Staycation, page 2
Too far. That is too damned far.
Eventually, he separated his mouth from hers. He kept her body bent, cradling and supporting it with his grubby hands on the small of her back and around her waist. “Now, that’s what I call a fucking kiss, Mama.”
Abruptly, he withdrew his hands from her body, and she dropped smack onto the floor, plopping right onto her ass. The kids peered around the doorway, their wide eyes slowly narrowing. A moment later, their footsteps darted up the stairs. The Dog stopped barking and ran to her, whimpering and sniffing frantically around her face. She saw The Dad staring down at her with a shit-eating grin on his face that said yeah, I just did that. And you know what? I’m gonna do it again. And again. Maybe even more. And there’s nothing you can do about it, is there? It’s not against the rules.
The look of horror on her face turned to laughter as The Dog’s hot and repugnant breath met her nostrils. “Oohhh, Fido.” She giggled, falling onto her back. “Your breath smells like butt.”
“How would you know what ass smells like?” he asked under his breath.
The Dog continued inspecting her. It wiggled its rear quarter in the air enthusiastically as it sniffed up and down her body.
She rolled onto her side, laughing uncontrollably. “Fido, nooooo.” The Dog sniffed on anyway. “Oh, Fido.” She scratched at its tilted head, rubbing behind an ear. The Dog sighed, voicing contentment.
“Stupid fucking dog,” he said as he stepped over them. “Never wanted a fucking dog.” That made Fido growl ever so slightly. If he heard it, he let it slide. For now. He patted The Boy on the head and slowly ascended the stairs to take a shower and wash the day’s hard work from his skin. But he stopped midway, long enough to call down, “Dinner better be on the table by the time I’m cleaned up, Mama. One hour, you hear?”
“Sure.” She laughed as Fido ran his nose through her hair.
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.”
He plodded up the creaky wooden steps. A moment later, the bathroom door banged shut, and she could hear him turn on the sink faucet. She felt a momentary twinge of relief in her stomach and enjoyed the sensation for a second before bouncing to her feet. “Who’s hungry?”
Fido resumed yapping, and the kids shook with excitement, waving their hands high in the air.
4
Two Many Cooks
In the kitchen, she was quickly overwhelmed by the walk-in pantry, which had been restocked only a day or two before the game began. The miscellaneous boxes of pasta and bags of rice, the jars of red sauce, the multicolored bottles of dried spices, and the top shelf loaded with a variety of canned vegetables boggled her mind. She had no idea what to do with any of them, not to mention the assorted condiments, snacks, and carbonated beverages of the alcoholic and nonalcoholic kind.
The refrigerator had also recently been fully stocked, and she found it far easier to navigate its contents. She had her choice of a cooked rotisserie chicken, several pounds of various lunch meats, not to mention the large pizza in the freezer, along with several bags of vegetables and microwavable trays of bland white mashed potatoes. There were also several blue plastic containers of leftovers from earlier in the week, but she couldn’t recall now if he’d enjoyed one more than the others.
The kids were easy enough to please. They’d happily scarf down peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with a side of chocolate milk—oh crap, was there milk in the fridge? Yes… yes, there was—for the next few weeks, but he would be the fussy one. He’d never really been a picky eater before, but she somehow knew that for her, he would be. Visions of him throwing a plate loaded with food at her head while shouting “You expect me to eat this shit?” raced through her head. The sick feeling returned to her stomach as she tried to guess what might make him happy tonight. He’d already proven five minutes into the game that he was full of surprises, and the last thing she wanted to do was hand him a loaded gun with the barrel pointing right at her.
She ran her clammy palms over the front of the apron, noticing the slight tremor in her hands as she did so. Frigid air spilled out of the open doors of the fridge and freezer. It swept past her face and felt wonderful against her flushed cheeks. Everything will be all right, she said to herself as she began pulling a myriad of items from the fridge and freezer that would make up the feast she had in mind for their first official “family” dinner. He can’t get mad if there’s a lot to choose from, she reasoned.
An hour later, the family sat down to an all-out smorgasbord of pepperoni pizza, jalapeño poppers, ham and cheese sandwiches, mac and cheese with bacon bits and broccoli, a side salad loaded with crunchy croutons and doused in his favorite Italian dressing, a plate of French fries buried under a blanket of no-name American cheese slices that kept their form despite the time they spent baking in the oven, and some overdone chicken nuggets. The Boy liked chicken nuggets, not as much as peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but the nuggets were a close second.
“Well, well, well,” The Dad said, slithering into the seat at the head of the rectangular table. Her seat had been moved, she noticed, from the other end to the inside, opposite the kids. “You do all this, Mama?”
Her cheeks reddened again. “It was nothing.”
“You’re damned right it was nothing. You think throwing some shit on a pan and tossing it in the oven is on the same level as going out and working for a living,” he said.
The room fell silent; only The Dog’s loud exhales were audible.
He slammed a fist on the table, rattling the glasses. The silverware bounced and fell back into their respective and incorrect places. “Well? Do ya?”
She shook her head, afraid to give an incorrect response. The image of a dinner plate sailing through the air and smacking her in the temple played in her mind. The silence only aggravated him more.
Suddenly, he grabbed the table by its corners and lifted it a few inches off the ground before letting it drop. Two glasses rolled onto their sides but luckily did not shatter. “Well, do ya? Speak the fuck up. Or did the cat get your tongue?” At this, The Dog yapped a loud squelch of disagreement. He laughed. “Dog. Or did the dog get your fucking tongue?”
“No, I don’t think it’s the same.”
“Dear,” he added. She looked at him, a puzzled expression on her face. “I don’t think it’s the same, dear.”
“Oh,” she whispered.
“SAY IT!” he shouted, slapping the tabletop for added emphasis. The kids shuddered as though they’d been shot. They hung their heads low, and kept their eyes down, doing their best not to catch Dad’s crazed gaze.
She took a deep breath and painted on a smile. “I don’t think it’s the same, dear.” And she made certain that the “dear” sounded as sweet as apple fucking pie.
That made him happy. The tension in the room dropped back down to zero. Slowly, the kids looked up, eyeing first each other, and then moving around the table. Then, Dad said with a grin on his face, “See, was that so hard?”
“No, dear.”
That made him laugh. “Who knew that training you would be so fucking easy?”
The kids reached across the table, The Boy for the nuggets and The Girl for the mac and cheese.
“Excuse fucking me. Have we all forgotten something?”
The kids looked at each other and then at The Mom. She studied the prepared feast on the table. “I don’t think so, dear. What have I forgotten?” she asked, throwing the ball into his court.
“We seem to have forgotten our goddamned manners.” No one moved. He surveyed their blank faces one by one, slowly and deliberately, circling like a shark in the shallows. “Proper families give thanks for their bounty before eating. And we are a proper family, ain’t we?”
She breathed a sigh of relief. Not my fault. The kids stared at her. “Of course. You’re right, dear.” She reached across the table and took hold of one of his hands and then reached to take hold of The Boy’s hand as he was sitting opposite her. With a small nod, she motioned to the kids to join hands, and they did without protest, but not entirely sure what was expected of them. “How’s about you lead us in a prayer of thanks, dear? What do you say?” Ball in your court. Two for me.
“Sure,” he said, grabbing the daughter’s hand in his. “Why the fuck not? Seems like I have to do everything around here.”
She bowed her head. “Kids.”
They observed the position of her head and copied. The Dog barked and assumed a picture-perfect downward facing dog position. Its hind wiggled in the air, making The Mom giggle. She swallowed it before The Dad noticed and lowered her head once more.
“Lord, it’s us. The Millers. We may not be what you’d call the perfect family—what with my lazy wife, ungrateful kids, and good-for-nothing dog—but you know how hard I work for this family, to provide and teach and correct where necessary. I ask for your strength and guidance in the coming weeks as we enjoy what will likely be the best staycation we’ve ever had.” He smiled and squeezed the hands he held in his. She cocked her head and met his gaze, as did the daughter. A second later, they all smiled and laughed. “A-fucking-men.”
“A-fucking-men,” they all repeated.
“Kids.” She feigned anger. “Language.”
“Now, dig the fuck in,” The Dad said as he skimmed a fork through the grub piled on his plate. “Jeez-us, Mary…” He stopped long enough to smirk at his wife, then continued. “And Joseph. You’re no Chef Boyyy-Arrr-Deeee, are you?”
The Mom’s face reddened, equally knowing and fearing that he was only just getting started. A tingle raced down her spine. The feeling of creeping dread growing in her stomach.
5
Kibble, And Bits, And Bites
Throughout the meal, he did that thing she couldn’t stand—chewing with his mouth open. No matter how hard she tried to avoid looking directly at his face while he shoved forkful after forkful of food into it, she couldn’t avoid it. It was like she was compelled to look, to see the mashed-up bits of food swirl around his open mouth and gel together into a disgusting ball until he swallowed it all in a gigantic, overdone gulp. And there was the sound. That god-awful, repulsive sound. Schlop. Schlop. Schlop. Schlop. The sound of the mashing, the swirling, and the chewing punctuated by bits of food escaping, often impressive distances, out of his open mouth. Her hatred of it bordered on outright misophonia, made a million times more unbearable because he was the one doing it.
He caught her looking at him several times, and she quickly shifted her gaze to the kids or stared down at the food on her plate. Once, she gave him a weak smile to throw him off the scent of her deep, dark thoughts. She hoped it worked. The last thing she wanted was to be hit in the head with a plate.
The Dog circled them, verbally begging for scraps. Several times, it stood nearly fully erect at the edge of the table, sniffing at the cornucopia of goodies spread out.
“Get the fuck down, dog!” He was quick to scold it, and The Dog obeyed. However, the fifth time The Dog’s paws touched the table, he threw a fork at it. The utensil struck it in the forearm with little force, but The Dog made a hasty retreat, nonetheless. “Didn’t you feed that fucking dog?”
It barked out an aria.
She looked at the corner where they kept Fido’s food and water dishes and immediately noticed the food bowl was empty. And by the looks of it, had been licked clean hours ago, maybe even days ago.
She stood up and retrieved the empty food bowl. Fido shuffled from side to side in excited anticipation. “Who’s hungry?” He barked at her. “Are you hungry?” He barked louder. “Who’s a good boy?” He barked louder still.
“Jeezus H. Christ! Will you just feed that fucking thing already so it will shut the fuck up?!” he shouted at her. He said those last words, shut the fuck up, like a command more than a statement.
She rubbed behind The Dog’s ear. “Yes, dear,” she said as she placed the bowl on the table and began to scrape and mash bits of chicken nuggets and then mac and cheese into it.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“I’m,” she began, suddenly terrified and unsure of herself, “I’m feeding… The Dog.”
“Since when does Fido eat chicken nuggets and mac and fucking cheese?”
The Dog yapped. She looked down at its eager, hungry face. There were bits of white foamy saliva pooling in the corners of its mouth and a thin trail of clear spit dribbling down its chin. “But—”
“No fucking buts!” he screamed, jumping out of his chair. It fell back.
The kids flinched. The Boy dropped his fork to the plate with a metallic thud while The Dog panted heavily. Its gaze remained locked on the bowl.
“Dogs,” he began. He stared at her for a long moment, nostrils flaring with every exhale. Finally, he made his way into the dark pantry. He pulled on the long string that dangled from the ceiling, and a second later, the overhead light clicked on. Outside, they could hear him sifting through the shelves for something until he found it. The light clicked off, and he came back to the table proudly holding a large but half-empty bag of dry dog food. He plopped the bag onto the table and said, “Here.”
“But—” she stopped herself, remembering the rules of the game.
“Dogs eat dog food.”
“But, dear—”
“And our Fido is a dog, isn’t he?”
She looked down at him. The dog yapped at her, still staring at the food bowl. “Yes, but—”
“Enough with the fucking buts. Dogs eat dog food.” He slid the bag in her direction. “Now feed the fucking dog.”
By then, the kids had nervously resumed eating. She looked at The Dog with concern, but it returned an almost disturbingly unfazed look. It barked so loudly that the sound startled her, and spit flew out of its mouth in all directions.
“Okay,” she said finally, in all but a whisper. She emptied the crushed chicken nuggets and bits of mac and cheese onto her plate and set the bowl down on the table. This is so wrong, she thought. But the rules were the rules. And they all agreed to abide by them, even The Dog. She looked at The Dad, as though pleading with her eyes to make it stop—to make this stop, at least. Make an exception of sorts. But he was resolute. His face was a stone-cold no. Rules were rules, and there was no breaking them, any of them, under any circumstances.
She looked at the bag of all-natural, made from the best stuff on Earth, doggie kibble. And then to him. She stared Fido dead in the face as she grabbed the bag of canine chow and filled the bowl. When it was full, she set the bag back down on the table. A part of her hoped he would stop it now, but she knew better. And this was only the beginning. What has he talked me into? she now wondered regretfully.
The Dog just about went apeshit as she lowered the bowl onto the floor, placing it beside the water bowl. She noticed the water bowl was slimy with big chunks of moldy kibble floating in it. She wanted to vomit up whatever was in her stomach, just stick her head inside the garbage can and let it all out. But she knew she hadn’t eaten much of the dinner she had stressed over and busted her ass to prepare. She didn’t know how, but she swallowed the sick feeling down and returned to the dinner table.
The smile never faded from his triumphant face. It only widened as The Dog dove into the bowl of kibble. The crunches accentuated the silence that had fallen over the rest of the family.
6
Please Leave Us a Message After the—
Dinner had all but ended, even though there was still plenty of food left on the table. The eating had slowed to a crawl, and their overstuffed bellies were groaning with discomfort when the most unexpected thing happened. The family froze in their seats, trapped inside a nightmarish tableau. Even The Dog, who had devoured most of the kibble put down for him, took a breather from farting in the corner to look up in wonder and confusion.
None of them, not even The Dad, knew what to do at that moment. The Mom thought she saw the first traces of panic develop on his otherwise controlled face as the telephone on the kitchen wall, the house’s only hard-wired landline, started to ring.
Then it rang again.
And again.
Still, yet again.
Its noise was unfamiliar to them. Bbbbbrrrinnng. No one could even recall for themselves the last time they heard that ringing sound. The phone itself was a bit of an artifact, a relic from an era before the dawn of the smartphone, when the longest cord ruled the land. It was understood, even if it wasn’t specified outright, that the avocado-colored phone in the kitchen was for emergencies only. Nobody worth talking to ever called on that line. Telemarketers and Russian scam artists claiming that your Social Security number was suspended and the cops were coming for you unless you paid them five hundred dollars immediately were the only ones who ever called that number. And they definitely didn’t count. Even Grandma Miller used a cell phone nowadays, and the woman was ninety-four years old.
Bbbbbrrrinnng.
Bbbbbrrrinnng.
Bbbbbrrrinnng.
The ringing was incessant. Persistent.
She looked at him, then started to get to her feet when he said, “Don’t.”
Although she didn’t want to, she remained in her seat at the table as the phone rang on and on. It was up to fifteen rings. She was counting to herself. Sixteen. Seventeen.
“Let it ring,” he said.
Eighteen.
The phone fell silent after twenty-two rings.
She couldn’t help but notice how relieved he looked as the silence enveloped them once more.
“New rule,” he said as he rose to his feet and approached the telephone. “No one answers or uses that fucking telephone.”
He took the receiver out of its cradle and placed it on top of the telephone’s bulky body. It wasn’t long before the dial tone gave way to an obnoxious beep. He returned to his seat at the head of the table. “Why don’t you get me a beer, Mama?”
