Mother for Dinner Read online

  Which people?

  Both.

  Second, you’re eating that fucking meat.

  I’m not.

  Yes, you fucking are. Because as I see it, you only have two choices. You either eat that bite of meat, one measly bite of meat, and trust that your God will give you a pass on this one, or you go back inside and tell First and all the rest that you’re screwing them each out of half a million dollars because of your covenant with God—which, by the way, isn’t much of a covenant since you can violate it for your own fucking career advancement.

  Second glared at him, but could summon no real retort.

  So that’s it, huh? he said. It’s just about the money for you?

  It’s not about the money. It’s about our people.

  Fuck you, Seventh, said Second, turning on his heel and walking away. Since when do you give a shit about our fucking people?

  Thought Seventh:

  Good question.

  * * *

  • • •

  The Ancients, Unclish explained, in their great and inestimable wisdom, devised the Victuals with more than a single purpose. On the surface level, the four-step process was designed to prepare the corpse for Consumption, to make it ready to be Consumed. But on a second, perhaps more important level, the process was designed to prepare the family themselves. To make them ready to Consume.

  He stood beside what remained of Mudd’s suspended corpse, and the siblings gathered around him.

  When our beloveds die, he said, it is only natural to see them in death as we once saw them in life: as bodies, as people, as physical beings. It is revolting to imagine ever Consuming them. And so the first thing the Ancients instructed us to do is to hang them up, as one might a deer or a cow, and Drain the blood from them. Physically, this is the easiest step, but emotionally, it is the most difficult, for not only does the deceased still resemble the person for whom we grieve, but it is also the moment when we first begin to see that they, and we, are just bodies, vessels. That we can be filled, and we can be drained; that we are a machine like any other. Then we move on to Purging, in which both we and the deceased go one step further in our transition; namely, we remove the vital organs. The engine, the carburetor, the filter. We discard that which gave us life, and when we are done, we realize that we are but an empty shell—a chassis, a frame. We come then to the third step, the Partitioning, as we ourselves are about to perform, the final step before the Consumption. The actual butchering. Here we Partition the body into cuts of beef; we remove the skin; we separate—the chuck from the rib, the flank from the round. But we also in some ways Partition ourselves—from the dead, from our beloveds. They are no longer the physical beings they once were, and our connection to them, physically and spiritually, is severed. This is grieving with a purpose—it is not mere sorrow; it is grieving so that we may move on. There will still be a hole in our souls, but that will be filled, soon, during the Consumption.

  And with that, Unclish began to skin their mother.

  The Seltzers immediately turned away. Some closed their eyes. Some covered their ears, not wanting to even hear what was transpiring behind their backs and be tempted to picture it.

  It took Unclish’s practiced hand less than ten minutes to skin and Partition their mother. When the brothers turned back around, the chain from which she once hung now dangled empty from the ceiling. Beneath it, on the floor, Unclish had laid out the various cuts of meat that used to be their mother.

  Indeed, as the Ancients had predicted, for the first time since her heart stopped and her spirit departed her form, Seventh truly felt his mother had passed away.

  Dr. Isaacson never missed a single session; snow, ice, attacks on the World Trade Center, he was always there. There was only one time he canceled his appointments—the day his own mother died. Seventh recalled seeing him a few days after the funeral.

  God willing by you, Dr. Isaacson had joked.

  He didn’t hope for anyone’s death, of course, but he believed that once Mudd had passed on, Seventh’s world would open up, and that most of his negative feelings would disappear with her.

  But that was not what happened. For Seventh to look up at the chain was to look up and see the chain of their people of which Mudd had always spoken—empty, ended, and covered in blood.

  What was one person’s happiness compared to a thousand years of tradition?

  He saw, suddenly, rising up around him, the black walls of Henry Ford’s melting pot. All around him stood his people, pressed together, unable to move, to escape; the fire below had been lit, and they all cried out in pain; and he went to them, and he comforted them, saying, Worry not, for our chain will never be broken.

  Not good, said Unclish.

  Not good? asked Seventh.

  Unclish stood beside him, hands on his hips, looking over the cuts of meat.

  Not good, said Unclish.

  What’s not good? asked First.

  The color, said Unclish. Of the meat.

  What should have been a deep red, Unclish explained, had in places turned a dull gray; in others, worse yet, it had become a repulsive swamp-like green.

  Is it okay? Seventh asked. To eat?

  Unclish twisted his beard.

  Of course, he said at last. It’s fine.

  Will it make us sick? Seventh asked. I mean if it’s bad . . . ?

  I’ve had worse, said Unclish, and a deep sadness washed over him. Seventh regretted asking. He knew that Unclish was thinking about his own father, John the Strong, whose spoiled meat, Mudd told them, all forty pounds of it, Unclish had Consumed on his own.

  And you, she had said, are complaining about eating a little Auntie Hazel.

  * * *

  • • •

  According to Father’s telling, John the Strong at the time of his death was wanted in seventeen states, for crimes ranging from extortion and racketeering to assault with a deadly weapon.

  You know who else was wanted at the time of his death? Mudd said to her sons. Jesus Christ, that’s who.

  Jesus didn’t assault anyone with a deadly weapon, said Fourth. He preached peace and understanding.

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

  Don’t you believe those liberals, she said, making Christ out to be John goddamned Lennon. Jesus was a fighter. He was a warrior. You know how I know? Because they killed him, that’s how. They kill anyone who fights back.

  Her voice shook with rage as she told the most painful part of the John the Strong story: his terrible desecration at the hands of the police.

  They took his poor, bullet-riddled body to the morgue, she said. To examine him, they said. To find a cause of death. Five times they shot him, point-blank in the face, and they want to know a cause of death!

  You said he was shot nine times, said Fourth. In the chest.

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

  What part of hail of gunfire didn’t you understand? she demanded. They took him to the morgue because they wanted him to spoil! They wanted him to rot! They wanted to make it impossible for your uncle to Consume him. But they didn’t know your Unclish, oh no! He had the strength of John, the bravery of Julius, and the fortitude of Julia, all in one! And so your uncle went to the morgue, and there he stayed, day and night, for two whole days, until they released his father’s body to him. And he brought him here, to this very house, and even though it was already days after his death, and even though his disfigured corpse was already decaying and putrid, Unclish Drained him, and then he Purged him, and then he Partitioned him. And after that, children, yes: he Consumed him. Tainted piece after tainted piece he Consumed his father, until he was so violently sick the following day that he was rushed to the hospital. They thought he wouldn’t survive, but they knew him not! The doctor heard what your uncle had done, that he had eaten all th
at meat even as he knew it was rancid, even as he knew it could kill him.

  Did you lose a bet? the doctor asked him.

  No, your uncle replied, a gentle smile on his face. I won a war.

  * * *

  • • •

  Is it permissible to eat rancid meat? the Elders asked.

  It is not just permissible, said the Elder Elders, it is often obligatory.

  But is it not forbidden to willfully take one’s life? asked the Elders. How then may one willfully Consume toxic meat?

  He who will not die for his people, said the Elders, does not deserve to live.

  Yowza, said the Elders.

  * * *

  • • •

  Cannibals over the years have proffered various theories as to why the stench of a cooking mother is as revolting as it is, but there has never been a definitive explanation. The cause could not be as simple as age—i.e., that the malodorousness of mothers is the result of their advanced years—since the stench of young mothers is as unbearable as that of elderly ones (even if they are quite delicious).

  Some suggested, in less progressive times than ours, that their fetidness might be connected to their appearance; that is, that the ugly ones smell worse than the attractive ones. But simple observation put that theory to lie, as many an enchanting mother has been placed upon the pyre, her resultant stench vile enough to send her own children running for higher ground.

  At the turn of the century, Unclish, who had performed more Victuals in his time than any other before him, proposed a more spiritual notion. Young children, he pointed out, produce almost no scent at all; you could be standing right beside the grill and not even know one was in there. Perhaps, he suggested, the terrible smell of mothers was the smell of guilt, of self-interest, of narcissism—of sin, really—being burned from the body. That would explain, too, why the young have almost no smell at all, for they are without fault.

  The Can-Am Twitter world exploded. Women were outraged at this suggestion and many called for his censure.

  Because we all know men are so pure, wrote one, expressing the feelings of many. #Bullshit.

  Unclish’s denials and claims of context fell on deaf ears. Ultimately, he was forced to go on social media and apologize for his remarks. In a post that was sent out to however many Cannibals remained in the world, he assured one and all that male or female, young or old, nobody was more sinful than he was, and nobody had more evil to be burned away.

  No mother, he wrote in closing, laid upon the fire will ever smell as putrid as me.

  * * *

  • • •

  At last, the grill reached five hundred degrees, and Unclish went out to the patio and began to cook.

  The stench was immediate, familiar to those who have spent time in war zones where the smell of burning tires mixes with that of open sewage drains. Everyone escaped inside, but Seventh remained, watching Unclish work. Now and then Unclish would take a piece of meat off the grill, cut a small bit off, place it in his mouth, shake his head, and place it back on the grill. Seventh shuddered to think that the meat he was eating was his mother, but the small elderly man in the silver top hat moved with such grace and purposefulness, flipping, tasting, turning, that his revulsion was replaced with awe. He pictured Unclish doing this for John the Strong, John the Strong doing this for Julius the Brave, Julius the Brave doing this for Julia the Anguished.

  Unclish? he asked. Were the windows in the library always bricked over? I mean, were they originally glass and then sealed up, or were they always brick and never glass?

  They were always brick, said Unclish.

  So that outsiders could not see in? he asked.

  So that insiders could not see out, said Unclish.

  But a well-rounded education means knowing about the world around us, said Seventh.

  And did you have one of these well-rounded educations? asked Unclish.

  Yes.

  And do you know the world around us?

  Yes, said Seventh.

  So tell me, Fifth: How exactly has that helped your people?

  Unclish turned back to the grill.

  I’m Seventh, said Seventh.

  That’s what I said, said Unclish.

  He lifted the last of the meat from the grill, closed the top, and turned off the gas. He looked exhausted, his eyes red from the smoke, his skin ghostly and pale.

  We are ready, he said.

  * * *

  • • •

  The University’s dining room, as derelict as the rest of the structure, was enormous but somehow still elegant, befitting a culture such as theirs in which eating played such a central role. The deep red carpet, now pitted and spotted with moss, matched the deep red curtains that framed the tall windows; dozens of deep red chairs were stacked in the corner. Only two dinner tables remained of the many that must have once filled the room, but they would be enough. The brothers dragged the tables to the center of the room and arranged them end to end. Seventh placed chairs on either side, with one at the head for Unclish and one at the foot for Zero.

  She’s not supposed to sit with us, First said to Seventh, worried that Unclish would seize on any violation of the rules to withhold their inheritance. She isn’t part of the Consumption.

  She’s part of the family, said Seventh.

  Isn’t that punishment enough? asked First.

  Seventh wanted Zero to see it. The last Cannibal-American woman should at least witness the last Consumption.

  Zero, for her part, had no interest in witnessing any of it, and would have skipped the whole grisly affair altogether, but she refused to leave Third’s side.

  Fourth and Fifth draped an old soiled tablecloth over the tables, Ninth set the table with the paper plates and plastic cutlery, and Eleventh and Twelfth propped up the flashlights to provide light.

  So exactly how does this work? Eleventh asked Seventh as they prepped the table.

  Yeah, asked Twelfth. How, exactly?

  I don’t know, said Seventh.

  Who goes first? asked Second. Because I’m not going first.

  I’m not going first, said First.

  We should all go together, said Eighth.

  That seems fair, Fifth agreed. Must Eat All Together—we should just agree to eat it all together.

  One bite, said First. We can do this.

  And a half, said Ninth.

  Third was already sitting at the table, fork and knife in hand, napkin tucked into his shirt collar, like a child waiting for a snack.

  I’m going to be Mudd! he said.

  Zero smiled as best she could. You are, she said.

  And Sixth! he said.

  Very soon, she said.

  Unclish entered. In one hand he held a plate of reheated ketchup-covered French fries; in the other, a metal tray piled high with medium-rare Mudd.

  Jesus, muttered Second. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.

  With great reverence, Unclish laid the trays on the table.

  Here we go, said First, beginning to hyperventilate. Here we motherfucking go.

  Eleventh took Twelfth’s hand.

  We can do this, said Eleventh.

  We can do this, said Twelfth.

  Tenth breathed forcefully in and out, as if trying to psych himself up for a heavy lift.

  Unclish looked even wearier to Seventh now than he had earlier on the patio. He watched as Unclish sank onto his seat in that slow, deliberate manner of the elderly, as if he was made of glass, as if sitting too quickly might cause his bones to shatter, his body to break into a thousand pieces. He hadn’t moved this gingerly earlier, and Seventh was concerned, but then it had been a long day of cooking and preparing, and Unclish was no longer a young man. Even for a seasoned Victualist, the work was long and taxing.

  Unclish twisted his beard a moment.
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  Yes, yes, he said, hmm, hmm.

  And so we come at last to the Consumption, he said. The final step of the Victuals. We have Drained, we have Purged, and we have Partitioned. We have grieved for the physical being we once knew, and we have come, via the first three steps, to accept that she is gone. But there remains within us still a lacking. A longing, inside.

  He winced with pain.

  Unclish? asked Seventh.

  To heal this longing, Unclish continued, is the true purpose of the Consumption. For in Consuming our beloveds, not only are we giving them eternal life, providing them with a physical body so that they may live for eternity, but we are also, by taking them inside us, filling the hole in our souls that was left when they passed. And now, plates.

  The brothers took their plates and formed a line by his side. One by one they stepped forward, and he placed upon their plates a small serving of fries, and beside it he did place their appointed meat.

  They returned in silence to their seats.

  Fourth looked down at the thick slice of tongue on his plate.

  Guys, he said, I can’t do this.

  It’s just meat, said First.

  It’s not meat, said Fourth. It’s Mom.

  Ninth, looking wan, looked up from his plate of leg and glanced at Eleventh. She was pale, sickly.

  What is that? he asked.

  Uterus, she said.

  Hoo boy, said Fifth, looking down at the reddish-brown chunk of heart on his plate. Hooooo boy.

  We can do this, said Twelfth.

  I don’t know, said Eleventh.

  Dr. Zion, said Twelfth. Remember Zion.

  Eleventh took her sister’s hand. Zion, she said.

  It was customary, in instances such as this when the Victualist is not assigned a specific cut of meat by the deceased, for him to eat from whatever remaining, unassigned part he desired. Unclish had chosen Mudd’s liver, because, he said, like a liver, Mudd had spent her life cleansing the toxins of America from her people.