Mother for Dinner

by Shalom Auslander

  Seventh felt his unease return. Why did this redneck give a damn what they were grilling?

  I mind, said Seventh.

  Meat, said First, covering for Seventh’s surliness. Shit ton of it, too.

  Good hunting around here, the salesman said. Caught something big, did ya?

  My man, said First, with a beast this size, it’s more like she caught us.

  The salesman chuckled knowingly.

  I hear ya, he said. But I’m afraid you’re making a mistake.

  Are we? Seventh asked. And how is that?

  There are two types of people in this world, the salesman began. You got your charcoal people and you got your gas people. Charcoal people hate gas people, and gas people hate charcoal people. Been that way since the day the good Lord created us, I suppose, and there’s no talkin’ to one if you’re hailin’ from the other. I was at a cookout over at the park this summer, guy showed up with a gas grill, damn near started a war. Folks around town still not talking to each other over it. Now me, I’m a charcoal man myself, but I don’t judge the gas people. Some of my best friends are gas people, I mean that. My wife’s gas; hell, my kids are gas. Fact is, though, if you’re looking for flavor, you can’t beat briquettes, there’s just no two ways about it. But I will say this: if you got something big, and you’re looking for fast and easy—and I say this as a dyed-in-the-wool charcoal man—go with gas.

  Fast, said First. We definitely want fast.

  The salesman led them to a large stainless-steel floor model, a leftover from the previous season. It was fully loaded: two side burners, a warmer, electric rotisserie, and a full set of grill tools. Triple the grill area of the charcoal model, he said, and he’d throw in the propane tank as well, since it wasn’t exactly grilling season.

  We also need a knife, said Seventh.

  Ten-inch okay? asked the salesman.

  Not for the animal we’re cutting up, said First.

  I got a twenty-two-incher, said the salesman, but that’s mostly for trees and branches.

  We’ll take it, said First.

  Must be some beast you boys caught, said the salesman.

  Yup, said First. A real mother.

  * * *

  • • •

  It was ten a.m. by the time they pulled up at the Burger King drive-through and ordered a dozen fries. First asked for ketchup—A shitload, he said—and they headed back to the University.

  First had stuck Seventh with the bill for the fries, as he had with the bill for the grill.

  What do you care? he had said. You’re about to be rich, brother.

  About to be rich wasn’t the same as being rich, and the mention of money caused Seventh’s stomach to tighten; he still owed Rosenbloom a manuscript. He pulled his phone from his pocket.

  Found an MS I’m liking, he texted Rosenbloom. Gonna stay home today and try to plow through it.

  Great, Rosenbloom responded. Is it the One-Legged-Pakistani-British-American-Fiscal-Conservative-Social-Democrat-Transgender-Polygamist one? I thought that one showed promise.

  No, responded Seventh. A new one. Just came in.

  He paused.

  Cannibal-Americans, he typed.

  He stared at the words a moment. He liked the way they looked. Proud. Defiant. Out from shadows. And though Seventh knew it was forbidden to reveal that one was Cannibal, he wasn’t technically revealing he was Cannibal, was he?

  What would John do?

  John would hit Send.

  Seventh hit Send.

  He watched the dots on the screen, waiting, as he imagined Mudd had waited for Jack Nicholson that night at the Academy Awards. For validation. For permission.

  To what?

  To exist.

  Hilarious, Rosenbloom responded.

  Then he added a /s, so Seventh would know he was being sarcastic.

  Lousy Sherwood, thought Seventh.

  Fuck, First suddenly said. Cop.

  Seventh checked his mirror. The patrol car was close, trailing them. His pulse began to quicken.

  How long’s he been there? he asked.

  Just noticed him, said First. Fuck. Fuck.

  Okay, okay, said Seventh. Just keep going.

  Where?

  Anywhere. Just not home.

  Home? First asked.

  The University, said Seventh.

  The police lights came on.

  Fuck, said First. He’s pulling us over. I have to pull over.

  What’s the big deal? said Zero.

  This truck smells like a corpse, said First as he came to a stop. That’s the big deal.

  It smells like French fries, said Zero.

  It smells like French fries and a corpse, said First.

  We didn’t do anything wrong, said Zero.

  Like cops give a fuck, said First.

  Not all cops are evil, said Zero.

  Just most, said First.

  The police officer stepped out of his cruiser and approached them slowly, hand on his holster as he examined the barbecue grill sticking out the open rear window.

  Morning, officer, First said too cheerfully. Everything okay?

  The officer bent over to get a look at him, then at Seventh in the passenger seat. He wore mirrored sunglasses, despite the heavy gray storm clouds that blotted out the sky, and his sharp-brimmed police hat perched atop his military-style shaved head as if even it were afraid to touch him.

  License and registration, he said flatly.

  Are you black?

  No.

  Jew?

  No.

  Arab?

  No.

  First handed the officer his papers.

  Date of birth? the officer asked him.

  Why do you need his date of birth? Seventh asked.

  The police officer looked across at Seventh, his face stone. Again First stepped in to cover for Seventh’s aggression.

  He wants to know if it’s my birthday, First said to Seventh with a laugh. Get off his back, brother; he’ll probably get me a better gift than you will.

  He turned to the officer, told him his birth date, and said, Don’t send me flowers, though, people will talk.

  The officer checked the license and smiled as he handed it back to First.

  I’ll keep it a simple card, he said.

  Something funny, said First. I don’t like the mushy ones.

  I was behind you coming out of town, the officer said. Saw the grill sticking out your rear window.

  Oh, said First. Yeah. Sorry—we went with the big one, had to leave the rear window open to fit it.

  Nice-looking unit, said the officer. I’m a charcoal man myself. Still, I couldn’t bear to watch a nice new grill like that flying around and getting banged up as you came around those corners. I got some rope in the cruiser.

  First watched him walk back to his patrol car.

  What the fuck’s gotten into you? he asked Seventh.

  He’s an asshole, Seventh muttered.

  He’s trying to help, said Zero.

  The officer returned a moment later with some rope and began securing it to the rear bumper.

  Phew, he said as he worked. Something die in here?

  Skunk, First called back to him. Hit one last night on our way up.

  Skunk? he said. This time of year?

  Zero turned to face him.

  I was driving, she said. He came right at me.

  The officer, getting his first good look at her, lowered his sunglasses.

  Well, he said with a smile, can’t say I blame him.

  Zero smiled back.

  The officer tied the knot tight, and tucked the ends in so they wouldn’t trail behind as they drove.

  White vinegar, he said.

  White vi
negar? Zero asked.

  Little secret of mine, he said. Put it in a garden sprayer, spray the underside of the vehicle, gets rid of that skunk smell in a jiffy.

  White vinegar, said Zero. I never heard of that. Thanks. We’ll try that.

  First waved as the officer drove away, then pulled back onto the road.

  That was nice of him, said Zero. You see, Seventh? Sometimes you have to trust people.

  You’re twenty years old, said Seventh.

  The pickup truck from yesterday drove by the other way.

  So? asked Zero.

  So shut the fuck up, said Seventh.

  * * *

  • • •

  In the city, Unclish explained, Purging would have been simpler.

  Nobody notices a bag of human organs in Brooklyn, he said. You drop the lungs in one dumpster, the colon in another; no one’ll see and won’t care if they do. What’s one more colon in Bushwick? You could leave a uterus on the sidewalk in Brownsville and nobody would even stop to look at it. There’s the stench, sure, but there are others.

  But in New Jersey, he continued, it wasn’t so easy.

  In the suburbs, he said, people notice when you put things in their garbage. And they don’t like it. That’s America’s vaunted capitalism for you: Nobody minds if you’re so hungry you have to eat out of their trash, but try putting something in their trash, and they raise holy hell.

  The only option in a rural area was to leave the innards in the woods, but coyotes were rare these days; you were pretty much counting on hawks and raccoons to eat the organs, and with entrails the size of Mudd’s, that would take far too long and risk discovery.

  We’ll have to take it with us, he said.

  It? asked First.

  The innards, said Unclish.

  With us?

  We’ll bag them, said Unclish, bring them back to the city. We can ditch it in the Bronx.

  Plenty of animals there, said Tenth.

  Unclish lifted the Knife of Redemption, closed his eyes, and held it aloft.

  And now, he called, it is time to Purge.

  He instructed Tenth to slide the blood-filled trash can out from beneath Mudd’s corpse, being careful not to spill a single drop. The Ancients, he explained, believed that once the body was properly Consumed, the blood would turn to wine, signaling a successful Consumption, and so it was customary to divide the blood among the family members, for them to enjoy once the Victuals were complete.

  Enjoy? asked Zero. Who are we?

  Unclish placed the tip of the Knife of Redemption at the center of Mudd’s pubic bone, closed his eyes, and, in a loud voice that filled the great hall, called out:

  May the organs that once sustained you now be set free!

  The entire process took just three cuts and two minutes. It unsettled Seventh to see how quickly a human body could be emptied of its vital organs, how quickly we can be disassembled, how quickly we fall apart. He stared at the pile of glistening viscera on the floor below Mudd’s hollowed carcass. It looked to him as if God had tripped on his way from the parts room to the workshop, and all the Mudd parts he was carrying had fallen to the ground.

  Fuck, God muttered.

  Five-second rule, said his assistant, kneeling to pick them up. You’re good.

  Seventh volunteered for the grim task of bagging Mudd’s entrails; nobody else would, he knew, and he was feeling the desire to do something more than just watch. He wanted to take part. Fourth, Fifth, and Ninth, being men of science and thus more accustomed to viscera than the rest, offered to help.

  I’ll be honest, said Ninth as they worked, I was kind of surprised she had a heart.

  It was the uterus that surprised me, said Fourth.

  Enough, Seventh snapped.

  Carol was still not returning his texts, and he had half a mind to phone her, to tell her exactly who he was and what was going on. Rosenbloom meanwhile couldn’t even conceive of his people’s story as anything less than a joke. Cops pulling them over, pickup trucks shadowing them all over town. Was it too much for his own brothers to treat their people’s most important ritual with some goddamned respect?

  It’s remarkable, Ninth said of the entrails at his feet. The machinery of man and animal is so similar. Given the high estimations we have of ourselves, you’d expect to open a dog or a rat and find a completely different design, something totally foreign to our own. But you don’t. With minor variations, we’re pretty much the same.

  Fourth agreed. Between humans, he said, the deviations are even smaller. We’re practically identical, and yet we thoroughly despise one another. On the first day of class I tell my students: Picture a battlefield, a war, 9/11. Then strip away everything external—clothes, badges, weapons—strip everyone right down to their bare bones, and the tragic becomes hideously comic: a bunch of lanky, clanky skeletons, identical in every possible way, indistinguishable from one another, bashing each other over the head with sticks and claiming superiority. Assholes, Nature is telling us, you’re all the goddamned same.

  But Seventh disagreed.

  What if she’s telling us the opposite? he said.

  The opposite? asked Fourth.

  The opposite, said Seventh. What if Nature made our bodies the same to show us that the body itself doesn’t matter—that what matters is the mind. That in form—in bones and structure—we are similar, and thus form is insignificant. What makes us who we are is not form but content—the mind, the self—and in that way we are different. Not better, not worse. Just . . . different.

  But we aren’t different, said Fifth. Everything we know about the mind points to similarities, not differences. Gay, straight, black, white, Western, Eastern, ancient, modern—our emotional wiring is the same. We desire the same things, need the same things, fear the same things.

  Seventh was growing frustrated with what Mudd used to call her sons’ liberal vanity.

  They don’t think something because they think it, she insisted. They think it because they want others to think they think it.

  But look at the story, Seventh said to his brothers. You can’t argue with the story. We started in Africa and we moved apart, moved away from each other. To be alone, to be with our own.

  But that’s not the story, said Fourth, with an arrogant tone that made Seventh want to slap him. That’s only the first few chapters. We’re at the midpoint, furthest away from where we started but getting closer every day to the resolution, to the ending—and that ending is unity, oneness. We’re not moving away from each other; in fact, we’re moving toward each other, mixing, becoming one. That’s the direction of human life, Seventh; that’s where things are going. My kids don’t see color—

  Oh bullshit! Seventh said with such anger that it startled them all. Yes, they do. Yes, they fucking do; we all do. Zebras see lions, no matter how progressive those zebras claim to be, and lions kill zebras. Zebra lives don’t matter, not to lions, and if zebras could laugh, they would every time a lion got shot in the ass by a poacher. Black people care about black lives, white people care about white lives. That’s just the way of the world. And nobody gives a damn about our lives.

  He tied the bag tightly and walked away.

  You’re starting to sound like Mudd, Fourth called after him.

  Somebody has to, thought Seventh.

  * * *

  • • •

  Has the blood from a Victual ever turned into wine? the Elders asked.

  No, said the Elder Elders.

  Then why do we continue to divide the blood among us? the Elders asked.

  So that our tradition will not be lost, said the Elder Elders, and our people will stay true.

  So that which is false will make us true? asked the Elders.

  Bingo, said the Elder Elders.

  * * *

  • • •

  They
decided to set up the barbecue on the flagstone patio out back; the joints were overgrown with weeds and the stones were crumbling, but there was a small area that was still mostly flat, and most important, they wouldn’t be seen from the road.

  Seventh had just finished connecting the gas when Second approached.

  Can we talk a sec? Second asked.

  I have to prep the grill, said Seventh.

  I . . . I should have mentioned this sooner, said Second, I know. But to be honest, I mean, I didn’t think this was going to go this far, you know? I thought we’d drive here, talk about Mudd a bit, laugh, cry, realize this whole idea was crazy, and head back, and that’d be the end of it.

  And?

  And here we are.

  So?

  Second sighed heavily and stuck his hands into his pockets.

  I’m kosher, he said.

  You’re what?

  I’m kosher.

  You’re kosher?

  I can’t do it. I can’t eat her. I’m Jewish.

  You’re not Jewish, Second.

  I am.

  You married a Jew; that doesn’t make you Jewish.

  I converted, said Second. Circumcised, the whole deal. I’m a Jew.

  I don’t care, said Seventh.

  What?

  I don’t care. I don’t care if you’re Abraham, I don’t care if you’re Moses, I don’t care if you’re Jesus fucking Christ. You’re eating her.

  I can’t.

  You ate Auntie Hazel.

  I wasn’t a Jew then, Seventh; I was a kid. And I gave my portion to Third.

  It’s one bite, said Seventh, trying his best not to lose his temper. Throw it up after; that’s what Ninth is doing. Nobody will know.

  It can’t pass my lips, said Second. I’m not even supposed to be in the same house with it. It’s a violation of my covenant with God. I’m sorry, I just can’t do it.

  Where’s your hat?

  You mean my yarmulke? Not all Jews wear yarmulkes.

  Isn’t that a part of your covenant with God?

  We live in a bigoted society, Seventh, and I found that identifying myself outwardly as a Jew, by wearing a yarmulke, had a deleterious effect on my career. Our people have suffered this kind of hatred for centuries.