by Serra, D. A.
Uncle Wes agrees, “Two chairs - no waiting.”
“Isn’t that a little barbaric?” Alison can’t help herself even though she has learned staying out of political discussions with Hank’s family is the prudent course.
“Naw,” Uncle Wes says, “it’s nature. Bloody real nature.”
“I think, we, as humans, should be above that.”
“Read a paper, Alison,” Aunt Beth responds, and blows a smoke ring. Eleanor can’t keep quiet another second.
“You know, Aunt Beth, passive smoke is harmful to us all.”
“So, hold your breath.”
Uncle Wes laughs loudly. Alison shakes her head as she proceeds down the hall looking for her husband. She finds him in the den with his sister Emily, who is breast-feeding, and their mother, Carolyn, who is disgusted.
Hank insists, “Emily, a nipple’s a nipple.”
“Not true. It’s a fact that breastfed babies are smarter.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Hank replies.
Carolyn adds, “Neither of you were breastfed”
“Oh, so, that explains it,” Alison says from the doorway.
“My wife knows us too well.”
“Dinner.” Alison smiles. Hank walks over to her in the doorway, but Carolyn has not quite finished her thought.
“Emily, I love you but you look like a cow.”
“Mother, it’s a normal part of nature.”
“So is peeing and I don’t want to share that with you either.”
As Hank kisses Alison, “My family drives me crazy.”
“They have a special gift.”
“Did I ever thank you for putting up with them?”
“Not often enough.”
He leans close and whispers into her ear, “Later I’m going to thank every inch of your body with my tongue.” His moist warm breath is welcome on the side of her neck. It gives her a little thrill. He still makes her crunch her toes. Hank runs his hands through his bangs. His caramel hair is long for a man in his thirties, but it is nicely trimmed and has a natural cowlick in the front, which is really attractive. He has a broad grin, which he employs constantly to keep those around him smiling, too. He can be lazy about shaving and so the five o’clock shadow that the macho movie stars try so diligently to achieve, comes naturally to Hank. Women always notice him. He only sees Alison. Sometimes, he wonders why this refined lovely woman puts up with him: his constant need for music, his quirky sense of humor, and his relatives. He doesn’t appreciate how entertaining a large vivacious family could be to a girl from Alison’s quiet world.
He kisses her on the neck, turns and walks toward the dining room singing “Beautiful” in falsetto. Alison looks back at her mother-in-law and they smile. Wife and mother - yes, they both love that man. That is their bond.
After dinner, all of the relatives gather around Jimmy’s birthday cake to sing. His parents flank him. He blows out the red and white swirl candles, which relight over and over. He’s too old for that trick. She knows that, of course, but the sentimental strain in her refuses to stop buying them. She joked with him last year that when he’s forty years old she will be lighting those same candles so he should get used to it. She leans in and kisses him on the top of his head. She knows he will allow a small public kiss since it is his birthday, and his cool friends are not at the family party. She lingers for a second, smelling his freshly washed hair and wants to submerge herself in the disheveled mess of it. She remembers the afternoon he marched off the grammar school playground and announced with gritty six-year-old determination she could no longer hug or kiss him in public: it was too embarrassing. And she knew there would quickly come a time when he would be too tall to kiss on the top of his head. What a series of wrenching trade-offs: each year he becomes more interesting as a person, but less hers alone.
Jimmy beams since he knows the gifts are next. He grabs for a box and rips into the wrapping paper. Alison and Emily return together to the kitchen to divide the cake.
Emily asks, “What did you get Jimmy? Hank said it was really special.”
“We told Jimmy for his birthday he could pick where we would go on our family vacation.”
“Great idea.”
“I figured, you know, Disneyland, Universal Studios.”
“And?”
“And he picked a ragged outback fishing camp in the middle of Lake Superior.”
“Let me guess, no room service.” Emily grins.
“No indoor plumbing.”
“So Hank and Jimmy are going without you?”
“No. All for one.”
“Well, at least you’ll get some fresh air.”
“Fresh air gives me hives.”
“Didn’t you go to camp as a kid?”
“I went to camp one time. I got a staph infection from a mosquito bite and my dad had me airlifted out.”
“Well, aren’t you Dora the Explorer. I’m kinda sorry I’m going to miss this adventure.”
“There will be nothing to see as far as I’m concerned. I bought two eight-hundred-page novels and enough bug repellent to maintain a defensible perimeter.” They each grab cake plates and head back into the dining room to distribute the cake.
Alison hands a plate to Jill who recoils and asks, “Is that Red Dye Number Two in the icing?”
Aunt Beth retorts, “Could someone please get the duct tape, Jill’s ruining dinner again.”
Jimmy pulls a two-foot remote controlled robot out of the box. He’s ecstatic! Everyone watches. He presses the controls and the robot scurries around the room with bells ringing and lights flashing.
“Cool! Really cool! Thanks, Uncle Wes.”
Uncle Wes beams, “Cool. You see! I always get the best gifts.” He turns to Hank, “Remember when I got you that hockey stick?”
“Uncle Wes, that was 1979.”
“See! You remember.”
Jimmy’s robot is followed by a new Xbox game, a skateboard, from his Aunt Emily and Grandma Carolyn. And from Aunt Jill two bottles of extra strength sunblock and a documentary titled Food, Inc.
While the Kraft family celebrates Jimmy’s birthday, Ben Burne’s family also celebrates. They, too, have a birthday today.
* * *
Chapter Five
Gravel Burne walks down the narrow windowless hallway toward his mother’s kitchen. His feet are flat and heavy. He is a gristly fifty-year-old with wiry arms and legs, and a mess of cheap hair plugs that look like clumps of dead grass. Long on anger, short on thought, he is the authority around his two other brothers while Ben is in the pen.
Small table lamps, with yellowed onionskin shades, shed the only light in this dreary apartment. City buildings rise up tall on all four sides blocking out the sun’s natural light and turning the room a bitter color. The windows don’t open so the air instead is stale and smells of mold and Bengay. The paint peels on the door moldings. The furniture resembles its owners: dysfunctional and warped.
In the kitchen, Theo Burne empties the jar of Ragu into the pot on the stove. Theo is an overly muscular, mildly retarded, mute man who follows his brothers like a puppy and has been trained well by them. Kent Burne, who is a year younger than Gravel, sits at the small table complaining to his mother.
“Most the trouble with women is they got no sense of humor, except for you, Mother.” Sitting across from him, the wisp of an old lady grins exposing a gaping black toothless hole. Kent continues, “I was at the Lenny’s BBQ with a prime piece-a-ass I picked up at the Walmart, and I let out this earth rockin’ fart, and the bitch don’t even crack a grin. Instead, she looks at me like her shit don’t stink.”
Gravel enters, “You might have more luck if you stop dating girls with hair on their back.”
“Great. Advice from a guy who owes a fortune to 976-U-CUM.”
A muffled grunting noise comes from Theo over at the stove. From the look on his face, it must be amusement. With the addition of Gravel, three of the four Burne brothers are present for their mother’s speci
al eightieth birthday party. They are only missing their oldest brother Ben.
Theo spoons out macaroni from the pot on the stove, pours some Ragu over it and plops it down on the table for the family. He takes a couple of used, dirty spoons from the sink and hands them out. The four of them sit around the beaten up plastic table and for a moment or two there is only the sound of the spoons hitting plates and sloppy chewing.
Then Gravel says, “Mother, in honor of your special birthday, Theo baked you a cake.”
“Theo,” she pets him like he’s a dog, “you were always my favorite - after Ben, of course.”
“Of course, after Ben.” Gravel’s lifelong envy comes alive in the room and it’s ugly.
Mother continues, “Yes, Theo, you were always a good quiet kid.”
“He’s mute,” Gravel says annoyed.
“He’s not mute. He just doesn’t have anything important to say. You could learn from him.”
“I learned everything I need to already.”
“You know, Mother,” Kent says, “all the shrinks on the inside told me you’re not supposed to have favorites ‘cause it sucks for our development.”
“Yeah, so, some people prefer other people. Get used to it.” The old woman looks around the kitchen and then says, “Let’s do this. I want my cake in the bedroom.” Mother gets up and heads for the bedroom. The three men each grab some cake for themselves.
“Fried that guy at the state pen last night,” Gravel says.
Kent answers, “Firing squad’s a much better way to go than the chair.”
“Nah, a good old-fashioned hanging - that’s the way.”
Theo cuts and puts a nice piece of cake on a plate for Mother Burne.
”I heard when you hang - your dick gets hard.”
“Damn right.” Gravel grins at him.
“Okay, so that’s one good thing.” They share a brotherly chuckle.
The bedroom has a twin mattress on top of the metal frame with no box spring. The sheets are grimy. Mother Burne is propped against the dingy pillow. Theo, Kent, and Gravel take seats on the sides of the mattress surrounding her. Gravel has brought in his cake and he licks some frosting from his fingers. It’s the closest he comes to washing his hands.
Mother Burne takes a bite of cake and confirms, “Now, boys, you know what you’re supposed to do, right? You’ve got no confusion?”
“First, we get Ben. Then we go across Superior to meet up with Uncle Rafe in Canada,” Kent replies.
“We’ve always been a close family. I’d like to think you boys will stay that way when I’m gone.”
“Yes, Mother,” Kent says. Theo nods. Gravel hovers like a predator.
“Listen to your brother Ben. He’s got more smarts than all you put together.”
Gravel rolls his eyes and swears under his breath.
She smacks his face. “Only idiots mumble.”
Kent asks, “So, Mother, sure you don’t want to hang around ‘til we get Ben?”
“Eighty’s enough.” She turns to Theo, “Son, I trust you.” Theo’s eyes take in her words. He nods. She continues, “So, don’t fuck up.”
Theo takes one of the pillows and plunges it down over his mother’s face. He presses out the air. In mid-bite, Gravel looks up from his cake. Kent leans in closer with interest. They watch as their mother begins to flail. Theo presses down harder. She kicks. She slaps the mattress. She grabs out into the air. She lifts her body at the hips. They watch. A long, long, cold moment, and then the flailing stops. Wait. The old woman goes limp. Wait. Wait.
Kent says admiringly, “She was a wiry old thing.”
“Yeah, well, I never fuckin’ liked her.” Gravel gets up. “Good job, Theo.” He’s happy for the compliment. The three of them get up and leave the room.
“Did you know that ‘fuck’ is the only word we have that can go into any sentence?” Kent asks.
“Yeah?’
“Sure, it can be ‘get fucked.’ It can be ‘cool fuckin’ shoes.’ It can be ‘Hey, fucker!’ Yup, really it goes easy into every fuckin’ sentence.”
“Then that’s a useful fuckin’ word.” Gravel grins, pleased with himself. All three of them are smiling as they grab a bag left by the door and exit.
* * *
Chapter Six
For Hank’s family the saying of good-byes is its own unique time-consuming ritual. Each family member needs to hug and kiss each other family member. It is a mélange of motion with an underlying order. There is a lot of circling around and gushing; when it’s done, everyone has been touched by everyone else. It is late before the last lingering family member, overloaded with leftovers, pulls out of the driveway. Alison closes the front door and leans up against it, tired. Hank’s family is exhausting.
Polly is coming in the morning to finish the clean-up, so Alison takes the stairs two-at-a-time, and crosses the hall, into her bedroom. She tugs a suitcase out onto the bedroom floor. She stops in the doorway of her closet and scans the hangers: skirts, nope, dresses, nope, nice pants, all unlikely to be useful - she has a closet full of inappropriate clothing. She shrugs. Think. Cold dense rainy woods. Well, I don’t know why I don’t own the long wool underwear and neoprene yellow poncho that I evidently need. Really, what was I thinking last Christmas when I asked for a Kindle? Oh, I know, I couldn’t imagine actually being somewhere without Internet. I wonder if I lay my cutest bikini on the bed if Hank and Jimmy would consider cutting this fishing thing short out of kindness, or even pity. She crosses to the bureau and pulls out a pair of sweat pants, two pairs of old jeans, and a sweatshirt; how attractive, I’m bringing my best in-case-of-freezing-flood-and-mud resort wear. She arranges the bulky items inside the suitcase, and adds a grungy shredded pair of sneakers she has kept, in case she ever had the desire to paint or work in a garden, which she hasn’t, because both involve the potential for dirt under her fingernails, which she can’t stand. What else? She looks in the closet. I need some arctic-level pajamas. She sees Hank. He is standing in the doorway. The grin on his face makes his eyes bright. His thick eyebrows are raised in a humorous question. A relaxed comfort exists in the space between them now, as it has for years, the way it does when the struggle is over and the coupling is complete; whatever, they’re in for the long haul. They will grow old together, sit side-by-side between the arms of an ample loveseat, leaning on each other, and looking out at the world, reliving their shared life. They will be aware of each other’s thoughts in the most intimate way, and they will enjoy the sustained blissful contentment of knowing another person thoroughly.
“What?” she asks. “What are you grinning at?”
“The vision of you in nothing but fishing waders.”
She cocks her head, “It’s a little sick the way you’re enjoying this.”
“You underestimate yourself. You always have. You might love it.”
“That’s true. Perhaps I’ve been hiding all my outdoor skills from you all these years.”
“If they’re anywhere near as good as your indoor skills I’m excited.” They share a knowing smile. Hank walks over and takes Alison in his arms. “Seriously, honey, I can take Jimmy alone and you can go to the day spa and get peeled or hot stoned or kneaded like dough, if you like.”
“And let you get all the glory? No way. I’m not backing out. It is exactly what everyone expects me to do and I’m a little tired of being predictable.”
“In that case, I’m going to knead you like dough myself right now.”
“Please tell me there aren’t a lot of bad baking metaphors on their way.”
“I’m going to grease the pan.”
“Stop.”
“Play with it until it rises.”
“Really.” She tries hard not to grin. “Stop.”
Hank didn’t always love Alison. They had been dating for such a long time that he got married because it felt like the next thing to do. He fell in love with her slowly over the course of the next ten years. It is the greatest secret of
his life that when he said “I do” he meant “Why not?” He became aware of his love when it surprised him. He listens to his friends complain about their relationships, and he feels embarrassed by the extent of his luck. He marvels at how close he came to disaster by not realizing how important it was for him to have her. Perhaps there was some invisible inner compass guiding him into these arms, this life. And when he began to love her, it awakened a set of instincts he didn’t know he had. He wanted to take care of her. Watch over her. Protect her. It made him experience being a man in a completely different way. He had never struggled to get a date: his tall frame and uncommonly soft eyes served him well. He had been a college athlete and women seemed to be plentiful. He felt manly running around scoring at will. He had been an active participant in the he-man bluster and locker room bragging, ten chicks, twenty babes, the quantity syndrome - and then, one day, he saw it for what it was: it was backwards. Any man can satisfy one woman for one night; it takes real skill to keep the same woman satisfied year after year, especially after the heightened sensitivity from newness wears off. A guy has to have game: new moves. His buddies needed new women all the time because they were throwing the same old passes and the receiver was bored. Last week, as Alison was slipping her sweater off over her head he grabbed her arms trapping her inside and laid her onto the bed where he then took his time. He had lit a candle and he began by dribbling a few drops of wax onto her bare belly. They made love like teenagers, like they were hungry. He was thinking now that this dough concept might have something going for it. Baking. Dough. Frosting maybe? Yeah. There’s something there.
* * *
Chapter Seven
Theo drives. Gravel sits shotgun with one foot up on the dashboard. He basks in smug supremacy; for the moment, he’s in control, which feels orgiastic. A sensation of well-being spreads over him. He is relaxed. He hadn’t known what a liberation it would be to get rid of his mother - one less thing to bother with. Old bitch never liked him. She was a fuckin’ thorn.
Kent sits in the middle of the back seat with his elbows crossed over the front in between his brothers. He looks out through the windshield. It’s a coal black Minnesota night. The car’s headlights reach out onto the opaqueness illuminating the road and a multitude of frenzied insects many of which splatter their guts all over the windshield.
