eaten in one sitting by far!”
Still, I mop up the last drips
of gravy with a dinner roll.
Dad watches, then comments,
If you ate like that every day you’d need bigger clothes.
Better skip the pumpkin pie.
Gabe shoots me a sympathetic
eye roll. Ariel eats like a canary.
I think she can manage one piece of pie without requiring a whole new wardrobe.
As much as I appreciate Gabe
sticking up for me, Dad’s been
drinking for hours. This could
could go badly or he could
laugh it off. I cringe, waiting.
But it’s Zelda who takes on Dad.
Hey, Mark. Isn’t it you who always says you like your women with a little extra padding? Or was that something you made up to make little ol’ me feel better?
Either way, this girl’s having pie, though it might have to wait for an hour or so.
Dad chooses to plaster a grin
on his face. Y’all are right. My girl is a little bird. One meal won’t make her a blimp, will it?
He stares across the table at me, and with one sudden vicious
verbal blow knocks the air
from my gut, and from my lungs:
Too damn bad she looks so much like her fucking whore mother.
I push back from the table
hard, a reservoir of invective
threatening to burst the dam.
But just as I’m about to free
it, a thought dashes across my
mind: What if this is his way
of proving me too irrational
to merit a driver’s license?
I Stay in My Chair
Zelda jumps to her feet, inviting Dad’s anger simply by warning,
Mark . . .
And Gabe stands slowly, puts out one hand to steady me, and asks, Do you really think that was called for?
And Dad sits very still, ignoring the others
while measuring my
reaction to his absolute invitation to tell his sorry ass totally off.
Now I stand, scoot
my chair back under the table. “Know what, Dad? That was the first time you’ve ever mentioned what Mom looks like.
Interesting to know I resemble her.
Thank you for that.”
I amble over to the counter.
“I think I’ll have some pie.”
And That’s the First Time
I can remember calling my mother Mom. Not “my mom.”
Not “my mother.”
Mom.
I hope that hurts my bastard father.
I’m reeling, though I don’t dare show it.
My father
is a carrion eater.
Maybe I’ve seen it before.
But I’m not sure I truly realized until now that bone picking might, in fact, be his favorite hobby and that his victims are as varied as his W o m e N
and me.
Wordlessly
My pie and I retreat to the living room. I turn on the TV, mostly for noise, which works perfectly, because what comes on is football.
I flop down onto the too-soft sofa, stare at big dudes in tight pants and helmets running into one another, pick at pumpkin filling in need of more cinnamon or nutmeg
or whatever. I’m glad I decided not to drink earlier. That little scene was an excellent reminder
of the importance of self-control.
I’m thankful I could manage it.
I think I’ll save inebriation for when I’m positive there won’t be a need to parry with Dad, or with anyone, for that matter. I’m wounded,
but not fatally, and with any luck at all, I’m still on track to get my driver’s license this coming week. Once mobility is assured, I won’t require anyone in my life.
I’ll be picky about who I keep.
Gabe Will Probably Be a Keeper
He joins me on the sofa now,
tilting the sagging cushion, and so also me, toward the center.
Wow. That was ugly. I’m sorry he said those things to you.
I shrug. Try to think of a proper response, but no words seem
appropriate. What finally comes out of my mouth is, “Want some pie? I’d hate for it to go to waste.”
You don’t like it? I made it from scratch. Well, except for the crust.
That came from a mix, but a good one.
I don’t mention the need for
more spices. “It’s yummy, but I don’t have room for dessert after all. You’re an awesome
cook, by the way. I hope I can be as good as you one day.”
Stick with me, baby, and I’ll impart my entire repertoire of culinary secrets. You’ll be a master chef.
I can’t help it. “But then I’d need a plus-size wardrobe, wouldn’t I?”
I don’t know if that is, in fact, a subconscious plea for
reassurance, but Gabe takes it that way, and I’m happy when
he reaches for my hand.
You listen to me. His whisper is fierce. I don’t know what your dad’s problem is or was, but that attack was bullshit.
You’re an incredible girl, and if you put on a pound or two no one would notice because you’d still be the exact same funny, bright, loving person.
Funny? I guess.
Bright? Enough.
Loving? Am I?
“Okay. If you say so. I’ll save the pie and eat it later. With whipped cream. And I’ll wash it down with full-strength eggnog.
None of that light shit for me.”
Atta girl. Now, who’s winning the game? He chances a quick kiss. Last thing we need is
Dad’s commentary on that.
After a While
Dad stumbles into the room,