Mother for Dinner

by Shalom Auslander

The louder he shouted and the more agitated he became, the more Mudd adored him, and she often lamented to her children that she wished she’d married Unclish instead of his brother.

  I got Garfunkel, she said.

  Who’s Garfunkel? Seventh asked.

  Simon and Garfunkel, she said. Two Jewish fags. Simon was the talented one.

  Simon and Garfunkel weren’t gay, Fourth corrected her. Each one married and had children.

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

  They were Jews, said Mudd. That’s enough.

  * * *

  • • •

  Mudd was going bad. Fast. Her extremities were beginning to swell, and beneath her dingy nightgown, her corpse had turned a dull, two-day-old roadkill gray. The nightgown caused Seventh another pang of guilt; Mudd couldn’t have been more than a few Whoppers shy of five hundred pounds, and the nightgown, enormous as it was, barely fit her. It wasn’t the fit, though, that caused his remorse; it was the nightgown itself: the pattern of tiny pink flowers and the once-white lace edging along the bottom.

  The never-ending desire for beauty. For the lie of beauty. Of a beautiful ending.

  An old man in the coffin in his three-piece suit. Pocket square. Silk tie.

  He looks so peaceful, says the family. So alive.

  Unclish stood at the foot of her bed, twisting his beard and saying, Yes, yes, hmm, hmm. He had aged too. Seventh sensed it the moment he opened the front door and saw his esteemed uncle on the front stoop, sniffing the plastic flowers Mudd had hung there.

  Second, Unclish said to Seventh. These smell divine.

  Seventh, said Seventh.

  That’s what I said, said Unclish.

  Come, Unclish, he said. Mudd is upstairs.

  Yes, Fifth, he said. We must hurry.

  Seventh was worried. Confusing a few names or numbers was easily enough forgiven—there were twelve of them, after all, and it had been years since Unclish had seen them—but it wasn’t just that. Unclish was smaller than Seventh recalled, his top hat too big, his suit too large. It seemed to Seventh that as much as Mudd had grown, Unclish had shrunk. Where once Seventh looked up at him, now he looked down. When they were younger, Unclish’s eyes burned with an inextinguishable zeal; now it seemed that his fire, like the flame of a once-bright candle, had begun to flicker.

  Yes, yes, said Unclish as he looked over Mudd’s corpse. Hmm, hmm.

  Eighth looked to Seventh and pointed at his wrist, indicating the passing time.

  It’s been two hours, Unclish, Seventh said. Since she died.

  Since she died, Eighth added. Two hours.

  Unclish cast Eighth a withering look. Without turning his eyes from his insolent nephew, he gently took Mudd’s left big toe between his thumb and forefinger.

  Two hours and eleven minutes, my child, he said to Eighth. To be exact.

  He released her toe, and wiped his hands on the bedsheet.

  Do you have any idea, he asked the room, what today is?

  The brothers, not wanting to anger him, racked their brains.

  Columbus Day? Fifth offered.

  That’s in October, said Fourth.

  It’s Washington’s birthday, said Second.

  Washington’s birthday? asked First. You mean Presidents’ Day?

  Presidents’ Day is Washington’s Birthday, said Second.

  It is? asked Ninth.

  IT’S REMEMBRANCE DAY, YOU JACKASSES! Unclish bellowed, and suddenly, despite his diminutive size, he was the fiery leader the brothers had known and feared in their youth.

  Do you children remember nothing of our traditions? he demanded. Has America finally crushed you in her insatiable jaws? Must we ‘tweet’ about your holidays for you to remember, you chumps, you patsies, you bootlickers? Must we pay some whore celebrity to bring it to your weak and compromised attentions? Must we print it across the backside of Kim Kardashian’s yoga pants so that you might, for one brief moment, remember who you are and where you came from?

  He closed his eyes and shouted to the heavens:

  SHALL OUR ENTIRE PEOPLE DIE WITH YOUR BLESSED MOTHER?

  The brothers, chastened, stood silent. Remembrance Day was the most sacred day of the whole Cannibal calendar; even those Cannibals who observed no other traditions observed Remembrance Day. Of course, because secrecy was so central to their survival, the precise details of the holiday have been lost to history, and nobody remembers exactly what Remembrance Day was established to remember. Something happened—of that there can be no question—and whatever it was, it was bad. It was tragic. It was the most tragic thing that ever happened, otherwise why would they remember it, even if they didn’t? All that is known for certain is that somewhere (no one can remember where), on some particular day (no one can remember which), something terrible happened to their blessed ancestors (no one can remember what), and it is important that they never forget it, whatever it was and whenever it happened, and that they curse the names of those who perpetrated whatever it was that was perpetrated, whoever they were, and whatever they did. The brothers could thus be excused for forgetting, but Seventh knew he needed Unclish to conduct the Victuals, and he quickly apologized.

  I’m sorry we forgot, Unclish, Seventh said. But what does Remembrance Day have to do with Mudd?

  Unclish composed himself and explained that to be born on Remembrance Day was a great honor, as it was a sign from the Ancient Spirits that the child would one day devote their life to the Cannibal people. No honor was greater, in fact, except for dying on Remembrance Day, which was a sign from the Ancient Spirits that the deceased had devoted their life to the Cannibal people.

  No chances, therefore, Unclish declared, could be taken with Mudd’s Victuals.

  They must perform it with the utmost precision and care.

  We cannot do it here, he said with finality. She’s far too large. There is no way to Drain her, to Purge her. The neighbors will see us coming and going, and they will alert the police if they should happen to see any blood. We cannot risk being interrupted or compromised.

  Where do you propose we do it, then? asked First.

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

  At the University, he finally announced.

  The . . . University? asked Seventh.

  The Seltzers, one and all, turned white with dread.

  We must go, said Unclish, to the University.

  * * *

  • • •

  Declared the Elder Elders: It is a greater honor to die on Remembrance Day than it is to be born on Remembrance Day.

  What’s the difference? asked the Elders, still miffed about the whole Cannibals-Can’t-Drive-a-Lincoln thing.

  Because, said the Elder Elders, surely it is a greater thing to have devoted one’s life to our people in actuality than it is to merely promise to devote one’s life to our people.

  You’re really hung up on the whole greater-lesser thing, said the Elders. It’s not healthy. Why can’t they both be great?

  One must be greater than the other, said the Elder Elders, as I am greater than you.

  That’s what you think, said the Elders.

  That’s what I know, said the Elder Elders.

  And they did not speak until dinner.

  * * *

  • • •

  Despite its grim purpose, Seventh remembered Remembrance Days with a small degree of fondness. The solemnity of the occasion meant that Mudd was more sedate and earnest than on other days; instead of yelling at the boys, she sat on the couch and wept. It made Seventh sad to see her cry, but he preferred her melodrama to her actual drama. She lit Remembrance Day candles and placed them around the usually dark house, and a rare sense of calm glowed where otherwise rancor burned.

  He scolded himself for forgetting it. />
  It wasn’t all bad, was it? he asked himself.

  The traditions, the holidays. There was some good, wasn’t there?

  Crabs in a bucket, Dr. Isaacson said when Seventh told him that Zero had phoned.

  What about them? Seventh asked.

  Dr. Isaacson explained that crab fishermen know a little trick about crabs: When they put them in a bucket on the deck of the ship, they don’t have to cover them to keep them from escaping.

  Why not? asked Seventh.

  Because if one crab starts to get out, Dr. Isaacson said, the others always pull him back in. Halfway to freedom, to safety, to happiness, the crab’s own kind will pull it back down into the depths of certain doom.

  It had made sense to Seventh at the time, and he thought of it often when Mudd had phoned him over the years, but maybe now the situation was different. Because I got out of the bucket, Seventh thought. I escaped. And they’re not pulling me in, I’m returning. To the bucket. To Seltzerland. To protect it, defend it, build it.

  Some weeks ago, Rosenbloom had sent out a company-wide email. In the 1950s, it read, the total number of newly published English-language books with the word identity in the title was thirty-seven. Since 2010, more than ten thousand have appeared.

  Let’s get on that, people, Rosenbloom wrote.

  Everyone else was climbing into their boxes, Seventh thought, writing Keep Out on the outside and sealing themselves up inside.

  Why shouldn’t I?

  * * *

  • • •

  The dream of the University, Unclish wrote in the fund-raising materials, is the result of a nightmare. The Nightmare of Acceptance.

  In every other nation, he wrote, and in every other time, we have been met with resistance. With rejection. And though we struggled, and though we fought, we were, in a sense, fortunate. Because that rejection kept us together. Oppression made us stronger. But today we are drowning in the quicksand of acceptance, and the more we struggle, the further we sink.

  The University, he continued, will be our savior, situated on our own land—Cannibal land!—in a beautiful wooded township of New Jersey, to which Cannibals will come from far and wide. There will be a grand main hall, an even grander library, classrooms, a Victual Center. And there will be that treasure which had eluded them for so long: pride.

  As for courses, he wrote with a contrarian flourish, our distinguished professors will create a syllabus that focuses on the writings, philosophies, and history of our people. The specific courses have not yet been chosen, but here is what we won’t be studying:

  The Greeks. The Romans. The Enlightenment. The Reformation. The People’s Revolution of China. The Russian Revolution. The French Revolution. The American Revolution. Shakespeare. Molière. Tolstoy. Plato. Nietzsche. Wittgenstein. Marx. Lenin. Freud. Darwin. Galileo. The Inquisition. The Rwandan Genocide. The Holocaust. The African Slave Trade. The Irish Famine. The Starving of Ukraine.

  The list continued for two pages.

  The writers we will read, he concluded, will be our writers.

  The history we will examine will be our history.

  The tragedies we will remember will be our tragedies.

  He had a Cannibal artist compose a watercolor rendering of what the University would one day look like. Mudd wept to see it: the grand, Gothic main hall, the pointed lancet windows filled with gorgeous stained glass featuring famous scenes from the Cannibalian Diaspora: Samuel handing Julius the old leather valise, Julia resisting Henry Ford, Julius fleeing Detroit. Unclish used the artwork in his fund-raising drives and gave Mudd a poster, which she hung proudly in the living room, making room for it on the wall by removing the photos of her children. Every summer the children begged to visit the University—it is true they were more interested in the Olympic-size pool than the course selection, but their interest filled Mudd with pride regardless. A visit, though, never came to be. Mudd was too large to travel, she said; the drive was long and the car unreliable; the children, she said, couldn’t miss school.

  Next year, she promised every year. Next year in New Jersey!

  Eighth would fume to hear that their visit had once again been canceled, and he would lie on the couch, hands behind his head, staring up at the poster, dreaming of the day he would enroll and study the works of his people.

  Someday I’m going to go there, he said wistfully. Mark my words, someday I’m going to go there.

  Me too, said First, clopping Eighth on the head with the back of his hand. And throw a rock through those goddamned windows.

  * * *

  • • •

  Mudd didn’t like discussing Auntie Hazel, and refused to when pressed. It was only from Father, years later, that Seventh heard her story.

  Hazel was Father and Unclish’s younger sister, and as she watched her brother Ishmael grow in esteem, she committed herself to documenting his rise for future generations. A record. A new New Testament. A Foxe’s Book of Martyrs, minus (hopefully) the martyr bit.

  It began as a small notebook. Hazel was a stenographer by trade, and could record an hour’s worth of details in a matter of minutes. The project was a direct violation of Rule Number Two, yes, but since she was writing for the sake of her people (and about him), Unclish granted her dispensation and permitted the project to continue.

  Just as we learned from the lives of our forefathers, he said, so might our descendants learn from us.

  She began modestly. Names. Dates. City of birth. But soon the entries grew longer. Verdicts. Rulings. No law or decision escaped her notebook, and she soon decided that no moment of the great man’s life should be forgotten. Nothing was too mundane, nothing was unimportant, from what he ate for breakfast to what he wore to work to when he went to bed.

  Two eggs, scrambled. No toast. IBS.

  The notebooks quickly piled up. Dismayed by all she might be missing, Hazel quit her job. Posterity demanded it. Her people demanded it. She transcribed, word for word, every discussion he had—initially just concerning matters of law and tradition, but soon no words he spoke were lost to her pages.

  Who am I, she decided, to decide what is worthy of posterity and what is not?

  His grocery list. His laundry list. His argument with the parking officer. His discussions with the postman:

  Said Unclish: I thought last pickup was at six p.m.

  The postman responded: That’s during the week. Today is Saturday.

  Said Unclish: I know what today is, thank you very much.

  Unclish became concerned—and more than a little annoyed. She was there when he showered, there when he dressed, there when he went to sleep, and there when he woke, asking what he had dreamt of that night and what he would be having for lunch. One day he woke from a nap to find her going through his dirty laundry.

  Boxers, she wrote. White. Yellow stains in front. Brown in rear.

  He grabbed the notebook from her and tore out the offending page.

  Hazel, he shouted, the minutiae of my life are no more important than yours! You need to stop this!

  Hazel went home and considered what he had said. Her brother was wise, wiser than any man on earth, and did not waste his breath; his every word was imbued with meaning and intent.

  It didn’t take her long to figure out what he meant: that rather than record the minutiae of his life, she should record the minutiae of hers. Not the life of a nobleman, but the life of a peasant, of an ordinary Cannibal in the New World. What better way to teach future generations how to live? She began immediately the next morning.

  I woke. I brushed my teeth. I had a coffee. I had another coffee. I watched Kelly Ripa. I fell asleep.

  She grew depressed. Her brother’s activities, no matter how mundane, were filled with meaning and import. Hers, by comparison, seemed dull and uninteresting. The closer she looked, the less she saw, and what she saw she didn’t li
ke.

  Bland conversations.

  Petty thoughts.

  Banal dreams.

  Hemorrhoids.

  Earwax.

  Yellowing teeth.

  Shat, she wrote. Pissed. Farted.

  So what else is new?

  Her depression deepened. She took to bed, only leaving her house to get food. Humphrey tried to intervene, worried for his sister’s health.

  What are you doing to yourself? he asked.

  Looking, she said.

  For what?

  Something good, she said.

  He confiscated her notebooks, but she wrote on the backs of books, the pages of magazines. The next day he confiscated her pens, but she cut her thighs and calves and wrote on the walls with her blood. He hurried out to the pharmacy to get bandages, but by the time he returned, she was dead on the sidewalk beneath the open window of her fourth-floor apartment.

  Beside her was her notebook. As the sirens began to wail in the distance, he picked it up and read the last entry:

  The End.

  And then, below it:

  Thank goodness.

  * * *

  • • •

  First drove an Escalade, a large Cadillac SUV with wide double rear doors, the only one of all the siblings’ vehicles that could possibly fit Mudd’s corpse inside (even so, they would have to remove whatever seats could be removed, and push forward whatever seats could be pushed forward), and so it was decided he would take her with him as they drove to the University. First refused, suggesting they rent a van instead, but Unclish insisted there was no time.

  We have to leave now, he said. She’s already gray.

  First finally acquiesced, asking only that he not have to drive with her alone; Seventh, having taxied to Brooklyn anyway, agreed to ride with him. Zero drove Third in Mudd’s old Subaru; the others all drove their own cars. They would follow First, who would follow Unclish.

  Carrying Mudd to the Escalade was going to require the combined strength of them all. As they headed upstairs to bring her down, Ninth approached Seventh and pulled him aside.