Into the Mist (Into the Mist 1)

“What about you, Stella?” Imani asked.

Stella went to the deep fryer as she spoke. She dumped the cooked fries onto a big flat, baking sheet, salted them, and then dropped more of Mercury’s newly cut potato wedges into the sizzling grease. “I’m with Mercury on marriage not being for me either. I tried it. More than once. Didn’t like it. After my miscarriages and divorces, I meant to adopt, and then a few years ago when I turned forty, I realized I had a hundred plus kids who counted on me every semester.” She moved her shoulders. “They were enough.”

“I didn’t know you’d had miscarriages. I’m sorry,” said Imani softly.

“It was a long time ago,” said Stella briskly.

Imani’s gaze went to Mercury, who shook her head quickly and telegraphed a “let it go” look to her—and as she did, pain sliced through Mercury’s finger when the razor-sharp chef’s knife slid off the side of the spud and into her flesh.

“Damn! Damn! Damn!” Mercury dropped the knife and shook her hand. Droplets of blood dotted the area around her before she grabbed her finger and squeezed.

“What? What happened?” Stella and Imani rushed to her.

“It’s nothing. Just wasn’t watching what I was doing, and I cut myself a little.” Mercury frowned at the red oozing through her clenched fingers.

“Oh shit! Do you need stiches? Should I get the doctor?” Imani peered at Mercury’s finger.

“No! Don’t bother the doc. I don’t think it’s bad; you know how fingers bleed.”

“Just keep pressure on it.” Stella yanked the industrial strength flashlight from its wall mount beside the metal rack of shelves and disappeared into the pantry. “They’re required to have a first aid kit. Aha!” She returned with a large plastic case emblazoned with a red cross. “Come over here to the sink.” Stella rinsed the cut as Mercury cussed and looked away. “You were right. It’s not bad, and fingers do bleed a lot.” She quickly wrapped two Band-Aids around the finger. “Okay, there ya go! I’ll bet I can find some gloves back in that pantry. The bandages will be easier to keep dry if you wear them while you cook.” Stella went back to the pantry, and when she emerged, she tossed a pair of latex gloves at Mercury.

“Thanks.” She pulled on the gloves. “Good as new!” Mercury flexed her hand and only grimaced a little at the pain in her finger. “Where’d you put those Clorox wipes? I bled everywhere.”

“Here ya go.” Imani handed her the container of wipes before she returned to her section of the counter and the bowls of flour and baking powder and whatever else went into making biscuits.

Mercury wiped the blood from her counter. “I’m not usually so damn clumsy.” She bent to follow the trail of her blood spatter. “Oh great. Some of my blood got on the bag of potatoes waiting for me to peel. Hey, you guys remember that scene in True Grit where baby sister refuses to eat the corn dodgers because Rooster Cogburn won’t light a match so she can see if there’s blood on them?”

“That’s disgusting,” said Imani. “And no, I do not know that scene because John Wayne was a racist asshat and my mama refused to let us watch any of his movies.”

“We’re Okies. I think mandatory viewing of John Wayne movies comes with the red dirt we were born on,” said Stella.

“I seriously didn’t know he was a racist until recently,” said Mercury as she crouched beside the netting bag that held a shitload of big, golden potatoes.

“White people,” Imani said with a sigh.

“Right? We’re admittedly stupid about—” Mercury’s hands stilled, and her words broke off.

“About?” Imani said without looking at her. “Want me to fill the next word in for you? About racism, about entitlement, about—”

“Y’all come look at this.”

The flat tone of Mercury’s voice had both women hurrying to her.

“Where’s that really bright flashlight?” Mercury asked Stella.

“I never put it back. Here ya go.” Stella handed it to her, but then moved several feet back. “What’d you find? I really hope it’s not a rat. I hate rats.”

Mercury turned on the flashlight and aimed it at the sack of potatoes. A few of them had green sprouts pushing up through the plastic netting.

“Huh. Weird that there are some old potatoes in that bushel, but whatever,” Stella shrugged. “We can’t be that picky. Unless they feel mushy, just cut the sprouts off and go ahead and use them. Jesus—I was sure it was a rat.”

“But that’s the thing. There weren’t any sprouts on them when we dragged them from the pantry. I know. I’ve peeled and cut half of the bag,” said Mercury as she squatted and lifted out one of the sprouted spuds. “You can still see some of my blood on it.” She reached for another potato. “This one too.” She held it up so Stella could take it from her.

“Lemme see one,” said Imani.

Mercury handed her a potato. She fished three more sprouted spuds from the bag, along with two that had nothing growing from them. “Look, these two are like all the rest in the bag.” She put the two perfect potatoes on the counter. “And these three, plus the two you’re holding all came in contact with my blood.”

Stella studied the potatoes. “The sprouted ones are as firm as the rest.” She shined the flashlight on the bag. “None of the others are sprouted.” Stella hefted them in her hands. “This is weird. They don’t feel different—older or anything—than the others.”