Chancy’s Destiny

Chancy’s Destiny

Hearts and stars decorated the text :

"Chancy loves Ralph."

Chancy wrote love letters to Ralph, about Ralph and to Ralphie Junior, everyday and in every way. Chancy loved Ralph.

Ralph was the head chef and a master with pastry; he had superpowers when it came to flour, or yeast, or sugar, or chocolate. Ralph held sway over his dominion in much the same way as a dragon holds court at his lair. He was a cook in a million.

"Chancy loves Ralph."

Chancy loved Ralph even more than she adored chocolate, or eclairs, or raspberries, or coffee.

Chancy was dedicated; she cared about her station; she dreamed and dreamed that Ralph would notice, that Ralph would say:

"Who cleaned this plate, or dish, or cup? It shines like the sun."

But he didn’t. Not ever, not once.

But still…

On the day that the pressure cooker blew, Chancy was close at hand.

Obviously, it had nothing to do with Ralph, but Ralph was in the way.

They say that burns are the most excruciating type of injury. Chancy felt Ralph’s pain in her bones, in her soul, and in her wallet. Chancy took Ralph home—for nurture, for love, for restitution. She took him home.

He didn’t have anyone else; he was alone. Clearly, he couldn’t care for himself.

Ginger and lemon, camphor balms, gauze, and bandages Chancy was as good as any nurse could possibly be.

Ralph lay in a delirious state. The doctors gave multiple instructions.

The aroma of mint, ginger, lemon, and balm permeated the air like the very perfume of recuperation.

She scrawled it on her vanity mirror in red lipstick :

‘Chancy loves Ralph.’

She listened carefully as Ralph began to surface. She wanted to take notes, but somehow she restrained herself.

“Sally. Oh, my gorgeous," Ralph uttered in seeming despair.

She listened carefully and held his sweaty hand.

"My little girl, she’s alone. 77 Bay Street, she’s at 77 Bay,” a spasm of pain caught Ralph, he punctuated it with an expletive, a forceful thing.

Curiosity expanded in Chancy’s soul. She had to know; she had to...

The apartment block was modern and high-rise; it was forged of steel and new-age stuff, much like Ralph. She ventured up fourteen flights until she found the doorknob and the secret Ralph.

She had stolen his keys, but she knew he was begging her. Please?

The entrance was palatial but it stank like a sewer, and there she found Sally; sweet, tiny, half-staving and demure. The miniature piglet was a sight for sore eyes. Thank God Ralph was the man that he was; the piglet had a feeder, a rotary thing.

"Oh, my, you poor little thing," Chancy swept up the piglet with total relief in her heart. She danced down the corridors and sang in the lift.

"Chancy loves Ralph," she told the doorman on the way out.

When she got home, she whispered her news. She fed the piglet kitchen scraps. God, who knew that lettuce and carrots were such a delight? The tiny thing nuzzled her hand and wagged its curly tail.

Ralph grew stronger; he got better each day. Eventually, he could ask for coffee, tea, Sally, or TV. His cheeks reddened, and his forays across the apartment became energetic. Then he asked for a pan.

Ralph baked a black forest cake. He baked it with passion and skill.

He baked it for Chancy and Sally... He baked it for himself.

A very fine cake, a scrumptious feast

He laid the table without any help and called Chancy and Sally to honor his gift.

Chancy sat Sally at her side; she cooed and wooed, and the piglet grinned. Ralph took in the two of them; his love was evident in the smile on his face.

"You’ve been so good to me. I don’t know what to say, but I think all my hiding from the world is done. Look at you; you’ve been my ambassador; you love my pig. You’re a superstar Chancy and you’ve given me strength," his breath caught in his throat, emotion on overdrive.

Chancy glowed in the light of his praise; the piglet nuzzled, and she stoked its ears.

"I’ve found a true friend; you’ve given me everything a man could hope for. You've given me everything." He took another breath, a deep, deep breath.

"I feel as if I can tell you anything at all. I can tell you everything." His smile was as wide as the moon in the night sky on a dark, dark night.

"I know I’ve found the solution. You're my savior."

Chancy’s heart was playing tennis all by itself on the court of possibility.

"Peter. You have to meet him; he’s my other half. He's my silent other half, the half I fail to admit to anyone, even in this day and age."

"Ralph loves Peter," he sang as if it were a refrain.

"But he’s allergic to piglets. He’s allergic."

Ralph looked at Chancy; delight radiated, and the piglet nuzzled and nuzzled.

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