Mother for Dinner Read online

  And then, with a heavy sigh, he added:

  With the rest of that ancient bullshit.

  * * *

  • • •

  Of the BD children, only Third agreed to celebrate his eighteenth birthday in the traditional manner. Mudd bought him a black suit at the Big & Tall Shop, and a red tie, and found an old brown valise at the Goodwill store in Fort Greene.

  Look at me! Third said excitedly as Mudd fixed his necktie. I’m Julius!

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

  It’s a sad day, she said.

  Oopsie, said Third, fixing his expression appropriately.

  First, Second, Fourth, and Fifth had, on their eighteenth birthdays, flatly refused to perform the ritual. Seventh would have refused too, but he was the first child after Sixth, and on what would have been Sixth’s eighteenth birthday, Mudd wept so bitterly that when Seventh’s time came, a year later, he agreed to wear a suit even though he didn’t want to.

  He sat inside the whole day, refusing to go outside for even a moment.

  But you have to go about, Mudd scolded him. The Elders said you have to go about!

  I’m not going about, said Seventh. I’m going to my room.

  A disgrace, Mudd growled. You children are a disgrace to your people.

  She stormed upstairs, stamping so hard that the walls trembled and the poster of the University tilted on its hook.

  What would Julius say? she asked as she slammed her bedroom door.

  Seventh, slumped in his ill-fitting suit on the vinyl-covered couch, thought what he always thought when she said that:

  Which one?

  * * *

  • • •

  Some say Montaigne locked himself away in his library not because of the death of his father, but because of the death of his friend Étienne de La Boétie. Others say Montaigne locked himself away in his library not because of the death of his father or because of the death of his friend Étienne de La Boétie, but because of the many wars in France at the time. Others say that Montaigne locked himself away in his library not because of the death of his father or because of the death of his friend Étienne de La Boétie or because of the many wars in France at the time, but simply because his political career had fizzled out.

  It was this last theory, part of a six-hundred-page biography he was reading, that rankled Seventh the most (A new Montaigne, the Times had raved. It’s about time!). Montaigne, the author claimed, was merely a political opportunist trying to become a nobleman; he only wrote his Essays because that was what noblemen were expected to do, and he only wrote about the self and identity because he didn’t have the courage to write about politics.

  This was part of another publishing trend Seventh disdained, one he referred to as Contemporary Assholization Studies, in which an author chooses the most beloved historical figure one can find and ascribes to him or her the most contemptible motivations one can imagine.

  One star, he wrote on the book’s Amazon page, because I couldn’t give it none.

  He hated people who left that review.

  But sometimes, he knew, you had to fight asshole with asshole.

  * * *

  • • •

  Seventh first started seeing Dr. Isaacson because he suspected he was an asshole.

  You’re not an asshole, said Dr. Isaacson.

  Seventh vehemently disagreed. On paper, sure, he was a good person: a loving father, a good spouse, a loyal friend. But that didn’t tell the whole story. He’d hurt his mother, he’d failed his family, he’d hurt his people.

  Dr. Isaacson tried to convince Seventh that he wasn’t bad. And that he wasn’t a cannibal. In fact, it was his professional opinion that Seventh’s claim of cannibalism was merely the external manifestation of a damaged inner child that saw itself as fundamentally evil—a self-image created by his narcissistic, overbearing mother and the coward father who abandoned him.

  You’re a good person, Seventh, said Dr. Isaacson.

  I’m an asshole.

  Dr. Isaacson sighed.

  Do you cheat on your wife? he asked.

  No.

  Do you beat your child?

  No.

  Have you ever killed a person?

  Seventh thought a moment.

  No, he had said.

  Now, standing in Mudd’s bedroom staring down at her corpse, he thought otherwise.

  He thought: I killed a whole people.

  Eighth cranked open the window above Mudd’s bed, letting the bitter winter air fill the room.

  It will keep the body cold, he said. Until we figure this out.

  The Seltzer siblings traipsed down to the living room in silence. Second went straight to the kitchen, emerging a moment later with a bottle of whiskey his grateful siblings began to pass around.

  Third sat stricken on the couch, his hand in Zero’s. Seventh sat beside her, Mudd’s last words still warm against his ear.

  Eat me.

  Is that a thing? Zero asked Seventh. What she was doing up there? Giving out . . . parts?

  Seventh nodded.

  It’s called the Allocation, he said.

  The Apportioning, Tenth corrected him.

  It’s called the Assigning, said Second, taking a pull of the whiskey. I’m pretty sure it’s called the Assigning.

  It galled Seventh to hear Second opine on their traditions.

  Thanks, Rabbi, he thought.

  It’s called the Disbursement, Eighth said definitively as he searched the living room bookcase. It has to be here somewhere . . .

  What? asked Second.

  The Guide, said Eighth.

  The Guide? asked Ninth. I thought you knew that thing by heart.

  That was a long time ago, said Eighth.

  The Guide—its official title was The Complete Guide to Field-Dressing and Processing Your Deer—was a complete compendium of Cannibal law in the guise of a simple hunting handbook. It had been composed by Unclish when he was just a young man, but even at that early age he was already considered to be the preeminent authority on their people’s rules and regulations. It was an ingenious way for their people to commit their traditions to paper—to hide, as it were, in plain sight—codifying their laws and educating their young without risking either prosecution or persecution. It quickly rose to number one in Amazon’s Survivalism category, as without revealing their identity, Cannibals seeking guidance and information could simply consult The Guide, replace the word deer with Mother or Father or Sally or Bob, and none would be the wiser.

  The deer must be killed quickly, with little or no pain or fear; fear triggers the release of adrenaline, which can affect the quality of the meat. (14:2–3)

  The deer must be drained of its blood immediately, or risk contamination by bacteria. (7:14)

  Heat butter in a large skillet over medium heat. Add deer and sauté until browned. (3:16)

  First reached for the whiskey.

  It’s freezing in here, he said. Someone turn up the heat.

  We have to keep her cold, said Eighth.

  I thought she was pretty cold to begin with, First said with a grin.

  Tenth glared at him. You didn’t deserve a mother like her, he said.

  Who does? asked First. Stalin. Mao, maybe . . .

  Second snickered.

  Tenth ground his teeth.

  Seventh could hear Mudd’s voice in his ear:

  Eat me.

  Did she really expect him . . . them . . . to do . . . that? It was insane. Forget insane, it was a felony: improperly disposing of a body. He remembered the day last year when the governor of New York, Governor Cuomo, signed it into law. Mudd phoned him that evening, beside herself.

  Does that goddamned guinea think I was born yesterday? she railed. I should make eating a c
annoli a felony, let’s see how he likes it. He’d have his Mafia thugs after me in a heartbeat.

  Although, Seventh knew, there were ways.

  To do . . . it.

  Without being caught.

  Without leaving a trace.

  Certain . . . methods.

  Theirs was an ancient people, after all. They knew things. Techniques. It had never been easy to practice their rituals; only in the Old Country were they free to openly perform their sacred funerary rites. Everywhere else, in every other time, they had to do so in the shadows. But perform it they did, Seventh knew, for centuries, without incident. Without arrest. Without prosecution.

  Her ass, you believe that? First was saying. That’s what she left me. Eighth, you’re the big scholar—are we talking cheeks or asshole?

  You’re the asshole, said Tenth.

  The buttocks, Eighth replied, still searching the bookcase.

  He looked behind the books, on top of the case. Nothing.

  The anus and rectum are removed during Purging, he said.

  Well, that’s some relief, said First. Who does the removing? Because I’m telling you now, I’m not doing any fucking removing . . .

  Eighth stepped back from the bookcase, concerned.

  It’s not here, he said. I’m going to check the kitchen.

  Don’t complain about getting her ass, Fourth said to First. I got her tongue. Comparatively speaking, you got off easy.

  Seventh couldn’t believe that he was even considering her request. He was an editor, for Christ’s sake; he cut up sentences, not people. Besides, how could they do it, even if they wanted to? Not a single one of them had ever even witnessed an actual Consumption before, let alone performed one themselves—to say nothing of Draining, Purging, and Partitioning. Sixth had been Consumed, sure, but Unclish had performed those Victuals alone; Mudd had expressly prohibited the brothers from attending, saying they were too young. Mudd’s last wish or not, Seventh knew they had no idea what to do, or how to do it. And they were in the middle of Brooklyn. Crazy shit went down in Brooklyn, but not cannibalism-crazy.

  How is tongue worse than ass? First asked Fourth. Two bites and you’re done.

  It’s not a question of quantity, said Fourth. That tongue was my mother’s. It’s practically incest.

  We got her vagina, said Eleventh. Don’t talk to me about incest.

  You’re not supposed to fuck it, said First, just eat it.

  Just eat it? said Twelfth.

  I got her feet, said Second. Did you see her feet? Tongue’s gross, but at least a mouth is sterile.

  That’s a canine mouth, said Ninth. The human mouth is a cesspool.

  Seventh went to the living room window and opened the blinds. Outside, pedestrians hurried back and forth, buried in their coats and hats, leaning into the biting wind.

  How long he had longed to be one of them.

  The Others.

  The living room window had been through changes; it was the only part of the house that had. In the early days, when the Can-Am community was thriving and friends waved to Mudd through the window and asked about the family, she had hung about it the sheerest of curtains, and sunlight filled the room. But as the community dwindled, the window treatments grew heavier. Sheers were replaced by solids, solids by blackouts. But even blackouts weren’t enough to hide Mudd from black people; when they moved in, so did the venetian blinds, solid strips of metal that were forever closed, day and night, from the moment they were installed.

  Only good thing those lousy Italians ever did for us, Mudd said as she twisted them shut for eternity.

  Venetian blinds aren’t from Venice, Fourth informed her. They originated in France.

  My mistake, said Mudd. Only good thing those lousy French ever did for us.

  When Latinos appeared, so did the iron security bars, and at last, Seventh’s prison, built from the inside out, was complete.

  Then again, Seventh thought, Brooklyn did have a history of lunatics chopping up bodies and cooking them. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. There was that cop they arrested a few years ago for planning to eat women. And Albert Fish, back in the twenties.

  But they were caught, you see?

  That’s the whole point.

  You don’t eat someone, call for the check, and just walk away. Fish got the fucking chair.

  But then Fish wasn’t Cannibal. He was a cannibal. A real Cannibal wouldn’t have been caught. Anytime you hear about a cannibal being caught by police, trust me—he isn’t Cannibal.

  You want to trade? First offered Second.

  Feet for ass? said Second. No way.

  I’ll take feet for tongue, said Fourth.

  You can’t trade, said Tenth.

  Why not? asked First.

  It’s not allowed, said Tenth.

  I’m surprised she didn’t give you her ass, First said to Tenth. You’ve been kissing it long enough.

  Tenth stood and unzipped his track jacket, preparing to fight.

  Keep pushing me, First, he said. Just keep pushing me.

  Forget about if they could get away with it, thought Seventh. Forget about if he could get them all to agree to it. The real question was, did she deserve it? According to the Ancient Ones, it was among the greatest of honors to be Consumed, and among the greatest of dishonors to be buried. Seventh didn’t think Mudd deserved either. Who did, after all? How many people deserve the greatest honor or the greatest dishonor? A handful, tops, in all the history of man. Most of us fall somewhere in the middle, with our heads neither held high with pride nor hung low in shame; we are, on average, average. But those were his only choices; if he didn’t give her the greatest honor, he was giving her the greatest dishonor.

  Did she deserve that?

  The greatest dishonor?

  Mudd wasn’t perfect, Seventh thought, far from it. But she had her moments, and as he stood staring out the living room window, he recalled a story from his youth that he hadn’t thought about in years.

  It happened not long after Father had left. Seventh, just ten years old at the time, had become anxious and withdrawn. Between the death of his older brother Sixth and the abandonment by his father, his whole world had been upended, and he grew fearful and timid. The fourth-grade bully, Oscar Kowalski, sensing weakness as bullies do, targeted Seventh for abuse. As part of that abuse, he decided that Seventh was a cannibal.

  There had been rumors of cannibals in Brooklyn for years. The rumor was true but unproven, and nobody could ever produce any evidence that such a community existed. Oscar, though, thought it fun to accuse Seventh of being one of the mysterious despised savages, and so day after day, he and his minions terrorized Seventh, stole his lunch, knocked his books to the floor, and called him a dirty cannibal.

  Seventh begged Mudd to let him stay home from school, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

  Last time I checked, she said, this was a free country. That’ll change soon enough, like all the other countries before it, but until it does, you’ve got as much right to go to school as the next boy. Now get dressed, you’re going.

  Seventh trembled as he walked to school that day. He considered running away, disappearing. But Mudd had always taught her sons that a Cannibal never runs away from a fight, and if she ever heard that one of them had, they were going to have to run away from her too.

  How will running away from you teach us not to run away from others? Fourth had asked.

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

  Don’t be stupid, she said.

  When Seventh got to school, he found Oscar was waiting for him in the schoolyard, together with his grinning, knuckle-dragging minions.

  All right, cannibal, said Oscar. It’s you and me.

  Leave me alone, begged Seventh.

  But Oscar just shoved Sev
enth to the ground, and his henchmen laughed and cheered him on.

  I’m tired of you animals ruining our neighborhood, Oscar said.

  He straddled Seventh’s chest, pinning his arms beneath his knees. He grinned down at Seventh, whose tears betrayed him and ran down his cheeks. Oscar raised his fist overhead, and was about to start pummeling Seventh, when a long dark shadow fell across them. It fell across Oscar and it fell across his gang. It fell across the schoolyard, it fell across the school, and it fell across all of Brooklyn.

  Seventh opened his eyes.

  It was Mudd, blocking out the sun, her massive arms crossed over her massive bosom, glaring down at Oscar with a thousand years of oppression in her eyes.

  Mudd didn’t leave the house very often, even before Sixth’s death, and she never left at all once he passed away. Few in the community had ever seen her. And so when Oscar Kowalski turned around to find, looming over him, the largest human being he’d ever seen, his grin disappeared and the blood ran from his face.

  Good morning, boys, Mudd said.

  Whooaaa, said one of Oscar’s henchmen, stepping backward as he did.

  What the fuck? whispered another. They turned and ran for the safety of the school door.

  Oscar climbed off Seventh and scrambled to his feet.

  Wh-who are you? he asked.

  I’m Seventh’s mother, Mudd said pleasantly. You must be Oscar. Kowalski—that’s a Polack name, isn’t it?

  She held out her hand to him, and Oscar, afraid to refuse the fearsome giant, slowly took it. She closed her hand around his, engulfing his arm from fingers to elbow.

  That’s a nice shirt, she said, squeezing his hand tightly. You look positively delicious in it.

  Oscar swallowed hard, and began to tremble. Now the rest of his gang turned and ran screaming into the school, the heavy steel door slamming loudly behind them.

  Oscar tried to pull his hand from hers, but Mudd held him fast.

  I’m famished, said Mudd. I better get going. It was very nice meeting you, Oscar. We’d love to have you for dinner.

  Now Oscar began to panic. His chin trembled and his eyes filled with fear, and he tried with all his might to free himself from her grip, but to no avail. Just then the front door of the school opened and a group of indignant faculty members emerged, all shirtsleeves and loosened ties and hands on hips, wondering just what all the commotion was about. Their perturbation disappeared, though, the moment they laid eyes upon Mudd, and the principal, stopping dead in her tracks, said, Whoa.