Dinner with Mr. Cochran

 [This is a story meant to shop around for a horror flash fiction contest, but today at work I decided to publish it here. Feel very free to leave any comments. Happy Halloween and thank you. sch 10/28/22]

Mr. Cochran had not fit in with the four of us sharing with him the little cul-de-sac of our retirement community. Yes, he was the new arrival, and we are at the age when novelty has no charm, but there was more to this than his merely being the newest fish in our fishbowl. He had quarrelled with Ivy Simpson about her cat Blackie and when Blackie disappeared, she directly and loudly accused him of having harmed her cat. I saw them arguing in our circle – there was no missing the words she used – and joined my friend in time for her to run out of breath and him reply that he was certain her feline was quite well-preserved. He spoke calmly, without raising his voice, nothing in his demeanor gave any indication of his being anything but a patient, put upon neighbor being unjustly accused, and then he smiled. I noticed his canines were a bit longer than I thought were normal, with the yellow that comes from smoking tobacco. He walked away, shaking his head. I would see that same smile, those same yellowed teeth, when I declined his offer of a date. I am far past the age when men look upon me with any romantic notions, or I expect to excite such notions, so as attractive a figure as he cuts I saw no reason to know him any better than the man who took over Sophie Henderson’s house. Mr. Cochran apologized for being forward, but in his eyes was an anger at being rebuffed. Besides, I knew that Betty Lawson went out with him before she left in a whirlwind, none of saw her leave nor did she even say goodbye to me, for her daughter’s according to the email I got from her. Nor had Mr. Cochran gotten along any better with Max Bergson who has the house between Mr. Cochran and Betty’s empty house. They had gotten into an argument a few days ago over Mr. Cochran digging in his backyard, which Mr. Bergson thought violated the rules of our retirement community. Mr. Cochran said he wanted a garden, a garden quite allowed by our housing association, and put it up to Max to report him. Max lost steam then. Later, that same day, over a glass of lemonade, while sitting on my back patio, Max told me he did not think it was a garden but a hole that Mr. Cochran had dug, there was a pile of dirt that would not exist if it were a garden. We were shocked when the invitations from him arrived, asking us to dinner at his place. He had written he hoped to make an end to the frictions he had caused between people who from living in such close proximity should be on better terms. We were all close to refusing his invitation except for this offering of peace.

We found ourselves on Mr. Cochran’s back patio, sitting at a table, sipping his wine, while he put the final touches to the dinner. He brought out a soup course. This time, I did not hear what he called it. I thought it might be chicken floating amongst the egg noodles and vegetables. I sipped the broth and the man surprised with his cooking. We all found it toothsome. I looked over at Ivy, and she was almost slurping it down. I was taking a second sip from my spoon when Mr. Cochran returned and sat at the head of the table. His appearance was relaxed; he seemed genuinely interested in our liking the soup; there was none of the belligerence we had all been met with from Mr. Cochran. He even smiled, albeit one that kept his teeth behind his lips. Max what was the soup and this time I heard Mr. Cochran say it was gatto soup and went back to smiling without any further explanation. I thrust my spoon deeper into the bowl as I listened to Mr. Cochran explain the main course, a rump roast, worried him, being he thought from an old cow. I looked down in my spoon in time to see something hard and curved floating along with the broth and meat. Bending my head for a closer look, it still took a moment to realize it was a claw. At the same time a childhood memory, a song I thought forgotten, came to mind: Senor del Gatto was a cat. I looked over to Ivy to see her scraping the bottom of her bowl with the soup spoon, savoring what was in her mouth. Max asked was the main course a special dish. I turned my head towards Mr. Cochran to see the lips part, the canines showing as the smile broadened before he told Max it was a special dish, one he called the Henderson Special. His eyes shifted to me and I could not look away. I felt my insides tremble as he licked his upper lip, his eyes now boring into me. It was then I started vomiting.

 sch 10/28