Free The Battered Body by J. B. Stanley Page A

hundred and sixty dollars an ounce, but I brought two bottles along, as I fully expected to encounter foul odors here in the country .”
    “The dogs’ll only jump up on you if you’ve got dead animals draped across your collar or raw liver stuffed in your pockets. No need to go wastin’ your fancy scent on our local mongrels,” Jackson answered with a twinkle in his eye.
    James couldn’t help but smile over how much Jackson seemed to be enjoying Paulette’s company. It was as if having someone around with a similar acerbic personality influenced the old man to adopt an attitude of playfulness and good humor. “Just keep things simple while you’re here, Diva. It’ll ease your way. Folks are friendly as church mice ’til you get their backs up. Then they’re slow to forgive,” he added, gesturing at James. “There’s no call for you to be pickin’ fights with my boy’s friends. They’re good people. All of ’em. Ya hear?” He turned to Milla and winked. “I’m done speech-makin’. We ’bout ready to eat?”
    “Yes, dear heart. I just had to reduce this sauce until it was ready to pour over the beef. And now it is. Voilà!” Milla set a plate filled with a serving of Paulette’s beef Wellington in front of Jackson. “See? I know French too.”
    James eyed the golden-brown pastry and inhaled the scents of wine, meat, mushrooms, onion, and cooked butter. He spread his snowman napkin onto his lap in anticipation. “This entrée isn’t low-calorie is it?” he asked Milla as she handed him his plate.
    “Not even the teeniest bit,” she answered happily, placing a dish of steamed asparagus in the center of the table.
    “ None of the world’s finest prepared foods are completely low-calorie,” Paulette added, and she opened her napkin with a flourish as she stared at James’s paunch. “Are you concerned about the caloric content for a specific reason?”
    Nodding, James speared a piece of succulent meat with his fork and admired its pink center as he swirled it around in the fragrant drippings coating the bottom of his plate. “Starting tomorrow, I’m going to be keeping track of everything I eat, so tonight, I feel a bit like a man going to the gallows. This is the last meal I can eat without paying attention to the food’s nutritional content.” He put the meat in his mouth, reveling in its flavor.
    “Well, if this is your final supper,” Milla paused to pour James more wine, “then it’s mighty lucky my sister’s made the dessert.”
    The next morning, James turned on the shower and, while waiting the three full minutes it took for the water to turn from piercingly cold to marginally hot, he reluctantly took off his flannel pajamas, tube socks, and leather slippers and prepared to weigh himself. Shivering, he paused for a second to consider how much he had eaten the night before.
    Three glasses of wine, a serving of beef Wellington, steamed asparagus, and two pieces of Paulette’s Ten-Layer Fudge Cake. I wonder if the scale can even compute all this poundage , he thought anxiously and then stepped onto the chilly surface of the metal scale.
    When the numbers surfaced in their silver window, James groaned. His weight was higher than he had expected by a whopping eleven pounds.
    “I probably gained five of these last night.” He got off the scale and then, after waiting for the screen to return to zero, stepped back on, hoping that there might have been an error in the previous reading. The scale added another three tenths of a pound for his efforts.
    “Damn it,” he muttered, snatching the shower curtain aside and hustling into the stream of hot water. The heat immediately eased some of his tension, and as he lathered his hair with shampoo, he gave himself a pep talk. “It’s okay. Today is a fresh start.” After rinsing his head, he opened his eyes and stuck his tongue out at the scale, which seemed to be mocking him on the other side of the clear shower curtain. “This