Onions and Rendered Butter

Jacek had time to make pierogi because he got out of work so early. Mr. Caudill had closed the butcher shop at four o’clock and Jacek received two hours off with pay. Mr. Caudill planned to take Mrs. Caudill out to dinner at a restaurant that overlooked the city and the Ohio River. He wanted time to stop and buy flowers on his way home.

Jacek situates his plate and fork onto a drying rack on the counter near the sink. The kitchen remains clouded with the thick fragrance of onions and rendered butter.

Jacek stretches plastic wrap across a bowl containing the remaining pierogi. He puts the bowl into the refrigerator next to several cuts of meat wrapped in brown paper. Other than a few root vegetables and cans of beer his shelves seem empty.

He stares inside the refrigerator for a moment; the icebox door has grown over with frost. Somewhere in the back, he thinks, are a quart of ice cream some frozen peas. Neither is still good. Even before it looked like a remnant of the ice age he did not use the freezer much.

He sits at his desk and Jacek takes off his shoes and socks. He rubs his feet. The tough calloused heels are like sand paper. Often times as he lays in bed, Jacek uses his brittle heels to scratch his legs. This work surprisingly well.

He opens a long rickety drawer from his old desk and pulls out his toenail clippers. He handles the clippers awkwardly despite being a man who spends his days cutting meat. He wrestles with each toe trying to pin it in the best position. He forces the stainless steel deep into his nail bed without regard for discomfort. He clamps the device down and fractures off each nail in turn.

One by one, he places each fractured clipping on this desktop calendar; he gathers them up within the box labeled “14”. Why does this day mean so much, he wonders. Not just to Americans, even back home. Before Wałęsa came to power, it meant nothing. Of course, Jacek was only a boy then. Maybe he has forgotten. Anyway, there is no point being sour, his mother had often told him this.  

Jacek rolls up his left pant leg and examines his calf. He looks for signs of discoloration. The leg appears to be normal. He wonders if the rash on his leg will flower again or if he has finally cured it. No woman wants a man with a rash on his leg.
His bare feet drag along the wooden floor as he walks to the couch.  He eases himself down, shifting his weight onto the flat cushions. Jacek pulls an old blanket over his feet. He turns on the television without thought and idly thumbs the remote.

Jacek’s hands ache from the dull February cold. Although the furnace is running, the room is 63 degrees. Jacek sees no reason to heat his apartment any more than this. He has clothes – he knows to layer. The blood has moved to my stomach to digest with the pierogi, he tells himself, it will return to my hands when it can.

He wonders if Mr. Caudill is enjoying his dinner with Mrs. Caudill. Are they be able to see the beautiful river, or is the city too much like the night sky: distant lights in a field of black?

Mr. Caudill must be happy, he thought, he has Mrs. Caudill. Jacek has no one. He does not meet many woman. He tries to think of anyone he might court.

Once while he was at the department store a woman had spoken to him for a few minutes when they were both looking at frying pans. She had green eyes and spoke with a lisp. He knew about the frying pans but he could not find the words to ask her on a date. In any case, his leg had the rash on it then so he knew there was no point.

He remembers that the nurse in the hospital was nice to him. She had brown curly hair and gentle smile. He met her the day Mr. Caudill had sent him to the hospital when everyone thought Jacek was having a heart attack. But nurses are always nice. It meant nothing.

How many times had Jacek mistaken a nice woman for a something else? He knows not to trust himself when this happens. Jacek has learned it is important for a man to know when to trust himself. He trusts his blood will return to his hands soon. He squeezes his fists hoping to find that some color will arrive in his knuckles.  
At work, he spoke to people – if Mr. Caudill was busy. Maybe the old women had daughters. Why not? Then he thinks of the woman who buys sausage every week. Yes. She had smiled at him from time to time. When she did he felt like a little boy.

Maybe that, he thought, might become something.

Back in his homeland, Women’s Day was only three weeks away. On that day, the men of Krakow would bring flowers to their sweethearts as they have done for so many years. His father brought flowers to his mother. It was fitting.

Maybe the woman who buys sausage would like some tulips for Dzien Kobiet.