The boy would get frustrated with his guardian. He sensed cooking was the gateway to his mother. To who she was. To the reason she came to the states as an adult with her mother, before having Alvin.
But Grandma would not budge. She remembered Alvin’s mom differently. With another kind of pain. It took some time for him to realize his mother was not just his parent, but she was also his grandmother’s child. Her daughter.
Alvin was sure that was impossible to deal with. He was grateful cooking mostly made him feel better. It soon became more than a distraction. Almost a way to fight back. A way to avenge his dearly departed momma.
Creating plates of food was a major fascination, and it was not long before he could not imagine life without being able to turn on the stove at least once a day.
On the rainy afternoon in view, things were going fine. His grandmother was going to pick him up in a couple of hours. The new Hercules animated feature was playing from a projector in the auditorium. Board games were ablaze. And before the snacks arrived, Alvin was able to snag a piece of candy from the Valentine’s Day stash the afterschool counselor had a basket of on his desk.
Lemon-flavored hard candy. One of those neat pieces wrapped in wrinkly, white plastic, and the corresponding trim of the color of fruit the candy was imitating. He heard some kids call it grandma candy once, but his grandmother did not care for them.
For all of his attention to what he had just popped in his mouth, Alvin was not sure what happened next.
Somehow, the candy got to the back of his throat. Unintentionally. His tongue and the roof of his mouth were just starting to suck the candy into nothingness, but the sweet mass wanted to go down his throat early. Though it could not.
The blockage did not hurt initially. He was not quite choking, but the reflex to choke the candy back up was not working.
He tried, then tried a little harder. Nothing. But Alvin did not panic. He imagined freaking out, and the piece of candy getting stuck further. Then he would really have been in trouble.
He breathed through his nostrils. Walked around a little bit. Stayed quiet. Not wanting to attract any attention. Because nothing was wrong. But what existence was this? Was this his fate? Was this going to get more serious? Could he die from such a thing?
If he did die, he would have been with his mother. He would be reunited, and they would be cooking country island food forever. He could show his mom how much he had learned since she had been gone. That could work.
It was starting to hurt. The literal lodge in Alvin’s throat. It did not seem like a great way to go.
Thankfully, it felt like he had some control over choking, even though it also felt like he was drowning. The more he would try to breathe in, the more his lungs would refuse to fill with air.
The snack cart entered the auditorium. And sure enough, it was filled with banana loaves and apple juice. And – for the first time – what looked like chocolate honeybuns.
The ailing boy rushed off. He had to get rid of the candy somehow. How could something so sweet inflict so much harm?
Alvin’s legs took him to the boys’ bathroom. No one else seemed to be around. He walked to one of the sinks and gripped the edge of the basin hard, as he looked himself in the mirror. His eyes were pools, ready to burst with tears of agony. And then he was suddenly in a stall, over a toilet. He needed help.
He was straining not to try to swallow under duress. And as his hands flailed near his face, his mind snapped into decision. He reached two fingers down his throat and – good Lord, the piece of candy and some sour water upchucked from somewhere deep and desperate. The impossible pressure Alvin felt two minutes ago was gone.
He was overwhelmed with relief that he would be able to do mundane things like eat his treats, and poop, and go to sleep that night, safe and sound.
Alvin washed his hands and wiped his face – only to remember the snack cart was probably being ravished – and the revived boy rushed out of the restroom, determined never to savor lemon-flavored hard candy again.
He vowed to eat that personal banana bread loaf like he had never eaten it before. It was going to be the best snack ever.
Chapter 4
It happened again. Alvin thought he was going the way he thought he was supposed to go. Minding his business, but not without listening for something. The way Agent Matts was pushing him in one of their final rendezvous, the cook knew for certain it was almost time to make a move. Dangerously close.
Alvin had even been following Matts’ directions to the letter. No conflating with the tropes of televised detective dramas. And that was hard, because that was most of what Alvin preferred to watch when he had time to watch TV.
“What have you been doing this whole time? I have nothing from you and you’re my deepest guy in on this.”
Matts’ timing was perfect. Usually. When he called out of the blue an hour ago, Alvin’s life seemed to be getting to some semblance of normalcy.
“Deepest guy? Hold up, there’s someone else in on this scheme?”
“You
