S2 Chapter 7: A Recipe for Interpersonal Conflict

AQUILO Season 2 Chapter 7 A recipe for interpersonal conflict. Hospitals feel strange. There's no place that offers a more confusing slice of humanity than a hospital. It's like a marble cake. It looks ordered and uniform on the outside, but once you cut it, you can see how jumbled and mixed up the interior is.

But instead of just being vanilla and chocolate, there's about 20 flavors. And unlike a marble cake, they don't all harmonize well on the palate. I wouldn't say my own experience with hospitals is extensive. Apart from last fall, I haven't had any long stays at a hospital. I've never broken a leg or had a serious illness as a kid. However, I have been the side dish to many of my friends' main course of misfortune.

There's a picture on my phone of my friend Elizabeth in a hospital bed after getting her stomach pumped. I spent a whole night and day with her as she was recovering from that misadventure. Then there are both times I had to take Trevor to the ER. Once for not one, but two fractured metacarpals and the other for a concussion. Both incidents happened while he was playing handyman in our apartment. The list goes on.

All this to say, I've seen the best and worst that hospitals have to offer, and everything in between. It's an international buffet of life. Forget the cliche that people are both born and die in hospitals. It's the smaller things that really hit you. Relationships crumble under the weight of chronic illnesses, or the pressure of treatments that take more out of the patient than the diseases they're meant to cure. Families once broken are mended over the loss of one of their own.

Some people experience the strongest of emotions, love, fear, loss, while others lose their sense of empathy one death at a time. Hospitals are everything, and I can't decide how I feel about them.

So I avoid them like I avoid microwave dinners that come in a box. But sometimes it's late and you don't have all the ingredients for fresh pasta and all the stores are closed. So you make mac and cheese with yellow powder. Sometimes you have to go to the hospital. On the bright side, one place I never have to stop by is the gift shop. When you cook like I cook...

Store-bought chocolates are beneath you, and I hadn't indulged in confectionery since the holidays. It felt good to pull out the Bain-Marie and melt some dark chocolate and make some butterscotch and candied orange. I wasn't going to get any sleep anyway, so... I might as well have a bit of fun. With a small box of homemade chocolatey treats in one hand and a large cup of black coffee in the other, I make my way to the second floor of Aquila's modest hospital. Mr. Valencia?

I whisper the question as I slip into the room. It's only two doors down from where I stayed for a few weeks, but that's little surprise. It's not a very big hospital. Visiting hours are drawing to a close soon and the nurse at the desk said he needed rest anyways. With my luck, he's already sleeping. Lights are low, with only the lamps on nightstands for illumination.

Another patient in the room is sitting up in his bed reading, barely acknowledging my presence with a peek over the cover. Michael also has a book, Life with Picasso, which I suppose must be a memoir. It's resting, open, on his slowly rising chest. His right hand lies on the back cover while his left is at his side. Just as I feared.

I should have cut my shift earlier, but the less time I leave Agnes in charge of my café, the better. You wouldn't happen to have a cup of coffee with you. His words are slurred, and he pushes through the entire question before stirring. He looks like hell, but everyone does when they're in the hospital. His gray hair is a mess, and even his mustache looks like it could use some combing.

There are pouches under his eyes, and his lips have dried blood around where the few stitches are holding them together. He's in sufficiently good spirits to crack a smile. There's an IV in his arm, but otherwise I can't see any machine he might be hooked up to. I do, I say, raising the cup I brought with me. But your nurse cautioned against it at this time of night. However, I did bring you this.

I deposit my box of homemade chocolates on his lap as delicately as I would a newly hatched bird. It's not coffee, but it gets his eyebrows to arch and his smile to widen. Oh my, he says, picking up the box with equal care. Coffee be damned. I much prefer this. You don't even know what's inside. I don't need to. If it's from the Aquilo, it must be good. Maybe it'll help me get back on my feet a little faster, eh?

A wink tells me the real meaning behind his words. Whatever his ailment, he's hoping that I've worked some of Doris's magic into a treat that might heal him. It's not that crazy. I'm sure there's something in that recipe book that could have helped. A subtle little spell to fight off a virus, or the right ingredients to supplement whatever medicine is already doing. But without knowing what he's suffering from, I wouldn't dare play around with that sort of magic. These days...

I'm not even sure I could pull it off. Only if chocolate, nuts, and a few pieces of candied orange have surprise healing properties. His gnarled old fingers work at the knot that keeps the cardboard box closed. The tube from the IV plugged into his hand wiggles with every motion, but Michael seems oblivious to it. Ah well, he says, pulling at the strings. So it won't heal the body, but I'm sure it'll help the soul.

I take a seat on the narrow chair next to his bed. You can almost feel the moments of worry, relief, fear, and grief that this chair has seen. What happened anyways? No one even told me you had an accident. Michael is one of my regular and most supportive customers. I see him every day and we chat a little.

I know he paints, houses, and canvas. I've even ordered a painting from him months ago, though I wonder if I'll ever get it at this rate. But we're not friends. We come from completely different eras and backgrounds and have little to talk about. Though he did visit me when I was in the hospital, and he was there when the Aquilo reopened. It's embarrassing. He starts, picking a chocolate from the box. It has candied orange rind spiraling from the top.

It's intended to be fancy, but Michael seems confused by it. I fainted from exhaustion and dehydration, fell flat on my face and split my lip. To punctuate his confession, he pops the chocolate into his mouth and makes a show of chewing it slowly. Wow, I guess you must have been pushing yourself pretty hard. Or did they find anything else wrong?

They ran blood tests and asked me a million questions. So far, they haven't found anything. Funny thing is, though, I haven't been pushing myself at all. House painting season really picks up in late June and early July when everyone moves. This is supposed to be the calm before the storm. There's a rattle of chocolates being pushed around in the box, victims of Michael digging through them looking for a particular type, or unimpressed with any of them.

In fact, I'm well prepared this year, and I hired some help. Are there any more of the orange ones in there? There are two more, I say, relieved. And there's some salted caramel and walnut ones I think you'll like, too. He nods, his eyes still digging for the bottom of the box. Have you been enjoying your spare time a little bit too much then? I try to make the question sound like a joke, not the desperate prying it actually is.

Truth is, I feel like a teenager trying to find out if my crush has a girlfriend. Not that I think of Michael that way, but trying to get answers without asking the question outright has the same flavor. Wouldn't that be nice? Nah, I'm just training the new guy in painting. Been doing a lot of portraits lately. Portraits? The reason I ordered a painting from Michael Valencia is because he does amazing landscapes.

Beautiful impressionist renditions of hills and woods from Maine and Quebec, along with some soulful images of local farms in the streets of Aquilo. I wanted a painting of the café to put in the café. preferably something that reminded the patrons of the old Aquilo from before I came around. My way to show the community that I may have taken over, but I'm not throwing away the history of the place in the process.

I didn't know Michael painted portraits at all. Yeah, he explains, plucking another orange chocolate from the box. My new employee is a pretty good-looking guy. Makes a good subject. It's almost harder to not paint him. Peter. I blurt out the name. Of course it's Peter. Who else has that kind of effect on people? You're talking about Peter. I am.

I guess we each hired a sibling. I hope I'm not out of line, but I think I got the better end of that deal. Michael winks again, but there's less mischief in it. Perhaps there's even a bit of guilt. Agnes is fine. I defend my employee. I don't know why. Probably because of my pride rather than any loyalty to her. Well, I'm glad you like her, Michael says, his mouth full of bitter dark chocolate.

I'm just happy not seeing her hanging around my studio so much anymore. She hung out at your studio a lot? I don't like where this line of thinking is going, but I'm starting to see the connections, and I worry about the inevitable conclusion at the end. Oh yeah, everywhere Peter goes, she goes. Considering how much they bicker, I'm surprised they can tolerate each other for so long. Well then, I say, concentrating to keep my composure. Glad to get her out of your hair, then.

And now I think I know why Michael Valencia fainted. Or at least, who was the cause? To fire or not to fire? That is the question. Whether it is nobler to can someone for hurting a customer or to keep them employed so you can keep an eye on them. At least I don't think I have to worry about Agnes causing any further harm to Michael.

He's safely tucked away at the hospital until Friday, and then he'll be home for a week to finish his convalescence. What I am worried about is figuring out what Agnes did to Michael in the first place so that I can stop her from doing it to other customers. The easiest way to do that is to keep her close at hand, working at the Aquilo, but that puts her in contact with my clients, and the whole situation becomes one giant, infuriating, circular argument.

Though, if my clientele keeps dwindling like this, by next week I won't even be able to afford her salary. Half of my morning people never even showed up. Which is saying something. On any normal weekday, I already have a line of three to five people waiting in front of the AQUILO's door when I come down from the apartment. This morning, the only person at the door was Dean, and he's not even really one of my regulars.

Ian, the blonde leader of the cloud worshippers, shows up at his regular time, but he's alone instead of accompanied by his usual devotees. Both mayors pick up their usual coffee and breakfast sandwiches on their way to town hall, but like everyone else, they're lethargic and quiet. Well, quieter than normal. It's tempting to ask them what they know about defeating demons.

But I've been advised against asking a convalescing city official about things that are none of my business. The slow trickle of customers happens in hushed tones reminiscent of a funeral. And with each cup of coffee poured and every pastry or breakfast sandwich served, I ask myself the question anew. Do I get rid of Agnes or keep her around until I can figure out how she's doing this?

The oppressive silence in the dining room is such that I lower the volume of the pop folk music I have going on the speakers. My own exhaustion is also catching up to me, and I contemplate hiding in the kitchen to nod off a bit, trusting in the door chimes to stir me if there happens to be a customer. It's a stupid idea, and I push it aside when the mugs behind the counter start rattling and a deep rumble vibrates up from the floor and through my bones. Gulliver.

Prophecied first by the rumbling on Rue Principal, then again by the shadow cast by his truck, the arrival of Edmund Gulliver Kemper is as much a relief as it is unexpected. By the time he walks in, I'm already pouring him a cup of coffee and pulling out the cream and sugar to place by his usual seat. The stool he picks at the counter is the only constant in Gulliver's patronage of the Aquilo. And what brings you here for the...

What is it, third or fourth time this week? Am I not welcome? He asks, taking his seat. Can a man drop by to see a friend? I slide the mug in front of him while rolling my eyes. It's surprising how close to triggering a headache that last one gets. Oh, I'm sure you're here to see a friend, but that friend's shift only starts in an hour. Also, I don't think she's anyone's friend.

It's a strained, forced smile that makes its way onto Gulliver's lips. He's making the kind of face I imagine myself making when completely agreeing with someone, but also wanting to disagree with every fiber of my being. You know, he says, stirring unhealthy amounts of sugar into his coffee. You're being a bit of a hypocrite. Olivia, Helen, and Gulliver are likely the only three people I would allow to get away with that sort of comment.

Even so, I'm tempted to get mad and chew him out as a means of hiding how hurt I am by the attack on my personality. How dare you? I ask, attempting the best mock-wounded tone I can muster. I mean it. You keep making fun of me, but you're the one making pretty eyes at Peter. That's different, though, I protest. Peter is sweet and caring and polite. Agnes is abrasive and petulant, not to mention...

I cut myself off. Gulliver has a peculiar look in his eyes when he sees Agnes. In the last ten months since moving to Aquilo, I've seldom seen him come into town more than once a week, let alone three times. I know that look, and I've seen that behavior. As much as Agnes gets on my nerves, and as much as I worry about what she's done to Michael and might be doing to my customers, there would be no point in arguing about it with Gulliver. Not to mention what.

My hands busy themselves wiping down the clean counter, while I pretend I didn't hear the question. This would be the perfect time for a client to walk through the door, but of course, even the streets look more empty than usual. Miriam? Gulliver insists. Is this that thing about Agnes attacking Peter again? Peter doesn't even have a scratch on him. He's right, and I hate him a little bit for it.

I could have sworn I saw Agnes slash a broken bottle across her brother's face, but Peter showed up at the cafe unmolested. By all accounts, the incident never happened. All accounts except Detective Lemore's. No, it's not that. Well, it kind of is. Listen, Edmund... Gulliver's eyebrows damn near arch their way completely into his hairline, and his eyes grow to the size of quail eggs. No one ever calls him anything but Gulliver, and I, of all people, never called him Edmund. Do you trust me?

I ask. That's the question people ask before they tell you something outlandish, Gulliver explains. So no, I don't trust you, but I'll listen anyway. Fine. I think Agnes is doing something to people in the cafe. I nod my head towards the tables behind him. Stanley Woodworth, a retired local mail carrier, sits alone in a corner, staring down at a full cup of tea. Usually, he'd be on his second drink, arguing with his long-suffering wife as she pretends to hear him.

Next to the window, Melanie Caruso is fast asleep, head balanced precariously on her hand, despite having three empty mugs of coffee on the table in front of her. The same sort of scene repeats itself, with two more clients that might as well be zombies sleepwalking through their morning routines. Come on, you think that little girl is doing that?

The way he looks at me like I'm crazy makes me want to slap him with my spoon. Wouldn't be the weirdest thing in this town. He laughs, but it's not a Gulliver laugh. He doesn't throw his head back and bare his throat. The sound of it isn't loud enough to disturb the whole cafe. Don't you see what's happening here? He asks, using a tone that scratches at my nerves. You have a thing for Peter, and since the two of them don't get along...

Ah, condescension. I'd never heard it coming from Gulliver, so it's a little hard to recognize, but here it is. Whether I have a thing for Peter has nothing to do with it.

My customer started being sleepy and lethargic since she began working here. Michael Valencia passed out because she kept hanging around his studio. You think I'm the one with blinders on? At least Peter's an adult. I speak. before I realize what I'm saying. This is a bridge too far, isn't it? Did I just accuse my friend of being a creep? Then again, I'm not going to call a Vichyssoise dessert.

But maybe there was a better way to bring up the topic. Anything would be better than using it as a weapon in an argument. One thing I should know by now about Gulliver, though, is that he's not like most people. Where most of Aquilo's citizens are odd, I'll give you that their reactions are completely human. They're outraged by outrageous things and frustrated by frustrating things.

What you'd expect to bring them comfort usually does, and they exhibit needs and fears like people do all over the world. So what if a few worship a cloud and others have their harvest festival in the graveyard? It's like Helen Edna said, They're just people, and in many ways, they're normal people. Gulliver is different in the most important ways. The way he looks at and reacts to the world isn't what it should be.

Where one might be offended at the insinuation that he's pining over a minor, this is the kind of comment that snaps Gulliver back into his good mood. Ha! He laughs, his genuine full-throated laugh. You really think that's what's going on? Let me reassure you, Miriam, I have no romantic ambitions towards Agnes. Seriously? This comes as a welcome surprise. The way he'd been fawning over her, I'd have thought Gulliver had fallen for Agnes.

The same way my customers all seem delighted to see her, despite her vitriolic attitude. You always assume the worst of me, he says, and the truth of it stings. But I'm telling you. I don't have a crush on Agnes. Good, I say, making my relief obvious, because I plan on firing her. For a guy who claims not to have a crush on Agnes, Gulliver sure as hell did not take that muse very well.

What's strange or even amusing, if like me, you're lacking sleep, is that an angry Gulliver is a lot less scary than an impatient or confused Gulliver. Maybe it's because I understand anger. I get what he's feeling right now, and that makes it easier for me to anticipate how he'll act and what he might do about it. In this case, it's bellyache, bargain, and complain. Your clients love her, though, he argues. How?

I ask, hoping that maybe the man with a weak spot for my barista has some insight on that subject. She's abrasive, moody, and barely functional as customer service. I'm telling you. You're letting your thing with her brother cloud your judgment. She's not making people sick. You don't know that. Neither do you. He stands and slams his hand flat on the countertop.

The register rattles and the coffee machine jumps a little, letting out a cloud of burning steam in protest. The already near-silent dining room goes completely silent, aside from the sound of shaking dishes and cups. I stand my ground, jaw jutting forward and fists on my hips. I look up at the giant man, daring him to even try to threaten me. Slowly, as if he could somehow do it without me noticing, Gulliver sits back down.

never breaking eye contact, lest I pounce while he looks away. He doesn't apologize, nor does he push an inch further. My guess is that he hopes I'll let it slip. That I'll act as if the outburst didn't happen and move on. But I'm tired and frustrated and confused and my judgment and patience pay the price. This is my place of business and I will run it however I want to.

If I decide that anyone working for me, or anyone who patronizes my establishment, is a problem, I get to decide if they stay or if they leave. The implied threat of being kicked out of the Aquilo isn't lost on Gulliver. And I'm ashamed to admit that, in the heat of the moment, it was a carefully picked choice of words. Gulliver has a strong emotional connection to the café.

He's never been comfortable enough to explain why, or I just have insufficiently pride. It has to do with something Doris did for him. Made him the man he is today. This gratitude extended so far as to cover me for a while.

Though I might have just thrown away whatever final vestiges remained. Just apologize and let me do this, I think to myself. I don't want my friendship with Gulliver to fade away any more than I want the contents of my refrigerator to spoil. I have need of and derive great pleasure as much from the food I keep there as I do from having Gulliver in my life. He just sits there.

not taking a bite of food or a sip of coffee. He doesn't speak and barely seems to listen at all, lost instead in his own thoughts. So focused am I on Gulliver, worried about his next decision, to the point where I start to consider that I should apologize, that I miss the sound of the door chimes.

Instead, it's the sound of bubbly laughter, high pitched and babbling, that snaps me to attention. I know that laugh. It's a welcome sound, what with everyone gripped either with this strange lethargy or irritated at me. and the owner of that laugh is always such a joy to have around. Hey there, little man. I turn towards the door, glad for the excuse to ignore Gulliver. I put on the most sincere smile my tired face can wear.

When I first came to Aquilo, I had to bake a cake. An orange poppy seed honey cake. It was for the widow Remington and time was short, so I asked one of the local kids to run to the store and get me oranges in exchange for a few dollars. That boy was Teddy. He's not exactly a regular customer, but he and his buddies do drop by on occasion for cookies or whatever other treat I might have on hand. I've seen him a handful of times.

usually stocking him up with snacks before he leaves again with his friends on their bicycles. He's a cute and friendly kid, always happy to please people, and happier if he can haggle a small payment in return. But Teddy is not alone. As if I couldn't be more glad to see him. Right behind him, ruffling Teddy's blonde hair, there's Peter. The two of them are smiling like they're sharing a secret joke meant for them alone. Hi, Miriam.

Teddy screams into my quiet dining room. His exuberance and volume is such a welcome contrast to the oppressive mood so far this morning. He's like a dash of seasoning on an otherwise bland to an edible dish. And Peter? He looks like dessert. Or rather he would, but there's something sour in the ice cream. He twists his neck and turns his head, hoping I won't notice, trying to hide it, but...

no amount of morning shadow can mask his face. Good morning, Miriam, he greets, his smile turning bashful. What's this? I ask, pointing to the left eye on my face. While my finger indicates my features, it's Peter's face I'm worried about. His lid is swollen and the skin around his eyes is a morbid shade of purple, kind with splotches of red in it, like shadows on a cloud.

Even his nose has too much color, as if there was too much blood under the skin. This? Oh, that's nothing. He says in such a dismissive way that I'm tempted to take his word and move on. Can you get us some cookies and... Peter turns towards Teddy, giving him the serious look of a man about to make an important decision, but who requires expert assistance. Italian sodas. Orange for me, Teddy demands. Manners, Theodore.

Peter says, reaching for his wallet. Please, Miriam, Teddy adds, gifting me further with an incomplete but no less adorable smile. I take the time to mix water and syrup to make the sodas, but only after setting a plate of cookies a few seats away from Gulliver at the counter. As expected, Teddy skips his way to where the sweets wait for him and climbs on a stool. How do you boys know each other?

I ask, adding ice to their glasses. Oh, Theodore ran an errand for me, so I'm treating him to lunch in exchange. Errand? What kind of errand does an able-bodied man need from a boy? With Mr. Valencia in the hospital, I've had double the work helping with his business. I keep forgetting tools and things, so I had Theodore get them for me. In my defense, I am very new to this job.

His smile changes again, this time to a shameful apology. You've certainly become quite an active part of the community in a short time. My tone isn't exactly needy, but it's not as assured as I want it to be. It doesn't matter. The plea of atonement in his face amplifies, responding to a blame I didn't intend.

It has been busy, but I promised we'd have a rain check on our drink from the other night, didn't I? Oh, that's not what I meant. It's only been a couple of days, and I've been busy too. What I meant was, no, no, he interrupts. We had plans, albeit not very clear ones, but that's on me to get back to you. You're running a cafe, and you gave Agnes a job and all. I can't imagine that's been easy on you. I owe you. Besides...

I've been looking forward to it. Agnes has been great, I lie. I lie in such an automatic way that I can hear myself regret it from the back of my mind. A loud voice in my head admonishing me for the dishonesty. Loud, but insufficient to stop me. The customers love her. I give a silent prayer to whatever gods Doris might have worshipped that now look over the cafe, that Gulliver will shut his stupid mouth.

But apparently, I have yet to secure such favors for myself. That's not what you were saying five minutes ago. Gulliver, shut up. I think the words. I almost speak them, ready to get into whatever verbal sparring match I need to and defend my reputation vis-à-vis Peter, but there's no need. Before I can speak up and try and explain that Gulliver misunderstood me…

or that my opinion of Agnes is more nuanced than what it might appear. Both lies. Peter laughs, loud and boisterous in a way that's reminiscent of Gulliver. That's my sister, all right. He says, taking a breath, polarizing at the best of times. She can be... He hesitates for a moment, as if a memory just snuck up on him, casting a veil of confusion on his meaning.

She can be a bit of a demon sometimes. The word resonates with me. It reminds me that I have an actual demon to worry about, that I'm no closer to figuring out a solution to keep it tame. It's also a reminder of Peter's wound. Not that I had ever completely forgotten it. My hands are still holding his and Teddy's drinks, keeping them as hostages to ensure I get answers. Did she? I point again at my own eye.

Did I what? No one heard the chime. I didn't think about what time it was. I should have expected her to show up. That's what I hired her for, and if she does have one quality, it's being punctual. What are you accusing me of? Agnes asks, stomping towards her brother. Aquilo is written by J.F. Dubot and narrated and produced by me, Amy Frost.

If you enjoy the show, please leave us a review on Apple Podcasts. You have no idea how much it helps. Want to support the show? Buy us a coffee. Visit ko-fi.com slash Aquilo to donate a cup. Questions? Comments? Email us at akewillow at gmail dot com. Follow us on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram under the username Akewillow.