In Lieu of Diamonds — Chapter I

I stood, staring incredulously up at the "house," if one could consider it that. We were going to live here? Not only was the building a fraction of the size of our old mansion, it looked like no one had done maintenance of any kind in years.

The paint, a horrendous shade of yellow, was peeling off of the outside walls in the corners. One of the windows in the front was boarded up, and through the other I could see filthy, moth-eaten curtains hanging limp over cracked glass. Didn't the last owners know how to take care of a house?

Father gazed up at the house as well, and I could tell he wasn't happy, either. In an effort to spare the family fortune, he had taken the cheapest place he could tolerate. Father was extremely finance-oriented, especially now that the business had gone bankrupt, but surely this was too much?

"Here we are!" Mother was obviously miserable already. Her smile looked forced, which I hadn't thought possible. Mother had paid good money for a perfect smile and unrelenting optimism.

How could we have fallen so far so fast? One moment we were living in the wealthiest neighborhood in the city, and now were going to live like dirt. Hackers had somehow infiltrated the security system of the bank run by our family. That wasn't supposed to be possible. The system should have been perfect. Nevertheless, more than half of the money we were supposed to be protecting had been stolen. Father had been sued repeatedly, and the last of our clients had rapidly withdrawn their money.

Now we were here.

None of us said anything else, just trooped into the house. The front door led into the living room, if that's what it was. The inside was, if anything, worse than the outside. All the rooms were bare and dusty, the wallpaper falling off the walls in strips, and a pungent smell hung in the air.

Father cleared his throat. 

"We'll be living here for a while, just until we can get back on our feet. Unfortunately, Anne has faced a... delay, so we won't have any hired help until tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? What are we supposed to do until tomorrow? We can't live here while it's filthy like this! And what are we going to do for dinner? There are no decent restaurants around these parts!" Mother was in  hysterics, another thing I wouldn't have thought possible. In addition to her stunning beauty, perfect smile, and incredible optimism, Mother had invested thousands of dollars into an impeccably controlled temper.

"It'll be fine, love. We'll survive until morning with the mess, and I'm sure we can cook dinner somehow." Father's calm, reasonable tone sounded the same as it always had, even though his words were completely worthless. Mother would go crazy in this sort of mess, and none of us knew where to buy food, let alone how to cook.

"Chris, son," he turned and addressed me. "I hate to ask this of you, but could you go find a... a store, or something? You can practice using that charisma I bought you."

"Alright, Father."

When I was born, the doctors had taken a genetic aptitude test. Apparently, I would develop skills for visualizing space, accurate recall, and linguistic eloquence. These skills would come in handy if I went into art, architecture, writing, public speaking, or anything involving foreign languages. These talents would not be particularly useful to a banker, however, and therefore not useful to me if I was to inherit the family business. Father intended for me to take over the company, so he purchased a better skill set to be applied as soon as I was old enough for the surgery. The extra charisma was a recent addition; after the hackers tore the bank apart, Father thought I might need to talk my way out of a situation. I was still practicing that.

I recalled a couple of things from my history books. Supposedly, the discovery of a way to surgically install certain abilities and personality features in the brain had been made about forty years ago, in the year 2017. Since only the wealthiest could afford the surgery, a couple generations of wealthy families became better suited to their jobs, and therefore richer. They soon took over most high-paying jobs, knocking those without improved abilities into lower incomes. Over time, the rift between the wealthy and the poor grew wider and wider, until people divided into a state of near-segregation.

"Oh, honey, do be careful." Mother's maternal alterations kicked in as I stepped out of the house and back onto the street. Our taxi had gone, and I was alone in a strange neighborhood.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and searched for directions to the nearest food store. The reception here was poor, but I managed to pull up a map to the nearest grocery store. Apparently there was one right down the street. I had a pretty good sense of direction. My natural ability to visualize space was more useful than Father had guessed it would be.

As I walked, I looked around. The street was mostly deserted this time of day, I supposed since most people would be at work and their children at school. Father had yet to enroll me in a school, but I believed he was considering sending me to a public school rather than a private one and tutoring me himself.

Although there was almost no one on the street, I still passed a few people, and I couldn't help but be scared and a little disgusted by them. Homeless men and women sat on street corners, looking like they had just crawled out of the sewers. People with tattoos and bulging muscles glared at me as I passed. I avoided eye contact and shuffled to the other side of the street whenever I saw someone like that.

Just by glimpsing strangers like this as I walked by, I could tell they were all vastly different from me. They didn't seem to care how they held themselves; all of them slouched or leaned against walls. They openly glared or stared at me. I instinctively wanted to slouch, too, to make myself smaller, but my artificial confidence stopped me. I strode, chin up, down the street, past the dilapidated houses and nerve-wracking people.

It took me about ten minutes to reach the food store. Whitford's Groceries read a sign over the doorway. The building was small, and looked even less hygienic than my new home. I wasn't sure I could eat anything purchased from a store like this. Surely food from a place like this would make even my family, with our enhanced immune systems, severely ill? But I didn't want to walk past any more of the frightening people, and I wanted to get home as soon as I could. I opened the door, a bell jingling as I did so, and stepped into the shop.

The place looked a bit better on the inside than it did from the exterior. The floor was clean and all the products neatly shelved. Behind a high counter near the door sat a light-haired man, somewhere in his thirties, probably. He glanced up from a book when he heard the bell ring. He looked surprised when I walked in, but he quickly composed himself and walked out from behind the counter to greet me.

"Good mornin', sir, how can I help ya'?" It was actually afternoon, not morning, but I felt it would be best not to correct him.

The man spoke with an accent typical of the poorer districts, meaning he frequently chopped off the last consonant of various words. I had never understood why anyone did that. Just say the words normally. He looked a bit nervous, stuffing his hands in his pockets and scrunching his face up a bit. He was obviously trying to hide it, and he might have succeeded if I hadn't been trained to recognize emotions.

"I'm looking for... um... cooking supplies?" I had no idea what one would buy for dinner. Did we want to try to cook something, or just find something ready-made?

The man looked confused and even a little suspicious of me, but the latter was quickly hidden. "Er, well, yeah. Anything in particular, or...?"

"Uh... well I'm... what do I need to cook lasagna?" I threw out a meal at random, something I hoped was simple enough for my parents and I to figure out.

There was an awkward pause at this point. "Well," the man began slowly, "you'll need the right kind of pasta, spaghetti sauce, cheese, sausage and the like. Some seasonin' wouldn't hurt, either. Do you need help findin' any o' that?"

"Yes, please." 

The man led me down an aisle lined with various cans, each of them stacked in tidy rows and sorted by brand. Many of the foods appeared to have been made locally, which was to say, they appeared cheap and a little dangerous to consume.

We stopped beside a set of shelves holding jars of tomato sauce. I looked for brands I might recognize, but didn't find any, so I just grabbed the best-looking jar I could see. I certainly wasn't taking anything "local" back to the house.

Locating the rest of the items was a similar ordeal. The man had to tell me what pasta would be used for lasagna and what sort of cheese I would want. He was very patient. Being led around the store, learning these things, I started to believe that this man could somehow help me. He seemed kind enough, and he answered all of my somewhat-stupid questions with exceptional patience. He even told me how to cook the lasagna, even though I didn't ask. He must have sensed that I was clueless. By the time I had everything, he seemed fairly comfortable talking with me.

I swiped my phone over the counter-top scanner to pay for everything. I didn't know what sort of deal I was getting, but I noticed that the meat cost a fair bit more than anything else. 

Acting on a whim, I asked the man's name as I paid. The suspicious look in his eye returned, but he must have decided I was alright, because he told me.

"Greg. My name's Greg Whitford."

"So this place could have been called Greg's Groceries instead?"

"No, it couldn't have. I would never name my place 'Greg's Groceries.' I have standards." He smiled as he said this, like it was some sort of a joke. "How 'bout you, kid? You got a name?"

"Chris. Chris Maleek." 

"Well, nice to meet ya' Chris. If ya' don' mind my askin', what's a guy like you doin' here?"

"Um..." I thought about how to explain it. I didn't want to lie to Greg, but I wasn't sure I wanted to admit that I lived here now. In the end, I just told the truth. "I'm new in the area. I just moved in earlier today."

Greg looked confused. "Well, ya' seem like an alright kid. You just swing by if ya' need anythin', right?"

"Okay, thank you Mr. Whitford."

"It's just Greg, kid."

"Oh. Alright." The bell jingled as I stepped out the door.

- - - - -

Going back to the house was much the same as walking down to the store. People either openly stared at me, or pretended that they weren't staring at me. Mostly they avoided me though, which was fine because I was trying to avoid them as well.

Mother and Father abruptly stopped talking when I walked into the living room. Mother rushed over and hugged me, as if she thought I might have died on the way to the store. Actually I had been worried about that, too. Father cleared his throat and opened his mouth as though he were about to say something, then closed it. 

"Dear," Mother said to me, "we have something we want to discuss later."

"That's fine, Mother. I have ingredients for lasagna here, and I found out how to cook it."

"Oh, wonderful! We can have a decent meal tonight. I don't know where the kitchen is, could you find it, dear?"

"Alright, Mother." She turned back to Father and the two muttered to each other conspiratorially while I opened doors at random in search of the kitchen. There weren't many doors in the house, so it didn't take long, and I found it with the second try.

I had expected to see rotten food lying around the kitchen. Luckily there was none, but there was a thick layer of grime and dust coating every surface. It would have to do. After opening a few cabinets, I dug up a baking pan that looked like it might work. I turned on the faucet so I could rinse it off, but the water ran a musty grey color, and I thought better of it. The germs would surely cook off, anyway. Hopefully.

I remembered Greg's instructions. Preheat oven to 375 degrees. The oven was ancient, and I wasn't sure it would even work, but I tried it anyway. I fiddled with the buttons until a number 375 flashed on the little screen.

The rest of the mixing was a flurry of mincing and mixing and layering, until I had something that vaguely resembled uncooked lasagna. I opened the oven. The number 375 was still flashing on the screen, but the oven didn't really feel hot enough to cook anything. Actually, it still felt room-temperature. Was the oven broken? I closed the door and stared at the buttons on the screen. I saw one that read start, so I pushed that one. Preheating read the screen. I felt a little stupid, but at least I had the oven going, so maybe we would eat tonight.

I remembered something else Greg had told me about cooking lasagna. It'll need about two and a half hours in the oven. Stellar. I covered the pasta mish-mash with a towel and wandered back out to the living room while the oven preheated.

"Oh, did you get dinner going, dear?"

"Yes, Mother, but it's going to take a while."

"Ah, then I suppose we have time to chat, don't we?" Mother looked uncomfortable, Father even more so.

"What is it?" These two were making me nervous now.

"Well, you see, dear..." Mother trailed off.

"She's not coming," Father said in a rush.

"Who's not coming?"

"While you were gone, I received a message. From Anne. She's not coming."

"She's... not coming? Why not?"

"She resigned. She won't be coming back."

I stood for a moment, dumbfounded. Anne had been responsible for our housekeeping as long as I could remember. She was the only servant we hadn't dismissed when the company fell apart. Why would she leave us now, of all times?

A beep from the kitchen shook me out of my stupor. The oven must be ready, I thought vaguely. I wandered back to the kitchen without another word.

The oven's screen was now displaying the number 375 in a violent shade of green. I opened the oven. It certainly felt 375 degrees now. Wary of hot metal, I slid the pan into the oven and closed the door. Did I have to hit any more buttons, or would the oven work on it's own now? 

Whatever, I decided. I set a timer on my phone for two and a half hours. Then I just stood in the kitchen. Well... there's no hired help. I suppose... I'll clean the kitchen?

As it turned out I didn't really know how to clean a kitchen. I gave up trying to scrub the grime off the counter-tops when I remembered that the water was no good. I turned the faucet back on and let the water run. After a while, something must have happened, because the water actually looked a almost clear. Maybe with enough filtering and boiling, we could drink it safely?

I rummaged around in the cabinets some more until I came up with a pot. I filled it with water and set it on one of the stove's burners. I tinkered with the dials until the a separate screen on the oven blinked to indicate that the stove was on. I couldn't see any real difference between on and off, but maybe the stove just took time to heat up.

I put another pot on the other stove-heater-thing, and drifted back out to the living room. My parents were standing in silence now. I stood with them, and none of us said anything. I considered telling them about Greg, but I decided against that idea. Mother wouldn't want to know that I had spoken to anyone while I was gone.

After a long while, the beep of the oven called me back to the kitchen. The water on the stove had been boiling for a long while, and I flicked both stove and oven off. I took up the cleanest towel I could find and carefully pulled the pasta-abomination out of the oven. And an abomination it was. It didn't look like any lasagna I had ever seen, and it certainly didn't look edible. It was dinner, though.
I used a little of the hot water to rinse some plastic cups and plates I had found in a cupboard, and poured a little water into three cups. I dished lasagna onto three plates and took it all out to the living room.

We all sat in uncomfortable silence on the floor. It was the worst lasagna I had ever tasted, but I was proud of it. If I kept up at this rate, we might just survive this little ordeal and get back on our feet.