticks, burst into tears. She sat down heavily on the doorstep, her knees splayed wide, the bag cradled between them, and wept in long, loud wails.

“I just can’t get it to work,” she sobbed. “And I’m so hungry!”

Robbie stared at her, his throat gone dry. Briefly, he considered sprinting back down the dirt path to the safety of his car. After all, he’d signed up to deliver the pizza, not offer emotional support along with it. And yet—

“Are you cooking something?” he asked nervously.

“No! Well, yes. Kind of?” She sniffled, grabbing one of the complimentary napkins from the bag and blowing her nose loudly. “It’s complicated.”

Robbie drew in a deep breath. “Do you need help?”

She blinked, staring up at him as though seeing him for the first time. “You would help me?” she asked.

“Well, I kind of cook a lot. And some recipes can be really complicated, so…” He gulped, trailing off. What was he doing? It was nearly midnight, and he’d been working for seven hours. Why on earth would he bother helping this random woman? Only she looked so pathetic sitting there. And anyone who’s favorite pizza was the Pickle Pie clearly didn’t know their way around a kitchen.

“So, if you need help, I can help,” he finished lamely. “Plus it’s, like, really cold out here.”

“Oh.” The woman wiped her nose with the napkin, standing and grabbing the bag. “Yeah, come on in. You can get warmed up at least.”

Robbie followed the woman into the old Marshway place. To his surprise, the inside was a lot nicer than the outside. The old wooden staircase gleamed as though newly polished, and cozy rugs covered well-swept wood floors. He trailed the woman through the house, back into the old kitchen. The smell got worse and worse as they walked—something caught between old eggs and spoiled meat—and as they entered, Robbie could see why.

The kitchen was an utter mess, with dirty bowls and plates piled haphazardly around it. There was a dark spill of something on the floor, and a spread of used ingredients on the counter. Not to mention the cat—black as a shadow—that had draped itself over a massive cookbook on the table.

The thing that really caught his attention, though, was the cauldron. It sat, bubbling away like anything, in a huge fireplace at the far end of the kitchen. And finally, like a match being lit, his brain made the connection that he should have made the moment he saw the woman.

“You’re a witch,” he said, staring at her as she shoved stuff back on the counter to make room for the pizza box.

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” She smiled tiredly. “What gave it away?”

“The cauldron.”

“Really? Not the hat?” She poked at the drooping black thing and sighed. “I guess I’m not looking my witchiest right now, am I?” She sighed, slumping into a chair beside her kitchen counter and displacing a metal bowl in the process, sending it rattling to the floor. “I’m kind of a mess.”

Robbie steeled himself. Sure, this wasn’t exactly what he’d signed up for. But no one was at their best at midnight. And he had offered to help.

“You’re not a mess,” he said firmly. “But this kitchen is. No wonder you can’t get your spell—or whatever—to work. Nobody can function in a dirty kitchen. Why don’t you eat something, and I can start cleaning up, and then you can show me what you’re trying to make?”

The witch stared up at him, wide-eyed. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.” Robbie smiled and headed towards the sink, rolling up his sleeves. “I’m Robbie, by the way.”

“Agnes,” the witch said. “Nice to meet you, Robbie.”

She pulled out the Pickle Pie pizza with a contented sigh, flipping the top open while Robbie unearthed an apron from under a tottering tower of pots and pans. It was a little damp, but it would at least protect his uniform. He approached the sink with trepidation, picking up the moldy sponge that was languishing beside the faucet.

“Do you have anything a little newer?” he asked, turning to Agnes. “This won’t really clean anything.”

Agnes, face full of pizza, swallowed and nodded. “Under the sink. I think. Hold on.” She snapped her fingers, and the doors of the cupboard flew open. A new, purple sponge floated out, hanging in the air in front of Robbie. He tried not to shy away from the obviously magical display.

“Thanks.” Robbie snatched it out of the air, chucked the old one in the bin beneath the sink, and got to work.

To her credit, once Agnes finished her pizza, she was willing and eager to assist in tidying up. She banished the cat (whose name was either Sebastian or Seymour, Robbie wasn’t sure) to the living room, and began scrubbing away industriously at various stains on the counters. 

“What brought you to Chester?” Robbie asked, starting to hang pots and pans above the kitchen’s unearthed island.

“Umm, this house, actually. It came into my possession recently, and I needed a place to stay.”

“Where were you before this?”

Agnes shrugged. “Kind of all over? I get bored pretty easily. But I’m trying to stay in one place for a while, you know? Even witches—maybe even especially witches—need roots.”

She pulled the big book towards her and pointed at the page it was opened to. “This is what I’m trying to make.”

Robbie, drying his hands on a dishtowel, came and looked. He read through the recipe, then read it again.

“These are just…cookies.”

“Yes.”

“Just cookies.”

“You don’t have to sound so judgemental,” she said defensively. “I’ve never been a very good baker. I’m learning.”

Robbie blushed. “Sorry, I just…I figured it would be something more magical.”

“Oh, these are magical, trust me.” Agnes ran a hand over the page. “This is my grandmother’s recipe. She used to live here. And now that she’s gone…”

The witch trailed off, a shake in her voice, and Robbie realized what she’d meant when she said the house had come into her possession recently.

“It’s okay,” he said gently. “Cookies are hard. I’ll help you. But lesson one of cookies: you don’t bake them in a cauldron.”

Agnes gave a choked laugh. “Okay, fair enough.” She straightened up, taking off her hat and pulling her hair into a wild orange ponytail. “Tell me what to do.”

The baking began. Robbie showed Agnes what it meant when a recipe said “fold in eggs gently,” and Agnes showed Robbie that witchery was good for turning sour milk good again in a pinch. The cookies were in the oven, and the timer dinged just as the sky outside was starting to lighten. The repugnant odor Robbie had smelled when he’d arrived was replaced with the scent of cinnamon and cardamom as Agnes pulled the cookies from the oven. A look of pleased wonder spread over her face as Robbie began lifting them off the baking sheet and onto the wire rack to cool.

“Do you want one now?” he asked, holding one out to the witch on the spatula. “They’re going to be nice and gooey inside.”

“Sure. But let’s plate them and sit outside. I want to watch the sun come up.”

The witch produced a pair of chipped porcelain plates decorated with bats and bones from one of her cabinets. She poured two glasses of milk (it wasn’t spoiled, she promised) and Robbie followed her outside as the sun was starting to come up over the hills. They bit into the cookies, and he hummed with delight.

“Well, you were right. These are m—”

He broke off as Agnes let out a soft sob next to him on the porch. The witch, cookie held up in front of her with a bite out of it, was crying softly.

“They’re a little lumpy,” Agnes hiccuped. Then, “She would have loved them.”

Robbie set his plate down and gingerly scooted next to Agnes. He put his arm around her, and she cried quietly into the apron. The sun rose, bathing the porch in a rosy morning glow, and the milk glasses sat untouched next to them.

Agnes’s cries subsided after a minute. He felt her take a breath.

“She taught me to be a witch,” she said. “She taught me how to cast and make potions, and she taught me how important aesthetics were. Your house absolutely has to look the part, or no one will believe you. And then I went off, trying to be my own witch somewhere else, somewhere new. And she died here, without me.”

Robbie bit his lip. He wasn’t really cut out for this. He was a pizza guy, sometimes pizza delivery guy when Sean was late getting back. Not a witch counselor. But he did know what it was like to let people down, to feel like you should have been better for them.

“She would have been proud of you,” he said finally. “You’re a great witch. I mean, you’ve definitely got the aesthetics down to an art!”

She laughed wetly, slipping out from under arm and wiping her red face with a sleeve. “Thanks, Robbie. And thank you for staying. You didn’t have to.”

“Eh, it was a slow night. Besides, seeing you do magic was pretty cool.”

She smiled. “I could teach you, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, you can bake, which is more than I’m capable of.”

“Not true, you baked too!”

“That’s a bit of a stretch.”

“It is not. You whisked! Whisking is, like, half of baking.”

“How about this?” Agnes said, holding up her glass of milk to him. “I’ll teach you magic and you can teach me baking? How does that sound?”

Robbie smiled. That hard, bored knot in his chest was unwinding with her words. He picked up his own glass, raising it to her.

“That sounds just perfect.”