Mother for Dinner

by Shalom Auslander

  First nodded. Million, he said.

  That’s money, said Second.

  Divided by twelve, Fourth pointed out.

  By eleven, said Zero. Count me out.

  You’re in, said Seventh. If we sell the house, you’ll have nowhere to live. We’re counting you in.

  Hey Siri, First said. What’s one point three million divided by twelve?

  I have found what you’re looking for, said Siri. One point three million divided by twelve is one hundred eight thousand, three hundred and thirty-three.

  A hundred thousand? asked Ninth. Each?

  Vultures, Tenth muttered. We should be happy to eat our mother, not sitting around here counting our silver pieces.

  Said the guy who got her fists, said First.

  So?

  So try a plate of ass, Flex, said First, then tell me you want to eat her for free.

  Tenth looked as if he might leap across the table at First. Seventh quickly intervened.

  You’re right, Tenth, he said. You are. We should be happy to eat our mother. And some of us are. But some of us aren’t, and, to be fair, that’s as much Mudd’s fault as anyone else’s. Like I said, though, we don’t have to agree on that.

  He turned his attention to those who hadn’t yet voted.

  If we’re in, he said, we all have to be in. All of us. Must Eat All Together. Anyone who wants out, say so now, and we end this right here. We call the cops, bury her, and go home.

  Eleventh raised her hand. I’m in, she said.

  Tenth objected. He knew that Eleventh was planning to use the money for sex reassignment surgery, a use he thought should be prohibited.

  Why? Twelfth demanded

  Because the Elders prohibited it, said Tenth. And because Mudd didn’t approve of it, either. You disgusted her.

  If I lived a life that Mudd approved of, said Eleventh, I would disgust myself.

  I’m in too, said Twelfth, putting her arm around Eleventh. Dr. Emmanuel Zion. Seventy grand, but he’s the best in the business.

  This is wrong, said Tenth.

  I’ll give you his number, Twelfth said to Tenth. Who knows, maybe he can turn you into a man, too.

  He is a miracle worker, said Eleventh.

  Animals, said Tenth.

  Fifth? asked Seventh.

  Fifth bit his nails, a habit Seventh recognized from his youth. How much again? he asked.

  A hundred and eight thousand, said Second.

  Three hundred and thirty-three, added First.

  Okay, said Fifth. In.

  Second raised his hand (In, he said. Money.), and Third, happy just to raise his hand, joined in too. Fourth agreed, and so did Ninth—both of them for money too.

  Then we’re agreed, said Seventh, with equal parts triumph and misgiving. We do it.

  Tenth couldn’t contain himself any longer. You’re sick, all of you, he spat as he went for the door. You’re a disgrace.

  He turned to look at them before leaving.

  You’re worse than Jack Nicholson, he said. All of you. Worse than Jack fucking Nicholson!

  * * *

  • • •

  In 1976, Jack Nicholson was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Actor. He’d been nominated before, but never before had his victory seemed so assured as that year, and never before had the Cannibal-American community so desperately needed him to win.

  To them, the 48th Academy Awards ceremony was more than just another flashy Hollywood gala. Winds of social change had been blowing across the nation, casting a bitter chill over the Cannibal-American community; their old ways and traditions were simply no match for ABBA, Farrah, and cocaine. The sixties and early seventies had decimated their community, the young generations being lost in ever-increasing numbers to the twin scourges of assimilation and intermarriage.

  And so, on the evening of March 29, 1976, as Hollywood gathered for that year’s Oscars ceremony at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in Los Angeles, Cannibal-Americans across the country gathered around their television sets, hopeful that a victory by Nicholson, who was Cannibal, would inspire a renaissance of their community; that he would stand on that world stage, look into those television cameras, and thank the Cannibal community for their support and their love and, in so doing, deliver them at last from the shadows of shame and secrecy that had hounded them across time.

  Mudd was beside herself all day with anxiety and excitement, cleaning and re-cleaning that which she had already cleaned. She despised television, but this was, after all, history in the making—Cannibal history—and she had permitted Humphrey to purchase a small black-and-white TV for just this occasion.

  As the awards presentation began, the tension in the living room was palpable. Mudd tapped her foot nervously; Unclish, who had once considered a community-wide ban on television, stood beside the couch, twisting his beard and saying, Yes, yes, hmm, hmm.

  Art Carney, who was not Cannibal, was greeted with thunderous applause as he made his way to the podium to present the Academy Award for Best Actor.

  This year, he said, those nominated for best performance by an actor are . . .

  He glanced down at the card in his hand.

  Walter Matthau, he declared, in The Sunshine Boys!

  The crowd inside the pavilion cheered, and the camera cut to the beaming Matthau seated in the audience. Carney and Matthau had appeared together in the original Broadway production of Neil Simon’s The Odd Couple some years before, and their shared history made his nomination even sweeter, for the actors and the audience alike.

  Jew, grumbled Mudd.

  Jack Nicholson, Carney continued, in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest!

  Again the crowd erupted, and now Mudd cheered with them.

  Nicholson, in his trademark dark sunglasses, smiled broadly. Anjelica Huston, seated beside him, clapped her hands and smiled with pride, while Matthau, in the small picture-in-picture window at the top of the screen, no longer beamed. He seemed, to Mudd, to scowl.

  Look at that fat bastard, will you? said Mudd.

  Who? asked Humphrey.

  Matthau. He should rot in hell.

  I like him, said Humphrey. He’s a good actor.

  They stick together, said Mudd. Hoo boy, do they stick together.

  Who?

  Who, Mudd said with disgust. Neil Simon, Jew, hires Walter Matthau, Jew, and now Art Carney, Jew, is going to give him the Oscar.

  Art Carney isn’t a Jew, said Humphrey. He’s Catholic.

  Art Carney listed the rest of the nominees, took hold of the envelope, and tore it open. Mudd grabbed Humphrey’s hand in her own, squeezing it so tightly he thought his bones would crack.

  And the winner is . . . , said Art Carney.

  Silence fell over the audience at the pavilion.

  Mudd held her breath.

  Carney looked down at his card.

  Jack Nicholson! he declared. In One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest!

  Mudd leapt to her feet, cheering and stomping, her hands raised overhead in triumph.

  Unclish cheered too, clapping his hands and slapping Humphrey on the back.

  He did it! he said. Our boy really did it!

  Nicholson kissed Anjelica Huston and made his way to the stage.

  Is she Can? Mudd asked. I think she is. Huston, Huston—that could be Can, don’t you think?

  How should I know? said Humphrey.

  Look at that jaw! said Mudd. That’s a Can jaw if ever I saw one!

  Nicholson bounded onto the stage, doing a little Ed Norton shimmy in tribute to Art Carney. The crowd went wild.

  Here we go, said Mudd, shaking with excitement. Here we go.

  Carney handed the gleaming trophy to Nicholson, and the two men embraced.

  Did you ever think you’d see it? Mudd said. D
id you ever think you’d see the day when one of our own people would be standing on that stage, accepting the Academy Award?

  Jack Nicholson took his place at the podium and looked out across the auditorium.

  Well, he said with his sly grin, I guess this proves there’re as many nuts in the Academy as anywhere else.

  The audience cheered, and Mudd joined them, laughing and slapping her knee.

  He’s funny, she said. I didn’t know he was so funny!

  But since you gave me the chance, Nicholson continued, I’m really happy to get an opportunity to thank Saul and Michael . . .

  Nicholson paused.

  Mudd clutched Humphrey’s thigh tightly in her hand.

  She didn’t know who Saul or Michael were, but Nicholson seemed to be steeling himself, gathering his courage, looking for the words, preparing to reveal himself and his people to the world.

  And Louise, Nicholson continued with some uncertainty.

  Mudd’s grip on Humphrey’s thigh tightened.

  Mudd . . . Humphrey said, grimacing as her fingers crushed his bones.

  And Brad, Nicholson continued, and Lawrence and Bo. And all of the guys in the company, all of the feebs brigade . . .

  Mudd leaned forward and searched Nicholson’s eyes, waiting for him to declare who and what he was.

  And to my people, she wanted him to say. The great Cannibal people. Who have suffered, who have been shamed, who have been hidden in darkness. To you, I say, Stand up! Stand up with me and be counted! For today, something something, and tomorrow we will rule the world!

  But the moment never came.

  Nicholson smiled, made some lame joke about his agent, thanked the audience, and walked off the stage.

  Unclish shook his head in disgust.

  I should have banned that damned box when I had the chance, he said, putting on his top hat and leaving in a huff, slamming the front door behind him as he left.

  That son of a bitch! Mudd shouted.

  Mudd, said Humphrey. Mudd, calm down.

  Not one word! Mudd shouted. Not one word about his people, his heritage, his history! Only shame and more shame and more shame!

  What do you expect him to do, Mudd? Humphrey asked.

  I expected him to have a spine!

  You expected Jack Nicholson to stand up at the Academy Awards in front of the whole world and tell everyone he’s . . . he’s . . .

  Even you can’t say it! she roared.

  This isn’t about me, Mudd!

  It’s about our people! Mudd shouted, and stormed out of the room.

  It always seemed to take a moment for the air to return when Mudd stormed out of a room. When it did, Humphrey stood and went to the television.

  Eh, he said to himself as he shut it off. So what’s wrong with a little shame?

  * * *

  • • •

  Eighth was flipping through Third’s copy of The Guide, a look of utter bewilderment on his face.

  What in the hell, he asked, is this?

  They had agreed to Consume Mudd, but over an hour had already passed since she had died. Drain all her oil, Unclish had taught them, or Momma will spoil, and they knew they had to move fast.

  Eighth had grabbed The Guide from the valise, but as he flipped through it, it was clear from the look on his face that something was terribly wrong.

  What is it? Seventh asked.

  What is it? Eighth said. It’s porn, that’s what it is.

  It’s what?

  It’s porn.

  Eighth tossed The Guide to Seventh, who opened it to find a naked woman cupping her impossibly large breasts. All she was wearing was a white chef’s hat. Above her, it read in large pink letters:

  Hungry?

  Seventh checked the cover. It was still the original cover—the camo-covered hunter, the blood-covered deer—but the pages inside had been swapped out for the pages of a pornographic magazine (Juggs, from the looks of it). Every page featured women with breasts the size of Chevys.

  Here’s the beef, read the headline on one page.

  It’s Whopper Time, read the next.

  Seventh looked to Third, who covered his face in shame. Uh-oh, spaghetti-o, he said.

  Where’s the rest of it? Eighth demanded of Third. Where’s the rest of it?

  Don’t yell at him! Zero said. He didn’t know.

  Our mother’s up there rotting, said Eighth. Where’s the rest of it?

  Third began clopping himself on his head.

  Don’t be stupid, he chastised himself. Don’t be stupid.

  Seventh grabbed his arms, trying to stop him.

  It’s okay, he said, it’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong, buddy; we all do things like that.

  Third hid his face behind his hands. We do? he mumbled.

  Of course, said Seventh. But right now I need you to think, Third; I need you to think really hard. Where did you put the rest of it? The Guide, Third, where’d you put it?

  Third squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath. Finally he said, Oopsie.

  Oopsie?

  I chucked it.

  You chucked it? Seventh asked.

  You asshole, Eighth shouted.

  Hey! said Zero.

  Drain all her oil or Momma will spoil, said Second. Drain all her oil or Momma will spoil!

  You ASSHOLE! Eighth shouted again.

  He didn’t know! said Zero.

  Panic filled the room. Those Seltzers who loved Mudd began to worry that she wouldn’t live forever; those who cared for their people began to worry that the chain was about to be broken; and those who just wanted Mudd’s money were afraid they would now never receive it.

  Aw fuck it, let’s just do it! said First.

  Do it? Eighth demanded. Do it how?

  With the knife, shithead, said First. Of Redemption. Let’s just take the knife, go up there, and, you know, Drain her.

  Y’know, Drain her? asked Fifth. No, I don’t y’know, Drain her. Drain her how?

  How do you think? said First, and he drew a finger across his throat.

  Do you know how much blood is in a woman that size? asked Eighth.

  No, said First. Do you?

  Gallons, said Ninth.

  We’ll pour it down the sink, said Fourth.

  And how do you propose we get it to the sink? asked Fifth.

  A hose, offered Eleventh.

  She’s not a keg of beer, said Tenth.

  Drain all her oil or Momma will spoil, said Second. Drain all her oil or Momma will spoil—

  All right! Seventh shouted. Everyone just calm down!

  He slammed The Guide/Juggs on the coffee table.

  Folks, he said, there’s only one answer. We’re out of time, we don’t know what we’re doing, and even if we did, we don’t know how to do it.

  He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath.

  There’s only one person who can help us, he said.

  First shook his head.

  Oh Jesus, he said. No. No way.

  No, said Second. Uh-uh.

  No, no, no, said Fourth, Fifth, and Ninth.

  Eleventh and Twelfth, in unison, said: No.

  Yes, said Seventh. We have no choice.

  A terrible silence filled the room.

  We’re going to have to call Unclish, he said.

  * * *

  • • •

  The story Mudd told them was that even before Unclish reached legal age—he was just Ishmael Seltzer back then—he was already considered by many to be the Cannibal community’s spiritual leader. He was a scholar, a polymath; he knew all their rules, all their history, all their legends, and all their stories. He was a fearless leader, a captivating speaker, and a tireless organizer. By age twenty, he’d
founded the University and begun raising funds for its construction. By thirty, he was a master Victualist. By the time he was forty, people came from far and wide to seek his advice on all manner of tradition, his verdict on all matters of law. By fifty, when he entered a room, people stood; when he spoke, they fell silent; and when he left, they thanked the Ancient Spirits for bringing him forth to lead them.

  The Seltzer children despised him.

  I bet when he dies, First said, he’ll taste like shit.

  I bet shit tastes better, said Second.

  Where others saw a scholar, they saw a pompous phony (but for Eighth, who dreamed of becoming him, and Third, who knew no hatred in his heart). Unclish wore heavy black suits and a white silk scarf and a tall silver top hat, and he twisted his white beard and said, Yes, yes, hmm, hmm, as if lost in a thought so complex it left no neural power for ordinary speech. Though he was raised in Brooklyn and rarely left, he spoke with a fake Harvard accent (he never attended, he claimed, because they have a Cannibal-American quota of none). The accent may have fooled adults, but to the children their father’s brother sounded less like a sage and more like Thurston Howell III from Gilligan’s Island, and they enjoyed nothing more after their Sunday morning classes than gathering in one of their bedrooms and mimicking him until they collapsed in laughter.

  Oh, Lovey, Ninth would say, do be a dear and cut me a slice of Gilligan.

  Of course, dear, Fifth would respond, but you simply must try a bite of the Professor.

  None of this was said within earshot of Unclish, of course, for they feared him as much as they disdained him. He was a passionate ideologue who brooked no insolence and tolerated no rebellion. With his fist ever in the air, he ranted about the treachery of nations, cursed Cannibals who left the fold, and blasted the evils of America.

  We have survived everything but freedom! he would fulminate from his seat at the end of the dinner table, banging the table with his fist and causing the silverware to jump. War, hatred, violence, oppression—all these combined could never do to us what Coca-Cola and Disney and Burger King have. We have lost our way! We have intermarried, we have assimilated! We have bought into the American Dream, but that dream is someone else’s, and the dream they dream is a dream of our destruction!