Mother for Dinner

by Shalom Auslander

  He cut a small piece from the pink-brown meat on his plate, stabbed it with his fork, and held it aloft.

  Cannibals live forever, said Unclish, but with such darkness and remorse that Seventh looked up from his plate.

  But because of you bastards, Unclish continued, his voice filling with bitter contempt, Mudd will not live on.

  The Selzers were confused.

  Unclish, Seventh asked, are you okay?

  None of us will live on! Unclish shouted. Not Mudd, not me, not you!

  I knew it, said First. I knew he’d pull some eleventh-hour bullshit.

  Did we do something wrong, Unclish? asked Tenth.

  We followed all the steps, said Second.

  But Unclish ignored them.

  It was only a few years ago, he continued, that we celebrated the one hundredth anniversary of the day our forefather Julius was melted by that bastard Henry Ford. I came to visit your mother that day, did you know that? We sat on the patio out back of the house. One hundred years ago, I said to her, our story began. She wept, your mother; she wept and said, Yes, but how long before it ends?

  He slammed the table with his fist.

  You at this table were our last hope! From you, a new nation of Cannibals would emerge! You were going to go forth, find Cannibal wives, have Cannibal children, and bring unto the world a new generation of our people!

  He pressed himself up to a standing position, his thin arms trembling with the effort.

  Unclish, Seventh began. Be careful—

  BUT YOU DID NOT! Unclish shouted, his eyes wide and red with fury. You went your own way! You pursued your own dreams, your own happiness, your own ‘freedom’! And now, because no new generations will come from you, there will be no one left to Consume you. You have achieved nothing but mortality. You have ensured your own destruction, and the destruction of your people. YOU WILL NOT LIVE ON! AND MUDD WILL NOT LIVE ON! AND OUR PEOPLE WILL NOT LIVE ON!

  Unclish, said Seventh, take it easy . . .

  Third, confused, turned to Zero.

  Mudd won’t live on? he asked.

  Zero didn’t know what to say. She was torn between concern for Third and worry for Unclish, who had broken out in a sweat.

  Mudd will live in me! Third shouted at Unclish. I am Mudd! Mudd is me!

  Unclish, exhausted now and unable to stand, lowered himself back to his seat.

  For the moment, he said to Third, his voice a whisper. For a few years, yes. She will live on. But if there is no one to Consume you, she will die when you die.

  Mudd will live, Third insisted. Sixth will live!

  Unclish had no strength to debate him, and simply said to all, Begin.

  Seventh reached for his fork and knife. He took a deep breath, and cut a small, bite-and-a-half-size piece off the skin on his plate.

  The others did the same.

  Unclish? asked Seventh. Is there any order? Should we go in some order?

  But Unclish, who was now holding his head in his hands, didn’t respond.

  Seventh looked at the flap of skin on his fork. It was soft, its edges crispy, like the skin of barbecued chicken, but a dark, dismal gray in color. He tried to convince himself it was chicken, but it didn’t work.

  It was Mudd.

  Which skin was it? he wondered. Was it from the breast that weaned him? The hand that struck him? Was it from the arm he longed for so many years would hug him?

  He had turned away too quickly.

  From her, from their people.

  Mudd had been right. He had jumped into the pot Julius had been forced into. Maybe he had been too eager to leave; maybe they all had. And for what? Like First had said, to become meat himself?

  Maybe I should have just stayed with the cannibals I knew. At least they ate for a reason . . .

  Seventh lifted his fork to his lips.

  The meat quivered, stank.

  What a fool he had been! A hundred years after Julius, and here he was—still trying to melt. Still believing there was something left to melt into.

  Melting, Rosenbloom liked to say, is so two centuries ago.

  Ex uno multi, he said. Out of one, many. Many peoples, many walls, many identities, many one-foot-by-one-foot warring nations, living side by side but miles apart, prepping for war, the War of a Thousand Nations, the Battle of Everyone, the Great Hyphenate Holocaust.

  And while everyone else was running to claim their square, here stood Seventh, alone, like a fool, wondering where all the melters went.

  Henry Ford, after all, Mister Melting Pot, was a Nazi. Not Nazi as in bad person—a Nazi Nazi. He received medals from the Nazi Party. They read his books. He was Hitler’s hero, and Hitler was his.

  Melting Pots, ovens.

  Tomato, to-mah-to.

  Note to self: when a Nazi builds a giant pot and lights a fire under it, do not climb in.

  He closed his eyes and placed Mudd into his mouth, and his lips closed around her, and behold he was filled—with Mudd, and with all those she had Consumed, and with all those they had Consumed and with all those they had Consumed before them, with Julius and with Julia, with all those who had been beaten and with all those who had been raped, with those who had been imprisoned and those who had been enslaved, and the taste was awful, the most awful he had ever tasted, for it tasted of their blood and their tears, of their hopes and their dreams, of their pain and their sorrow.

  And Seventh swallowed.

  And they became him.

  And he became them.

  And Seventh wept.

  * * *

  • • •

  Seventh hated Grandparents’ Day, the day the school opened its gates and classrooms and allowed the students’ proud grandmothers and grandfathers to come see what their bright-eyed offspring were learning. He hated most school functions, but Grandparents’ Day was particularly difficult.

  Dad, Reese asked him last Grandparents’ Day. How come I never met your mom?

  Well, Seventh had said, she passed away.

  I mean when she was alive, said Reese.

  She died before you were born, said Seventh.

  Oh. How come Mom never met her?

  Well, said Seventh, my mother lived far away. In her homeland.

  Where’s her homeland?

  Brazil, said Seventh, choosing an exotic-sounding nation in hopes it would dissuade Reese from asking to visit.

  I thought Mom said you were from Guatemala, said Reese.

  My father is from Guatemala, said Seventh. My mother is Brazilian.

  I thought you said she was Dominican, said Reese.

  She was Dominican, said Seventh. Dominican-Brazilian.

  So what am I? asked Reese.

  Seventh smiled, picked her up on his lap, and hugged her tightly.

  You’re you, sweetness. That’s all that matters.

  * * *

  • • •

  Ninth began to choke. His face turned deep red, and he pressed his hand over his mouth.

  Don’t, First warned him.

  But Ninth shook his head, turning an even darker shade of red.

  Oh God, he groaned, his face a mask of revulsion. He stood and stumbled backward from the dinner table, knocking his chair over as he did.

  Oh God, he said again. Oh God . . .

  But it was too late. Whether for vegan reasons, emotional reasons, or some combination of the two, Ninth’s body utterly rejected his bite and a half; he grimaced, doubled over, and roared, and the meat he had pushed himself to swallow was ejected from his mouth with such force that all watched in shock as it sailed upward through the air, arcing high above their heads before peaking, cresting, and returning with a sickening splat to the center of the table.

  For a brief moment, nobody spoke. Nobody moved.

  That, Ni
nth gasped as he tried to catch his breath, counts.

  And all hell broke loose.

  That does not count, said Second, who had just violated his covenant with God by swallowing a bite and a half of Mudd’s foot.

  It counts!

  How the fuck does that count?

  That counts, said Ninth. I ate it, that fucking counts—

  That does not count, said Second. Seventh, does that count?

  Of course it counts! said First, whose only concern was that they had technically eaten what they were technically required to, and could finally get paid.

  Unclish, that counts, Ninth said, appealing to his authority. That counts, right? Unclish?

  Unclish, though, was in his own agony. He pressed himself up from his chair, hands at his throat. He seemed to be having trouble breathing.

  Unclish? asked Seventh. Unclish, you okay?

  Unclish winced, buckled over in pain. His top hat fell to the floor, and he followed after it, landing on top of it with a terrible crunch.

  Unclish! cried Seventh. He and his siblings rushed to his side—all but Ninth, whose body was still violently rejecting his mother, and Third, who sat in his seat at the now-empty table, staring blankly into the middle distance as he shoveled piece after piece of his dead mother into his mouth.

  Mudd will live, he said to no one as he chewed. Sixth will live. Julius will live. Everyone will live . . .

  * * *

  • • •

  The brothers helped Unclish to the main hall and laid him gently down on his mattress. He was conscious but in terrible pain, cold sweat on his brow as he clutched at his stomach. They gathered around him, much as they had just one day earlier around Mudd.

  Fifth suspected some sort of food poisoning, but Unclish hadn’t eaten Mudd’s meat, he said, and even if he had, the symptoms wouldn’t appear that quickly.

  He was eating earlier, said Seventh.

  The meat? Eighth asked.

  Seventh nodded. As he was cooking it, he said.

  It’s probably that, then, said Fifth. The meat.

  So we’re all going to get sick now? Eleventh asked.

  It was possible, Fifth said. But Unclish was old, and the elderly were more vulnerable to these sorts of things, their bodies less able to cope.

  We should get him to a hospital, said Fifth. He needs a hospital.

  Unclish lay on his side in the fetal position, eyes closed. Ninth knelt beside him.

  I ate that meat, Unclish, you saw me, I ate that shit. I put it in my mouth and I swallowed. That’s eating, Unclish, that counts.

  That is bullshit, Second began to argue. Soon all the Seltzers were shouting and objecting, pushing and shoving. Eighth and Tenth agreed with Second, Fourth and Fifth agreed with Ninth, Eleventh and Twelfth worked with Zero to calm Third, who was shouting at Seventh, who was trying to keep Tenth from attacking Ninth. An all-out brawl was only averted when a loud metallic banging caused them all to stop and turn to find First, bashing the lid of the trash can with the Knife of Redemption.

  Brothers, sisters, he said calmly when he had their attention. It. Counts. You put it in your mouth, Ninth. You swallowed. You ate. We all did. We’re done, folks. We’re done. With this, with Mudd, with all of it.

  He tossed the knife onto the floor, where it clattered and clanged like the final bell of a prize fight.

  We’re done, he said.

  His pronouncement took a moment to sink in. As it did, the expressions on his siblings’ faces reminded Seventh of hostages upon being released after months of captivity: the leery skepticism as they emerge from their cells, the bewilderment that soon becomes belief, the hugging, the crying. This is what the Seltzers experienced now too; some had been prisoners of Mudd, some had been prisoners of their pasts. But whether they celebrated now because they wanted to Consume Mudd and actually had, or hadn’t wanted to and were elated that it was over, celebrate they did. Some laughed, some cried, some cried while they laughed.

  Seventh watched them, and he decided.

  He would tell them.

  He would tell Reese.

  He would tell Carol.

  Who he was.

  Who they were.

  He would tell them their story, and their story would live on.

  Now, gang, said First, let’s get the fuck out of here.

  Fourth offered to take Unclish to the ER on his way back to the city. He would have preferred to take him to a hospital back in New York City, but Fifth thought Unclish needed immediate attention, and the local hospital would suffice.

  Second and Eighth agreed to take on the gruesome job of spilling their mother’s blood in the woods, and Ninth agreed to take the bag of organs with him and dispose of them at his veterinary office, where nobody would notice them amid the rest of the biomedical waste they put out every day. They were about to get to work when Unclish’s voice, weak but firm in the darkening lobby, called out:

  Must . . . finish, said Unclish.

  The siblings turned, surprised to find him conscious. Seventh knelt beside him and took his hand.

  It’s okay, Unclish, said Seventh. Try to rest. We’re going to get you to a hospital. Fourth will take you.

  Must finish, he repeated.

  We finished, said Seventh.

  It’s done, said First.

  Unclish shook his head. No . . .

  Unclish, Ninth said, don’t start with me. I swallowed my bite; we all agreed that was eating.

  We all had our bites, Unclish, said Seventh.

  Finish . . . , Unclish said.

  We all took our bites, Unclish, said Seventh, and then you passed out. Do you remember? We ate and then you passed out. You’re sick, Unclish, we’re going to get you to a hospital.

  Bites? Unclish asked, raising himself up to a sitting position. What bites?

  Of Mudd, said Eighth. Bites of Mudd. Just like you taught us, Unclish: A bite and half and you won’t need another, whether it’s your father, your sister, or even your mother.

  Unclish winced with pain, shook his head.

  I never taught you such a thing! said Unclish.

  When we were little, said Eighth. In the basement. A bite and half and you won’t need another . . .

  It’s half and a bite, you jackass! Unclish barked. Eat half and a bite and you won’t need another, he shouted, whether it’s your father, your sister, or even your mother. Not a bite and a half!

  Half and a bite? asked First. What the hell are you talking about?

  Half, said Unclish.

  Half of what?

  Of her, said Unclish. And a bite.

  Half of Mudd? Second asked.

  You want us to eat half of her? First asked. What are you, nuts?

  That is not what you taught us, said Eighth. That is not what you taught us.

  Half of Mudd? asked Eleventh. Unclish, she weighed five hundred pounds. You expect us to eat two hundred and fifty pounds of her?

  Divided by twelve, said Unclish.

  First yanked his phone from his pocket.

  Hey Siri, he demanded, what’s two hundred and fifty divided by twelve?

  I have found what you’re looking for, said Siri. Two hundred and fifty divided by twelve is twenty point eight three three three.

  Twenty pounds, said First. Of meat. Each. Fuck off, no way.

  Unclish’s face contorted with pain. Sweat ran down his face, and yet he shivered with cold.

  The Elders asked, Unclish said weakly, how much must we Consume? A majority, said the Elder Elders. . . . What is a majority? asked the Elders. . . . Half of the deceased and a bite, said the Elder Elders. . . . Half and a bite . . . Eat half and a bite and you won’t need another, whether it’s your father, your sister, or even your mother.

  Unclish, said Seventh, the meat . . . the meat
is bad. We can’t eat it. Everyone’s sick, Unclish—you, me, all of us. The meat is bad.

  Unclish grasped Seventh by the lapel of his coat.

  If we only ate when the meat was perfect, he groaned, we would never eat at all.

  Seventh looked up at First, who was beside himself with anger. He pointed his finger at Unclish and was about to rant and rave—Now listen! he began—when a terrible knocking came from the front door.

  BAM BAM BAM!

  Everyone froze.

  Who the hell is that? whispered Tenth.

  The knocking came again, loud and insistent.

  BAM! BAM BAM!

  It’s that fucking cop, whispered First. I bet it’s that fucking asshole cop.

  The pickup, said Seventh. It’s the guys from the pickup.

  I told you I didn’t like this damned town, Tenth barked at him. I told you!

  Shh! hissed Seventh. Quiet!

  Another knock.

  Open up! the person at the door shouted. I know you’re in there! OPEN UP!

  * * *

  • • •

  Love thy neighbor as you love thyself, Father often told Seventh, for as Mudd worked to make the children proud and fearful, he worked to make them kind and self-aware.

  For all the trouble the Bible has caused in this world, he said, and it’s caused a lot, it’s worth it for that one line. That one line can save us all.

  Because then we’ll all love each other? Seventh asked.

  Father shook his head. He didn’t interpret that precept as others did, as a mere reminder to love your neighbor as much as you love yourself. That was what religious leaders took from it, he said, because they were too foolish and arrogant to see the real admonition: to love your neighbor as you’re loving yourself.

  As, as in when.

  When you’re loving yourself, remember to love thy neighbor.

  Because the moment we begin to love ourselves, Father said to Seventh, is the moment we begin to hate others.

  * * *

  • • •

  The tradition the Seltzer children hated most was Loud Insistent Knocking Upon the Doors in the Middle of the Night. Loud Insistent Knocking Upon the Doors in the Middle of the Night, observed every Remembrance Day, was meant to commemorate the loud insistent knocks upon doors in the middle of the night that so plagued Cannibal history. The entire history of the Cannibal people, Unclish said, could be told as a series of loud insistent knocks upon doors in the middle of the night.