Mother for Dinner

by Shalom Auslander

  Why am I called the Elders and you’re called the Elder Elders?

  Because I’m older than you, said the Elder Elders.

  Exactly, said the Elders. Which means you’re closer to the start of the story, chronologically speaking—our story, I mean, the Cannibal story. The story begins at the beginning, does it not? Day one. In the beginning. Once upon a time there was a man, and he ate his brother. That’s the start, right?

  You are most wise.

  So if that, back then, was the beginning, I’m actually ‘older’ than you—in respect to the beginning. Further away, you see, closer to the end. I am the product of more Cannibal wisdom.

  I don’t follow, said the Elder Elders.

  Take the Ancients, said the Elders. Someone came before the Ancients, did they not?

  The Ancient Ancients, said the Elder Elders.

  Right, said the Elders. Except wrong. The people before the Ancients were closer to the beginning of the story than the Ancients. So as far as the beginning of the story goes, they’re less ancient than the Ancients. They’re only more ancient to us, standing here now. But why tell the story from us, from our place in time? Why label everything in relation to where we stand today? We’re just the most recent chapter. The story isn’t about us, so why are we telling it as if we’re who mattered?

  So what are you saying? asked the Elder Elders. That we don’t matter?

  I’m saying that perhaps we don’t matter as much as others.

  The Elder Elders clopped the Elders on the back of his head.

  Don’t be stupid, he said.

  * * *

  • • •

  They would be coming, Seventh knew. The neighbors, the police, the mobs. Any minute. Mobs are all the rage these days, after all. Seventh could hear the businessmen in his head, the investors, the Rosenblooms, the CEOs.

  Forget digital, they were saying, the real growth is in riots.

  Buy now, the Wall Street Journal would advise. American Truncheon. Taser Incorporated. International Gauze.

  Hernandez Town wasn’t going to take shit from Abdullahville anymore, Abdullahville was sick and tired of Rosenbloom Village, and if Hernandez Town thought Rosenbloom Village was going to sit by while they inseminated their way to a political majority, they had another thing coming.

  Seventh thought they should do it.

  Do what? asked First.

  The Victuals, said Seventh. On Unclish.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake, said First.

  We’re the only ones left, said Seventh. You want to just leave him here?

  Yes, said First. I want to just leave him here.

  Is that the way our people end? asked Seventh. Is this what becomes of us?

  Us? asked First. What is this us shit? Suddenly there’s an us? There is no us, okay? There’s only a dozen guilt-ridden siblings with mild food poisoning in a collapsing building in tax foreclosure with the body of their dead uncle. There is no larger significance to this; this is not some historical moment. Zero was right—if someone a hundred years from now tells this story and gives a damn what we did or didn’t do, then they’re the assholes, the same way we’re assholes giving a damn about what people a hundred years ago did. This doesn’t matter, Seventh, don’t you get that? The sun will rise tomorrow just as it did today, maybe the better for the loss of one more fool the night before, one less tribe, one less story. This is how things end, Seventh, and everything ends. And if we stick around here much longer, it’s going to end in jail.

  It doesn’t have to end, said Seventh. The chain. The links . . .

  Yeah, well, said First, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m tired of being in chains.

  He pulled his coat on and began to button it.

  Bring him to the hospital, he said of Unclish. He ate some bad meat. Oh fuck, he’s dead? Damn. Boo-hoo. The end. At last, hallelujah, the motherfucking end.

  What about the money? Second asked First. We still get the money, right?

  Unclish is dead, said First. We’re the executors of the will now. The money’s ours, whether we eat her, bury her, turn her into jerky, or leave her here to rot.

  It’s not about the money, Seventh insisted. It’s about the chain; it’s about what’s right.

  Money is right, goddammit! First shouted. Right is compensation, brothers. Right is damages. You smash my car, you pay me. You break my arm, you pay me. YOU FUCK MY LIFE, YOU PAY ME. We did the math, me and Siri—my math. One shrink session, three hundred a pop, every week for twenty-seven years. Four hundred and twenty-one thousand, two hundred dollars. That’s what it cost me to start over, to begin again. To erase her, to get to the blank page I started with. That’s what she owes me, four hundred and twenty-one thousand, two hundred dollars, right around the amount we’ll each get from the sale of that miserable house, destined for demolition, which I for one will be watching from the sidewalk across the street, in a comfortable lounge chair with an ice-cold beer. And as for that chain, little brother? There are two types of people on it. One, a miserable fuck, yelling, Stay. And another, even more miserable, wishing he had run.

  And then First turned, opened the door, and walked away.

  Again.

  The cold wind blew in blustering flakes of snow. At last it was beginning to fall in earnest. If only it could cover the world, thought Seventh. If only it could cover the past and the present and future; if only it would snow so long and so deep that it would cover up all mankind.

  Second followed First out the door.

  Where are they going? asked Third, who was sitting beside Unclish. He hadn’t spoken since the Consumption.

  Home, Fourth said, as he too headed for the door. We all are.

  Not finished, said Third.

  We’re finished, said Fourth as he walked out. We’re finished.

  Not finished! Third called after him.

  Zero patted Third’s shoulder. It’s okay, she said. It’s okay.

  Seventh looked around at the remaining brothers.

  Anyone else? he asked.

  Fifth stepped forward. I’m sorry, Seventh, he said, and he shook his head to hear himself utter yet another apology. I’m sorry and I’m sorry and I’m sorry; that’s all I ever said to that woman. I thought Consuming her would finally alleviate my guilt, once and for all, and maybe it has. But now I just feel a coward.

  Being a good son isn’t cowardice, said Seventh. Being a good Cannibal isn’t cowardice. It’s bravery.

  I had a patient, said Fifth, a young man with the usual dysfunctional family afflictions—depression, anxiety, low self-esteem—who nevertheless prided himself on being a good son. He took care of his aging father, feeding him, changing him, even going to church with him and praying with him. Parishioners shed tears to see it, and the priest often spoke of him in his sermons, comparing his devotion to his father to the way Jesus devoted his own life to his Father in Heaven. Eventually the father died, and the young man sank into a deep and dark depression. That was when he came to see me. The darkness he felt was more severe than one normally associated with simple grief. He was utterly broken. Eventually, many months later, we traced the cause of his melancholy back to a single moment in the hospital, a day or so before his father passed away. He had been at the hospital, standing beside his father’s bed, straightening the items on the nightstand, when his father, in the midst of a feverish dream, suddenly lifted his arm up—and the young man jumped back in fear. His father, you see, had been a son of a bitch. Abusive, violent, prone to fits of rage. All of which the son excused, tolerated, dismissed. He was a good son to a bad man. And even with his father wasted away, tubes running in and out of him, not even strong enough to breathe on his own, the son, who could kill him now with one blow, still feared him. He still cowered when his father raised his hand. That was the source of his depression. While others praised his devot
ion, he knew it was really just fear. He didn’t have the courage to be a bad son. To walk away. To leave his broken family and find a new one, to turn his back on that man and join the larger family of Man. I advised him to move on, before it was too late. I advise you to do the same.

  And he walked out too.

  And then there were seven, thought Seventh.

  Not including Zero-Hero.

  Who, he knew, didn’t count.

  * * *

  • • •

  It is opening night, and Cannibals from across the country have come to the University to see the premiere of the award-winning two-act Cannibal play, Melting Point, adapted from the bestselling Out of the Shadows, in the very first Cannibal theater in the very first Cannibal university. Expectations are high as the curtain rises, and the crowd gasps in horror to see before them the heinous Melting Pot of Henry Ford, thirty feet tall, black and terrible and all-consuming. A young woman runs onstage—tattered dress, unkempt hair, bare feet—looks out at the audience, and calls, Julius! Julius, come quick!

  Julius runs onstage, carrying an ancient leather valise. A dozen other tired, hungry immigrants follow him.

  Look! Julia cries, pointing over the heads of the audience.

  Is that . . . ? one of the immigrants asks.

  The Statue of Liberty, Julia says. The New World!

  The immigrants cheer and dance and sing, but Julius, troubled, clutches his valise and steps away.

  God help us, he whispers.

  The New World, though, is nothing if not enticing, and as the first act proceeds, Julius begins to fall for its gleaming charms. After a heartwarming scene of Julia and Julius taking their first ride in a Ford Model T—If only Father could see this magical carriage! Julia shrieks—they set out for the promised land of Detroit. Julius and Julia are excited, but the audience grows anxious, knowing what’s coming. Henry Ford appears, eliciting howls of rage from the audience, kissing Julia’s hand as he welcomes the two to Detroit. But there is more outrage to come, for as act 1 draws to a close, the Melting Pot creeps, ghostlike, to center stage, spewing smoke. A sign descends from the rafter, announcing that it is Americanization Day. Julius enters, and climbs the ladder to the pot’s edge.

  The crowd holds its breath.

  Julius turns back to Julia and smiles.

  America, he calls out to her. Was it not worth it?

  He holds his arms wide, closes his eyes, and falls into the pot.

  Curtain.

  The crowd during intermission is afire with indignation. Is this what we paid to see? they demand. This assimilationist Was-It retelling of history? This cheap propaganda for the New World? Some demand their money back; some leave in a huff, swearing to never return.

  The curtain rises on act 2, the audience ready to hiss and boo and let the company know what they think of them. But there, onstage, is Julia, in the back of a Ford Model T, being violated by Henry Ford. She screams, begs for mercy, but Ford tears at her, slaps her. By the end of act 2, Julia has been beaten beyond recognition, Julius is a shadow of his former self, and they are chased from Detroit by the very same immigrants who cheered with them in the play’s opening scene.

  Julius collapses. Julia holds him in her arms as the mob draws around them.

  America, Julius says. It was not worth it.

  And Julius dies.

  Curtain.

  The crowd erupts. Encore! they shout. Encore!

  The door to the empty theater opened.

  Seventh? Eighth called. You in here?

  You missed a hell of a show, said Seventh.

  Eighth made his way down the aisle and sat beside Seventh, who knew what his brother was going to say before he spoke a single word.

  You’re leaving, said Seventh.

  Eighth nodded. I am, he said.

  Seventh had thought Eighth would be the last to go. Even Tenth, he thought, would leave before Eighth.

  Picture a candelabra, said Seventh.

  I have, said Eighth.

  There are three candles, Seventh said. Red, white, blue. They’re burning. They’re on fire. Does the red one help the blue one? Does the blue one give a damn about the white one? No. What’s white ever done for blue? Fuck white, says red. Fuck blue, says white. Fuck red, says blue.

  Candles are assholes, said Eighth.

  Seventh nodded.

  They are, he said.

  They’ve always been assholes, said Eighth. And who can blame them? They’re born, they burn, they die. Bad way to go, too, lighting your head on fire. Candles have it rough. Red, white, blue—they’re all pretty fucked.

  You’d think they’d come together, said Seventh. In their times of trouble.

  Are we still talking about candles?

  Help me, said Seventh. With Unclish. I can’t do him alone.

  But Eighth shook his head.

  This used to mean something to me, he said. This place, these rules. These stories. I felt I was part of something, preserving something. But now I think, Whose rules? Whose stories? Unclish’s? Julius’s? Mudd’s? Father’s? I’ve been holding on to this bullshit identity as if it was a ship in a storm that could keep me from drowning. But it was just a plank of old driftwood, Seventh; it only dragged me farther out to sea. I’m done.

  Would you eat me? Seventh asked.

  Eat you?

  If I died. Would you eat me?

  Half and a bite? asked Eighth.

  Bite and a half, said Seventh.

  Eighth shook his head.

  And condemn you to eternal life? he said. I don’t like you, Seventh, but I don’t hate you.

  Good, said Seventh. Just checking.

  They hugged, and Seventh couldn’t remember the last brother he ever hugged, or if he ever had.

  * * *

  • • •

  Third lay down in the back seat of Zero’s car, curled into the fetal position, and fell asleep. It was late afternoon, and traffic back to the city was light. Zero drove in silence, checking on Third in the rearview mirror every now and then.

  He asked me to make a baby with him, said Zero.

  Third?

  She nodded.

  When?

  After Unclish died, she said. He wanted to make sure Mudd lived.

  Does he even know how to make a baby?

  It was more like he was asking me for help, she said. Like there were some directions somewhere. Two cups water, three cups flour, that sort of thing.

  What did you tell him?

  I told him I’d have to go shopping.

  They smiled. By Seventh’s feet sat the old leather valise. He texted Rosenbloom.

  Just finished a manuscript, he wrote.

  Good? Rosenbloom asked.

  Great, replied Seventh.

  What’s it about?

  It’s about this family, Seventh replied, and how the death of their matriarch causes them to reconsider their dreams of assimilation in a nation that won’t accept them.

  That’s what they’re all about, wrote Rosenbloom.

  This one’s about Cannibal-Americans, wrote Seventh.

  There was a long pause.

  As I Lay Frying? wrote Rosenbloom.

  And then: This Is Where I Eat You?

  And then, after a much longer pause: I pay you good money, Seventh. And it isn’t to jerk me around.

  I’m going to have to put him somewhere, said Zero. Third, I mean. A home, something. A care center.

  Seventh agreed.

  Mudd should have done that a long time ago, he said.

  Maybe he’ll be happy now, she said. It’s over, we’re all gone. There’s nobody left to defend. Isn’t it wonderful? No need to be a warrior. He can just be Third, I can just be me, you can just be you.

  Whoever the hell that is, said
Seventh.

  The snow fell heavy now on the highway. Traffic slowed as they grew closer to Manhattan, and came to a standstill in the middle of the George Washington Bridge. Zero pointed to a small sign on the suspension cable that read NEW YORK. There was another one, facing the other way, that read NEW JERSEY. Somewhere below them, or far above, was the invisible border between the two states, whose residents had about as much love for one another as gas people have for charcoal.

  What a bunch of assholes, she said.

  Who?

  People, she said. I’m from here, you’re from there. Rah rah, bang bang, kill kill. That’s not just my opinion, either—that people are assholes. It’s a fact, did you know that? A biological fact.

  That people are assholes?

  Yes, she said. Fourth told me. When we got back from buying the grill, remember? After I said the cop was decent and you told me to shut the fuck up?

  Sorry.

  I was pissed off, said Zero, and he was trying to cheer me up. I said, Jesus Christ, are all people assholes? And he said, Yes. They are. From birth. He said that in the womb, we start out as a tiny little group of cells—a blastula, he called it. The cells burst, and form an opening. In some creatures, that opening becomes the mouth. In others it becomes an anus.

  An anus?

  An asshole, said Zero. That’s the first organ to form; everything else comes after that. And so all creatures are either Mouth Firsts or Asshole Firsts. Guess which type humans are. We’re assholes, Seventh, from day one. Every one of us. Gandhi was an asshole, Stalin was an asshole, Jesus was an asshole. Take everything else away—class, education, race, religion, appearance, rank—and essentially, we’re all just a bunch of assholes. It literally explains everything—Mudd, Unclish, you, me, religion, war, politics. Everything.

  Seventh had studied Montaigne. He had studied Cicero and Seneca and Epictetus. He’d studied all the great philosophers and all the great thinkers from all across time. And what Zero just said, he knew, was the truest thing he had ever heard.

  * * *

  • • •

  Zero dropped Seventh off outside his apartment building on the Upper East Side. He asked her to let him know what happened with Third; he would visit him whenever he could. Zero said she would. They promised to keep in touch, and they hugged tightly.