If you would like to read this narrative from the beginning, go to Mr. and Mrs. Molassass
Mr. Molasses often segued between trust and distrust of his self and that self’s betrayal. He was never suspicious. Mrs. Molasses, trended in the opposite direction. She was lusciously suspicious. Today she had her cross hairs on Father Paul, the new priest down at St Paramour’s. She was trying to understand how he had found his way into the Catholic Church. Mrs. Molasses didn’t understand Christianity very well, though she didn’t realize it. Despite her years as a practicing Catholic, she was at best a wishing well. You toss in a coin and you get to play lottery with your future.
As she watched from the porch, Mr. Molasses slowly climbed into his antigravity machine; it was an odd-looking contraption. Mr. Molasses had built it from things he had found around the house: like an old radio antenna, some pieces of plywood, the motor from an old refrigerator, a carpenter’s level and an enema bag. Mr. Molasses had named it ‘Sinai’ after that mountain in Israel and the hospital in New York. At first, he couldn’t get in; his huge girth was seeping through the cracks. Then something inside gave way and Mr. Molasses slid in. It made him look like the man in the moon in Georges Melies old movie. Mrs. Molasses did not approve of this public display; he had put up flood lights and rented bleachers. As far as Mrs. Molasses was concerned, he was wasting too much effort and money.
That Mr. Molasses looked ridiculous, fooling with this stuff in the front yard, was beyond question. He had his Captain America suit on and he looked like a big cod fish, beached by a random wave down at the beach. It reminded Mrs. Molasses of that old Peiter Bruegel, etching. Big Fish Eat Little Fish.
She was about to go back inside—despite the sun, it was a little chilly—when the Sinai started to fall. Out of the blue and for no apparent reason, Sinai collapsed bringing Mr. Molasses with it. The egg-shaped machine began teetering, tottering one way and then the other. It would have been funny if Mr. Molasses wasn’t trapped inside. Mrs. Molasses immediately abandoned her silent soliloquy and rushed to grab him. The Molasses muscle reaction, however, betrayed her once again, and he fell, heading for ground at the speed of gravity. So much for Simeone Weil. But wait—he’d fallen on the hill—going uphill; it had tempered his fall. This hill, it had caught him, and laid him lovingly on the ground, laughing. Slowly he got to his feet, a little rumpled, but smiling and triumphant. Here it was, the end of January, and he’d gone up the hill, fallen up the hill. Say Hallelujah! It had worked.
Mr. Molasses was feeling philosophical after his conquest. It wasn’t like Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay conquering Everest but Mr. Molasses was rather inclined to look at the accomplishment as an accomplishment. He thought it was more like Roger Banister breaking the four-minute mile then climbing Mount Everest. The four-minute mile was supposed to represent the limits that a human body could run. Banister had proved this wrong. Molasses had proved that molasses could go uphill—and at a pretty good clip, too. He had opened the door and set it ajar for others to follow. Honey could now envision going uphill, maple syrup, warm butter, icing, chocolate pudding, even mud—all could make their move up the hill. And just as everyone knew that there had to be a limit on how fast a mile could be run–no one envisioned a four second mile, say–but the artificial barrier, the four minute mile, was revealed to be what it was, a track and field delusion. Mr. Molasses had hit a home run.
In the aftermath of the afternoon, Father Paul looked lost, far from the madding parish, and as alone as could be. He was obviously not au courant with the world of molasses. In fact, he had never even tasted it. Molasses was not to everyone’s palate. It was primarily used for baking. Perhaps if he built a fire in the fire place tonight he could convince Mrs. Molasses to bake some of her world-famous-molasses cookies.
After dinner and after he’d had a chance to cool down, the day did not seem so noteworthy to Mr. Molasses. What was the big deal about going up a hill? It was not the conquest of Everest, it was not even a climb in the Catskills. It wasn’t as if he had the ten commandments to pass out. No one really cared. It wouldn’t even be in the newspapers. Oh, sure The Night Owl might run a column on it, but who read the Night Owl? The kids all got their news from the Internet. Sweetness wouldn’t care. Father Paul wouldn’t care. No one cared. No one. Not even Sherlock…
Mr. Molasses often enjoyed sitting up late into the night, thinking. Tonight, however he was depressed. Words, words, words. It is a tale told by an idiot. The rest was silence. He went downstairs to get a few more cookies, maybe a glass of milk,
It must have been three in the morning when Mrs. Molasses heard a sound. Mr. Molasses was not in bed. Instantly she ran—dropping her cane—to the head of the stairs. My god he was choking! She’d never moved so fast in all her life. And she knew the Heimlich Maneuver. Mr. Molasses was on the floor. Appearently he been eating molasses cookies with a glass of milk. Mr. Molasses often craved sweets when he was depressed. Gradually, his color came back. He would be okay. Mrs. Molasses softy, rubbing Mr. Mosses head. They stayed all night, just holding on to each other.
Mrs. Molasses must have been a good mother. Look at Sweetness. She was beautiful and smart and very disciplined. She was cool under fire, but not disdainful. She was in graduate school at Yale. She had been a close friend of Harold Bloom. She had cried when he died.
Yeah, look at Sweetness. She had come home at the request of her mother. It seemed Mrs. Molasses had found something disturbing hidden in the back of the refrigerator. Sweetness had seen it right away, but well…it couldn’t be. Sweetness was not going to look further until her mother came back…but it appeared…that they had a pound of flesh in their refrigerator. A woman’s breast