Mother for Dinner Page 15

  Everyone! Unclish shouted.

  First through Fifth hurried over; Seventh through Tenth grabbed hold; Eleventh and Twelfth kicked off their shoes and with Zero grabbed the end of the chain.

  On three, called Tenth.

  The siblings pulled. They groaned, they shouted, they swore.

  C’mon, you fat fuck, First grunted.

  Slowly, inch by inch, chain link by chain link, Mudd began to rise into the air. Harder and harder they pulled, and higher and higher she rose—legs first, then hips, then torso, until at last her head was all that remained touching the floor. With a final shout, the siblings yanked with all their might, and Mudd lifted into the air, swinging gently back and forth. Unclish shouted at them to keep pulling—Higher, higher! he called—until her head was a full three feet off the ground, whereupon Unclish commanded them to wrap the end of the chain around a nearby column and secure it with the padlock. The siblings did as they were told, muscles straining to keep her elevated until the click of the padlock released them. They let go, and turned around, and there hung their mother before them, an inverted five-hundred-pound Christ, arms outstretched, awaiting the resurrection only her sons could deliver.

  Unclish dragged an empty trash can beneath her, and raised the Knife of Redemption overhead.

  May you be Drained, he called out, as your ancestors were Drained before you!

  And with a flick of the ancient knife, Unclish slit Mudd’s throat.

  * * *

  • • •

  Hey, sweetheart, Seventh said. Are you ready for the talent show?

  Reese’s voice was impossibly small through the phone.

  I guess, she said.

  You’re going to do great, said Seventh.

  Are you coming? Reese asked.

  Seventh glanced back at the corpse of his mother hanging behind him, her blood steadily draining, drip, drip, drip, into the old trash can Unclish had placed beneath her.

  Well, honey, he said, I kinda got my hands full here . . .

  But Dad, said Reese, I need you to be here.

  I’ll be there, sweetheart, said Seventh, I promise. I’ll just miss the beginning, that’s all, but you go on at the end. I’ll be there, trust me, I will.

  It was ten past five. The show started at eight, and Reese didn’t go on until the end. He figured that would be around nine or so, which gave him four hours to get the Victuals done, have a bite and a half of Mudd, and get back to the city. Tight, but not impossible.

  Promise? Reese asked.

  Promise.

  Fuck, thought Seventh as he put away his phone.

  Maybe First had a point. Maybe they should just chop her up and get it over with.

  You need to go into town, Unclish said, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow.

  Town? Seventh asked. Now? Why?

  Why? Unclish snapped. Look at her! The Knife of Redemption is not sufficient for American bodies such as this. It has served us well, but it was crafted centuries ago, with Old Country corpses in mind, not these grotesque New World forms. My God, a lifetime of Cornucopiacation in the Old Country could never have produced a behemoth such as this.

  First overheard them.

  We’re not going into town, he said. We’re getting this done, now, and we’re going home. I have a Leatherman in my truck; it can cut through a goddamned soda can.

  We need a hacksaw, Unclish said, not some pocket knife. And trash bags, paper plates, ice, a cooler, a grill . . .

  A grill? First asked.

  We need to cook her, said Unclish, or have you forgotten even that part of the ceremony?

  Unclish, said Eighth, it’s been hours . . .

  The cold has given us some extra time, said Unclish. She will not be the best meat we ever had, but our people have eaten worse.

  He closed his eyes and recited:

  Though she smells like hot garbage

  and industrial waste,

  remember: She’s your mother!

  And season to taste.

  You want us to buy a grill, said First. Are you out of your mind? Is there some medication you forgot to take this morning?

  You have a better idea? Unclish asked.

  Yeah, said First. A much better idea. We go into the woods, find some logs and branches, start a fire, and throw her ass on it.

  An open fire will attract police, Unclish said. Open fires are forbidden.

  I don’t remember that rule, said First. You’re making this up as you go along.

  You don’t remember anything, said Unclish. Open Fire, Cops Inquire.

  I don’t remember that, either, said Eighth.

  For First to question Unclish wasn’t unusual, but Eighth raising objections concerned Seventh. If Eighth was having doubts, the rest of them would soon, too.

  I’ll go, said Seventh. It will take two minutes.

  It won’t take two minutes, said First, it’s a goddamned half hour in each direction.

  Just go, said Ninth, his own exasperation beginning to show. She has to Drain anyway.

  Give me the keys, Seventh said to First.

  I’ll come, said Zero, looking at Mudd’s corpse. I gotta get out of here.

  No, said First, heading for the door. I’ll drive. If I can make it from Manhattan to JFK in thirty minutes flat, I can get our asses back here before six.

  Light snow had begun falling; the storm was getting closer. Seventh, riding shotgun, gripped the dash with both hands, watching the snowflakes dancing out of the Escalade’s way at the last moment; you couldn’t hit them if you tried to, which is what it seemed First was doing, gunning the engine through the yellow lights and flooring it around bends.

  Take it easy, would you? said Seventh.

  I knew that old fuck would complicate things, First shouted. I knew it.

  Crashing won’t get us home any quicker, said Seventh.

  That was fucked up, said Zero, shaken by the Draining. That was extremely fucked up. He practically chopped her head off. Did you know he was going to cut her head off?

  It’s tradition, said Seventh.

  It’s tradition? asked Zero. That’s your answer?

  Yes, that’s my answer.

  What if the tradition was shooting her in the face? Zero asked.

  Then I would have done it myself, First said as he gassed the Escalade around another corner.

  I’ll never understand the fascination we humans have with tradition, Zero said. So some fool in the past wore this hat, or ate this food, or fought this war, or died on this cross. So? So we wear the hats that they wore and we eat the foods they ate and we wear little crosses around our necks, never stopping to consider that these ancient people we emulate were utterly ignorant of even the most basic knowledge of our world. The average third grader today knows more than they did. No fault of their own, but they also believed the world was flat, that there was nothing morally wrong with people owning other people, that Earth was six thousand years old, and that God tossed it together in under a week. We even decide who to hate based on these ancient fools. Two hundred years ago, your fool ancestors did this to my fool ancestors, so now fuck you. Idiots. People two hundred years ago were assholes, all the time, to everyone. What’s that got to do with us? We should be assholes because they were assholes? It’s like they tell you day one of your driving lessons: Don’t drive in the rearview mirror. Worry about what’s ahead of you. But that’s not what we do, is it? Look at Unclish. This is our sage? This is our wise man? The man has lived his entire life looking in the rearview mirror, walking backwards through life. What did this one say five hundred years ago, what did that one say? What did he do, what did she do? Hell, if it was just five hundred years ago it wouldn’t be so bad. But it’s not. Because the know-nothings we’re emulating from five hundred years ago were emulating other know-nothings
from five hundred years before them, who were emulating some know-nothings from five hundred years before them. We are literally stuck in the past.

  Seventh found himself growing annoyed with Zero, though he couldn’t say why. He didn’t disagree with her, but the more she went on, the more he wanted to contradict her, question her, tear her arguments apart.

  College students, he thought.

  Had the ride gone on any longer he might have engaged her, but they were approaching town, and a familiar anxiety descended upon Seventh as they did, one that intensified the closer they came. It was a discomfiting feeling he hadn’t experienced in years, and at last he placed it: It was the feeling he used to have when he was a young boy, and Mudd would drive through a black community. As soon as they entered ‘the black area,’ as she called it, Mudd would drop her hand from the steering wheel and press the button that locked the car doors.

  Ka-chunk.

  Animals, she would mutter.

  First pulled to a stop outside the hardware store, where a CLOSED sign hung in the window.

  Do these rednecks ever do any work, he said, or do they just spend all day fucking their sisters?

  Nice, said Zero. Mudd would be proud of you.

  First time for everything, he replied.

  It’s the weather, said Seventh. Snow’s coming.

  They drove around town for a while, and indeed everything was closed. With nowhere else to go, Seventh suggested they try the gas station; the convenience mart might have something they could use.

  Evening, said the attendant as they entered. Can I help you folks?

  The You’re Not Me Look. Seventh could see it despite the attendant’s bullshit smile.

  We were just at the hardware store, Seventh said.

  They close early, the attendant said.

  Genius, thought Seventh.

  We’re having a barbecue, Zero said. Just need a few bits.

  Strange night for a barbecue, said the attendant. Cookin’ up something special, are ya?

  We need trash bags, Seventh said. A cooler, flashlights, that sort of thing.

  Hmm, said the attendant. There’s some houseware-type things in the back. Might find a cooler there.

  Seventh watched the attendant leer at Zero as she walked to the back of the store.

  And a grill, Seventh said, stepping into his sight line.

  A grill? asked the attendant. Like a barbecue grill?

  A little one, said Seventh. Like a hibachi.

  Hi-what?

  Hibachi, said Seventh.

  What’s a hibachi?

  A little grill, said Seventh.

  The attendant frowned and scratched his head.

  That a Japanese thing? he asked.

  Seventh wasn’t sure, and his own ignorance interfered with the pleasure he was taking in the attendant’s confusion. It only made him angrier.

  Yes, he said. It’s a Japanese thing.

  I’ll google it.

  Don’t google it.

  I don’t think we have any little Japanese grills, said the attendant. We got soy sauce, if you want that.

  Zero returned with a small cooler, inside which she carried trash bags, flashlights, paper plates, plastic cutlery, and a bag of ice.

  The attendant smiled to see her.

  Did y’find the soy sauce? he asked.

  We need a saw, said Seventh.

  Soy sauce? asked Zero.

  A saw? the attendant asked. Like an electric saw?

  A handsaw, said Seventh.

  The attendant shook his head.

  Nah, ’fraid not, he said. That’s more a hardware store–type thing. They open at eight in the a.m., if you’re still needing it then. Tell ’em Jimmy sent you; they’ll hook you up.

  Marvelous, said First when they got back in the car, slamming the door behind him. No saw, no grill. Now what?

  We tried, said Seventh. Unclish will understand. We’ll have to make do with the knife we have, and build a fire in the woods.

  A pickup truck pulled in and stopped at the gas pump behind them. Seventh watched them in the side mirror.

  He was nice, said Zero. The attendant, I mean.

  First started the engine and put the car in gear. Seventh pressed the auto-lock on his side.

  Ka-chunk.

  Animals, thought Seventh.

  * * *

  • • •

  Mudd revered Julius the Brave, and she wept for Julia the Anguished. But of all the stories Mudd told, none thrilled her as much as the story of their son, John. Fearless, defiant, unyielding, John was a man possessed of great physical strength and tremendous pride in his people.

  They knew him, one and all, Mudd said, as John the Strong.

  Mudd’s eyes lit up with pride as she told of his many conquests and battles; here at last, she said, was a Cannibal who wouldn’t take it anymore. Instead of being raped, he raped. Instead of being a victim, he victimized. Instead of looking down the barrel of a gun, cowering, hands raised overhead, John held the gun, finger on the trigger, demanding what was his.

  And a few things that weren’t, she said with a wink.

  John, she said, grew up in a filthy tenement in Brooklyn, hungry, cold, and sick. From his mother, he heard tales of abuse at the hands of Henry Ford. From his father, he heard tales of backbreaking labor, only to be chased from Detroit with little more than the shirt on his back. John listened to his parents’ stories, and vowed that the same fate would never befall him or any other Cannibal again. He was going to deliver his people from the shadows, release them, like Moses, who was Cannibal, from bondage. He set about studying martial arts, boxing, and wrestling, performing push-ups and sit-ups by the thousands. By seven years of age, it was said, he was so strong that he assisted in the Victuals, holding the corpses of family and friends upside down by their ankles for hours as they Drained. When he was nine, Mudd said, he competed in an international martial arts tournament, where he defeated not just the competitors but also the evil master, who had a prosthetic hand made of knives and a room full of mirrors in which he hid.

  That’s Enter the Dragon, said First.

  Mudd clopped him on the head with the back of her hand.

  Where do you think they got it from? she said.

  At twelve, by mutual agreement, John left school and took to working for a notorious Mafia boss. Though he rose quickly up the ranks, John was dissatisfied. Why should a Cannibal lower himself to work for an Italian? But the Mafia boss was a vicious man who did not take kindly to the idea of his protégé leaving. He threatened John, and said he never wanted to hear of it again. John could think of no way out, and was about to resign himself to his fate—and he might have if his mother, Julia, hadn’t passed away a few weeks later. As he sat beside her corpse, watching her Drain, he recalled the way she had fought Henry Ford, and this inspired John to fight for his own freedom. And so, the following night, he invited the crime boss over for dinner.

  What’s the occasion? asked the boss as he sat down to eat.

  My mother died, said John.

  I’m sure she was a good woman, the boss said respectfully.

  John came to the table, a plate full of meat in one hand, Julia’s severed head in the other.

  Good? said John. She was delicious.

  The boss fled from John’s house, and not only did he never threaten John again, he made him boss over all the Brooklyn families.

  And you, Mudd said to Seventh, you’re afraid of some dumb Polack.

  * * *

  • • •

  Asked the Elders: Was it wrong for John the Strong to invite the crime boss over to Consume his mother? For only Cannibals may Consume the deceased.

  No, said the Elder Elders. Because he did not invite him over to Consume his mother; he invited him over to fool hi
m.

  But how could he know that his ruse would be successful? asked the Elders.

  Ah, said the Elder Elders. Because even the dumbest Cannibal is smarter than the smartest Italian.

  Thou painteth with a wide brush, said the Elders.

  Only a fool, said the Elder Elders, would paint with a thin one.

  Like an Italian? asked the Elders.

  Like an Italian, said the Elder Elders.

  * * *

  • • •

  Of all her children, Mudd expected Third to be her John the Strong. Third the Valiant, they would call him someday, Third the Indomitable. But hints of future disappointment appeared early. She wanted Third to be aloof, but he was friendly. She wanted him to be wary, but he was trusting. Even as a young boy, he waved to strangers on the street, smiling widely and saying hi to everyone he passed.

  Why, hello! the strangers said.

  They were nice! said Third.

  Mudd clopped him on the head.

  Don’t be stupid, she said.

  The larger he grew, the more of a disappointment he became, and Mudd shook her head to see the wide shoulders and powerful arms he would never use to smite their enemies. She tried to make Third see the light, or rather the dark, by placing him in dangerous situations—taking him to high-crime areas at night, leaving him outside public high schools when they let out—and hoping he would experience enough brutality that he would learn the need for vigilance. But while Third’s size provoked a fair number of comments, his quick smile and boundless trust turned any would-be aggressors into fast friends. From gang members to mobsters, Third was beloved.

  How long will Someone punish me? Mudd sighed.

  Mudd’s disappointment with Third rankled Zero, who had been a disappointment to Mudd since the moment she was born. And so the more Mudd criticized Third for his lack of vigilance, the more Zero praised him for his amiability. It wasn’t as if Zero’s relationship with Mudd could grow any worse. As she got older, Zero, rejected by Mudd, rejected Mudd in turn. She rejected Mudd’s traditions, she rejected her people, and she rejected her bigotry, making no secret of her belief that all people, Cannibal or non-Cannibal, had equal capacity for good and evil. Mudd usually ignored Zero, but this degree of willful naivete she could not abide.