2019-05-04 - Sunday Dinner

It was one of those rare days in Gray Harbor when ‘Sunday’ lived up to its name; golden shafts of warmth filtered through clouds above, and there wasn’t even a hint of rain on the wind. In light of this, Alexander decided to walk to Sunday dinner, his head tilted back slightly to watch the patterns of the clouds and bathe in the warm bands of sunlight he passed through. He didn’t need to watch the road. The route was one he knew better than the path from his bed to the bathroom, worn smooth in even his inconstant and treacherous memories.

There was a house at the end of the journey. He’d heard friends of the family call it ‘picturesque’, but that was an adjective that irritated him. Any picture was, by definition, picturesque. A crime scene photo was picturesque. The painting of the Titans eating their screaming young, also picturesque. It meant nothing. He preferred to think of the house as ‘homey’. Pleasantly comfortable and cozy, with its well-manicured front lawn, complete with actual picket fence that he repainted every year, vinyl siding that got power washed every couple of years. The windows were framed by lace curtains, the colors were cheery and soothing and he could feel something loosening inside of him whenever the house came in sight.

He took care to dress up for Sunday dinner. Button down shirt, slacks that would be ‘work slacks’ if Alexander ever had any sort of regular work, and even a pair of carefully polished leather shoes that were pretty much only for funerals and Sunday dinner. He looked respectable. He looked like a man who could have come from this house. A man the people in this house could be, if not proud of, at least content with. For a few hours every week.

He knocked on the door, and smiled when his mother answered. She was not a delicate woman, built along broad, Scandanavian lines, and arms and shoulders honed by moving patients from beds to chairs and back to beds. Only a little shorter than himself, with grey curls and dark eyes that smiled more than her son’s. “Alexander! You’re on time!”

“Ma,” he said, and braced himself for the hug.

It didn’t come. Instead, his mother smiled at him with a mouth that stretched too wide and revealed too, too many teeth. “Come in, come in! Your father’s already at the table. You know how he gets around meal times.” She closed the door behind him, turned and headed through the living room to the formal dining room. It was always the formal dining room on Sundays.

Alexander followed. What else was he supposed to do? “I just don’t see the point in pretending that I ain’t hungry,” a man who was not his father grumbled at the table. He was tall, broad shouldered, dark hair heavily dappled with a vibrant silver. His teeth were like knives. The not-father stood, and he tried to go in for the hug, but Alexander ducked away by instinct.

The things that were not his parents paused, identical expressions of exasperated disapproval on their faces. “Alexander, really,” the mother muttered.

“Can’t even give your own father a hug? Some days, son, I really wonder where we went wrong with you.”

“Thomas Clayton!” Now the mother scolded her husband as Alexander slinked to a chair. To his chair, even though it was increasingly certain that this was not his house. Are you sure? the voice of doubt whispered in the back of his brain. Maybe you just forgot. You forget a lot of important things, Alexander. He was pretty sure that he hadn’t forgotten about his parents having mouths like sharks.

Pretty sure.

But he sat down, anyway, because it was close enough that he didn’t know how to not sit down, or what to do next, except listen to the familiar voices of his parents (who were not his parents, not these parents) bickering over just how regrettable Alexander was as a child. It was comforting, even though the light caught on their teeth with every movement of their lips, and he could swear there were ROWS of sharp shark teeth there.

The father was saying something to him. Alexander tried to stop staring and rewound his mental script to the words. “I have a job, Dad,” he said, by instinct as much as anything else.

The father snorted. “That’s not a job, Alexander. Do any of those weirdos you hang out with have health insurance? A dental plan?” Alexander shook his head. “See? You’re not a kid anymore! You can’t just run around playing Scooby Fucking Doo while the best years of your life pass you by. By your age, I had a wife, a kid, and tenure.”

“Thomas, language!” The mother rolled her eyes. “And can’t you at least wait until dinner is served before starting in on the poor boy?” She smiled, and Alexander marveled at the way the teeth fit together like puzzle pieces.

“My, what big teeth you have,” Alexander muttered, unable to help himself. At the puzzled looks from the other two, he just shook his head again and mumbled an apology.

“Well,” the mother said, recovering gamely, “we’re happy you came. Your father just wants the best for you. You know that.”

“I do.” But that’s not my father. At least, he was pretty sure it wasn’t. The longer he stayed in this…delusion? Dream? Dream? The less certain he became. It sounded right. It smelled right – the savory odors from the kitchen made his mouth water. Even the feeling of shame and failure was right. Alexander ran his hands through his hair, and realized that he’d forgotten to brush it.

The parents stared a moment longer, then the mother got up. “Well, I’m going to get the food. Why don’t you help me, Thomas?” The father obediently got up and followed. Alexander eyed the space between himself and the door. He could make a run for it. But if he was wrong, and this was all normal, the way things were supposed to be…well, he’d look crazy, wouldn’t he? He tried not to look crazy in front of his parents. So he picked up his napkin and laid it neatly across his lap, then picked up his spoon and studied his teeth in the curved reflection.

They returned, bearing plates stacked high with food. Food, in his parents’ language, was love. It was stability, and a way to prove that everything was fine. The father put down plates of mashed potatoes, Brussel sprouts, and even his mother’s special green bean casserole. His mother, beaming proudly, put down the meat platter. “Christ,” Alexander said, staring at it.

“Language, Alexander,” the mother exclaimed, but she beamed with happiness at the same time. “Although it does look good, doesn’t it? I think it came out perfect, this time.”

“It comes out perfect every time, Liz.” The father’s gruff assurance.

“Oh, you!” They took their seats while Alexander’s eyes were riveted to the dish. A small stack of human forearms, cooked until the skin split and the juices pooled in the bottom of the platter, were heaped there. There’s the ulna, a part of his mind coolly noted, and there’s the radius. Clean cut. She must have used a bonesaw. I didn’t know Mom had a bonesaw. This wasn’t normal. He was ninety-nine percent certain that this was not normal. But you thought it smelled good, didn’t you, Alexander, the voice of doubt whispered again. You took a big whiff of that long pig cooking in the oven and thought you couldn’t WAIT to dig in.

He hadn’t known.

Are you sure, the voice said, and sniggered with nasty glee. You know a lot of things, Alexander. No matter how you try to pretend you don’t.

“Well?” The father was staring at him, and Alexander shook himself. “Dig in, son. Guest gets first choice.”

“I’m not hungry.” It was a lie. Sunday dinner was the highlight of the week, the only time in the week he usually got a complete meal cooked by someone not earning minimum wage. But his stomach made a slow, threatening roll. Dream or not, he couldn’t put that in his mouth. He would throw up, right here on his parent’s dining table. Even if they weren’t his parents.

“Now, you listen here,” the father started, drawing his shoulders up and squaring off for a fight.

“Thomas, it’s fine,” the mother said, hastily. “You know how he gets! Let’s just serve up.”

“Damn it, Liz. You worked hard to put good food on this table, and he should appreciate it.”

“Language!”

“Damn my language!”

Alexander’s shoulders hunched. He reached out and grabbed the Brussel sprouts, putting a big heap on his plate, then hastily stuffed one into his mouth. It tasted normal. “This is good,” he mumbled around the mouthful. “Is that garlic, Mom?”

The mother beamed at him. “It is! My special recipe – fresh diced garlic, some balsamic, onions, and just a little salt and pepper. I’ll send some home with you.” She reached out for the meat, and a forearm fell to her plate with a meaty thunk. The father followed suit – and before Alexander could protest, he forked one onto Alexander’s plate as well. It steamed, contaminating the sprouts with its presence, and with the light pink juices that oozed out of the cut ends.

“Put some hair on your chest,” the father said, when Alexander made a wordless sound of disgust and protest. “You know, you’d probably never have gone off the rails if you’d just joined the football team.”

“That makes no sense,” Alexander said, on instinct. “And I don’t have the build for it.”

“We could have worked on that. Built up that killer instinct! You’d have enjoyed it.”

“No,” Alexander said, watching the pink slowly seep into the green, “I wouldn’t have. I don’t like hurting people.”

The parents laughed, like he’d made a terrific joke. “Oh, Alexander,” the mother said, her voice soft, “we know you better than that. You’ve got great potential, you know. If you’d just let yourself stop fighting it. Enjoy yourself! Your father and I love our work, and once you find the right place for you, once you stop fighting, then you’ll fit right in.” Identical shark smiles.

“Show him the pictures, Liz,” the father said, cutting a big bite of meat and devouring it before gesturing with the fork. Little bits of muscle caught in the crevices of those teeth. “Your mother’s been taking a shift at the hospital, lately. They begged her to come back, you know.”

The mother blushed. “I just wanted to keep my hand in. A little something to keep me occupied, you know?” She pulled out her phone, and started fiddling with it. “How does the camera work again? Alexander, help me with this.”

She passed over the phone, and he unlocked it without even thinking about it. As a nurse, his mother liked to take pictures with her patients. Smiling faces at the nurse station, or in the beds, or at a cafeteria table. It was a massive HIPAA violation, but although he’d tried to explain that, every time she’d waved away the information with a laugh and a I’ve done this for forty years, and no one’s ever complained.

These were not those pictures. Oh, there was the mother, smiling and waving for the camera, as usual. Her uniform was more red than pink, dark and mottled red, and none of the patients were smiling. They were opened beautifully, all their interior colors glistening and heaving as they strained and struggled against the restraints that held them down. Now I know where she got the bonesaw, his brain observed, almost giddy.

Alexander handed the phone back and the mother smiled. “See? It really makes a difference when you love what you do!” She reached out and caught his hand in her free one, squeezing. Her hand was cold, clammy. The hand of a corpse. “Alexander. We know your potential. Why won’t you just try? Stay here with us, come home. We’ll get you a good job at the hospital. Or the school! Just clean up at first, but you’ve got a real talent for the work, you’ll find.”

“This isn’t my home, and you’re not my parents.” The blood rushed in his ears.

“That’s a terrible thing to say to your mother, boy,” the father said. “We’re trying to help you! Stop pretending to be something you’re not. Stop pretending that you can be good. We know what you are.”

The mother’s grip on his hand tightened until Alexander could hear his bones creak. “We know what you are,” she echoed, warmly. Reassuringly. “Now, eat your dinner like a good boy.”

Something snapped. His paralysis broken, Alexander leaped from the table, the chair falling to the ground with a crack. “You’re not my parents! This is a fucked up delusion and it’s not really. It’s. Not. Real!” He stumbled towards the door.

The last thing that echoed in his head as he plunged into the darkening evening was his mother’s exasperated voice saying, “Oh, Alexander! Must you be so DRAMATIC?”