by Ri, Xesin
“Yes, dad,” the twins said at the same time.
“But it’s still true, Hazel. The first Modern Warfare is the best game ever.”
“So? Its sequel wasn’t good.”
“Yes, it was.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“So—okay, Miss Hazel, what’s the better game? Portal 2, I bet.”
“Yeah,” said Hazel. “It’s got a better story. It’s more fun. You don’t go around blasting people every second.”
“You always do this!” exclaimed Paul. “Ripley, Chell, Wonder Woman—you always talk up the girl-hero who saves the day. Chell doesn’t even talk!”
“Neither does Soap!”
“Yes, he does. He talks with his gun.”
“Oh my God,” said Hazel in disgust.
“Hey, no taking the Lord’s name in vain,” said Martin.
“Sorry, dad,” said Hazel.
“But it is true. You always talk up the girl-heroes over the guys.”
“That’s not true. And why is it in war games girls are only pilots or scientists? I don’t care about piloting.”
“Because girls aren’t allowed to fight on the ‘real’ front lines. You know that. Miss Cable was talking about this on Friday when you got into this with her too.”
“So? They’re just video games. They aren’t real.”
“Oh my—“ Paul stopped and saw his dad shaking his head. “I mean, that is just not what it is. They’re not real, but they’re like real.”
“Like real? Paul, really, like really ‘like real?’ Like super like ‘like real’ real? That sort of real. You get shot in the head, but the gun doesn’t do enough damage points ‘like real’ where you don’t die ‘like real?’ That’s not real real.”
“Portal guns don’t exist either.”
“Of course not. I’m not the one confusing real with ‘like real.’”
“Hazel,” said Martin. “Paul,” said Martin. “Don’t you two have chores to do, outside?”
“Yes, dad,” the twins said at the same time.
Paul stood up and followed his sister out of the kitchen. A few moments later Martin could hear them start up their talk, again, about video games and comic books as they went out to do their daily chores.
Jo came into the kitchen and checked the oven to see how the chicken was cooking.
Martin sat on a stool at the counter watching her move about the kitchen. He loved watching her making dinner. He thought of his own mother working in this very same kitchen not so long ago.
Jo donned her apron. She did so with practiced repetition that any cook knows well. She checked that her hair was back and out of the way. She took off her rings and placed them neatly on a little stone box of onyx black near the sink. She searched through pots and pans sending a rattle that echoed through the house that backed Martin off his stool to a quieter location at the kitchen table where Paul usually sat. With his back to the windows where the cornfields rose up like a wall at the end of the yard, Martin folded his arms and thought for a moment before he spoke.
“I wish,” said Martin casually to his wife, “that our children would talk about the Bible or even their schoolwork with some of the same passion they show those games.”
Jo nodded and then said, “Paul and Hazel aren’t that interested in church, Martin. Meg’s the only one who took to school and church. Tina applies herself when she wants to.”
“Thank God we had four, right?” said Martin.
“Thank God,” repeated Jo working fast now that she had most of her utensils at-the-ready.
“Do you think it is bad for Paul to play those games? Should we stop him?”
“He’ll just go to his little friend Stanley’s house. He’s got his computer too. I think he already has games on the phone we got him.”
“Wouldn’t that have to be charged to our bill?”
“I don’t think the transaction’s got to go that way,” said Jo opening a “family size” can of carrots. “I think he can use a prepaid card; he can get them that way. Meg might even buy him one for his birthday or Christmas. He’s just got to find something he likes better than them. Maybe he’ll start noticing girls a little more—maybe sports. I think Stan is trying out for basketball and maybe wrestling. I don’t think Paul wants to be left behind, feeling like he’s the odd boy out. And he’s plenty strong to play the games and be good at them, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, that is true.”
“And you should see the games he’s got for ol’ Rus with the rabbits and even the chickens?”
“What? What game is that?”
“Just something he made up.”
“How does it work? He’s not hurting any of the birds, is he?”
“No, the birds are fine. I don’t really know how it works. Just a funny little game that ol’ Rus loves. He looks like a puppy again when Paul plays that game with him.”
Jo continued with dinner preparations. Martin gazed out the window pondering on his chickens’ excitements.
“Jo, do you trust my judgment about that article you showed me?”
Jo sighed and said, “Martin, honey—I cannot answer everything in the world right now. Are we raising the kids right? Are the kids playing games too much? Are you making the right judgments? When is dinner ready? It’s really too much for me right now.”
“I didn’t ask about dinner.”
“Well, you were thinking it.”
“Actually, I was wondering why you were making it so early.”
“Hazel’s got a piano lesson after dinner. I’m taking Paul to Stan’s. And Tina asked if one of us would help her with some school project; I was hoping that would be you.”
“What about Meg?”
“Your girl will be just fine reading in her room and studying and getting her essays done for her college courses that haven’t ended. She’s hardly on a vacation even if the schools call this Spring Break.”
“Not exactly the family reunion I was hoping for,” said Martin.
“Well, maybe Meg and you can talk a little later about her classes and so forth. And I think everyone is going to be in for dinner, so there’s that,” said Jo looking for the first time into her husband’s eyes. “Little cheerier now?”
Martin smiled at his wife. “At least we still have dinnertime.”
“We sure do,” said Jo.
Meg came down the stairs.
“Hey, mom. Need any help?”
“Nope. You’ve been on a long drive. You just get your father up out of that chair. And you two can set the table like you used to.”
Martin got up and went over to the silverware drawer where Meg was already pulling out the forks and knives leaving her father the spoons and water glasses as she had a thousand times before when she was a younger girl.
“Do you think the Pacers will make the Playoffs?” asked Meg.
“I don’t know,” replied Martin. “I guess they could be an eighth or even a seventh seed, but in the NBA, that doesn’t mean anything, not like in football.”
“And they don’t let the superstars talk to the refs fifty times a game.”
Martin smiled. “No, the NFL doesn’t have the same love of communication. And it sure seems like in the NBA, if you’re not a big market player, you can’t even travel on every other play.”
“I watched my school’s team a couple weeks ago. I think I told you about that.”
“Yep, I remember. You were shocked at how the refs called it. You tell me that every two weeks, Meg.”
“I know, but it is amazing how different college refs are versus the pros, watch two minutes of March Madness. Even the women’s refs call a different game!”
Martin and Meg had finished setting the table.
Jo pulled the big roast chicken from the stove and put it right in the center of the table.
“Paul! Tina! Hazel! Dinner is ready,” yelled Jo as she graciously moved warmed mixed vegetables from pot to bowl and slid and plopped mashed sweet pota
toes on six plates.
Meg got her plate first and took a roll right from the oven.
Martin did the same.
Jo pulled the dinner rolls from the oven, lifting them up and then tilting down their tray, rolling each and every roll into the weaved breadbasket with the checkered red cloth she’d gotten from her Aunt Gertie on her wedding day.
Tina, Paul and Hazel all grabbed one plate each and one roll each.
Hazel took the grape jelly out of the fridge since she liked her roll with butter and a little grape jelly.
Jo grabbed her own plate and sat down at the table with her family. She looked across the table at Martin who was placing a napkin in his lap, just as his son and daughters did the same. Jo smiled when Martin looked up.
“Are we ready?” he asked.
“This is all the food the table’s going to see, hon.”
“And it all looks excellent, babe.”
Martin bowed his head.
His family did the same.
“Dear Lord, Jesus Christ,” began Martin, “we thank you, Lord, for this meal and for this family and for this home. We thank you for a safe trip home for Megan, back from college today. And we ask for her to have just as safe a return at the end of the week. May you grant her the abilities she needs to do her best as she continues her studies. We thank you for Tina’s health, Hazel’s good grades, and we pray, Lord, that you will grant Paul the wisdom and insight to do his best in the upcoming science fair.
“And, Lord, we remember that through Christ all things are possible and fair and clear. We thank you for this family; this land that brings us our daily bread; and the Republican Party that protects this nation from becoming a hotbed of immorality and sin; and we thank you for the opportunity to live in this great nation, the United States of America. May this land, this family, this nation, and our faith prosper and remain strong, forever—Amen”
Late-April
Rein-on-Inn’s Buffet
“…and you make sure you get just the right amount of beef. Yeah, that’s how it’s done, boys.”
The short Mexican guy walked away from the buffet table with a mound of food on his plate. The carver at the end of the buffet watched the guy leave and then looked to the two young men the short guy had been talking too. “Likes his food, eh?” he said with a mocking smile while slicing off a perfectly thin slice of juicy brown beef.
Markus looked down at the beef under the red heat lamp and licked his lips with hunger.
“That guy,” said Takashi, “we’ve never seen him before. Just started talking to us the moment he got in line. ‘This is great stuff, boys.’ ‘Yeah, that’s how it is, boys.’ ‘Don’t get better than this, boys.’ We’ve never seen him before, unless you know ‘em, Markus?”
The beef dripped as the carver put a piece on Markus’s plate.
“Would you like a slice too, sir?”
“Sure would,” said Takashi.
Markus started back to his seat at the table where his father, mother, and little brother and sister were already seated. Takashi and his dad were both still in line. Their two chairs were to the left of Markus’s empty chair. They all sat around the big round table near the gas fireplace that subtly flickered a flickering-sharp pattern that was dispersing a really cool bunch of shapes throughout the cream-colored room.
Markus sat.
He stared down at his food. Hungry as he was, Markus took a moment, and with great patience savored this moment.
“Fuck,” said Takashi. “My dad and I love this place.”
Markus smiled at Takashi’s words, holding in his laugh.
Markus’s mom and dad frowned, but they held back from saying anything.
“My dad and I would really like to say thanks to you guys for inviting us out. My dad really needed to get out of the house.” Takashi’s father nodded, really bowing, in thanks to the Mist family. Mr. and Mrs. Mist, Markus’s mom and dad, nodded back accepting the old man’s thanks. “My dad has always loved a good buffet. We go to buffets all over the place, and he thinks they are all the best. Some are ‘more best’ than others. This one is ‘more best.’” Takashi got a kick out of quoting his dad. His father smiled along too, nodding at his son’s joke.
Takashi’s father said, “Yes, more best!”
The Mist family all agreed with the old man with nods and smiles.
Markus watched as Takashi and father started eating their food. Markus held out his hand stopping them.
“We pray before we eat,” said Mrs. Mist.
“Oh sorry, Mrs. Mist. Dad and I didn’t know.” Takashi put down his food and signaled to his father to do the same. Gray hair and old eyes took a moment to understand, and then Mr. Takashi smiled and put down his food to wait for his hosts to observe their traditions.
Markus saw the old man smile in a way that was knowing and pleased as they all bowed their heads.
“Dear Jesus,” began Mr. Mist. “It is through you that all good things are done. And it is through you that our family has been blessed with guests on this beautiful Sunday morning. We thank you for family and friends. Amen.”
“Amen,” repeated all the Mists together.
Markus watched as Mr. Takashi and his son shared some small tradition of their own between them, but it might have been a joke the way the old man laughed at the end when Takashi was confused. Takashi’s father plucked his son’s nose with his index finger.
Markus’s brother and sister were both very hungry. He didn’t remember being as hungry after church as they seemed to be every single week. Sean had a volcano of mashed potatoes overflowing with gravy and butter and covered in an almost Cajun-style layer of black pepper. Janet, he saw, had almost the same set up of mashed potatoes taking up half her plate, and so did his mother and father. Markus looked down at his own plate and saw that he was the only one who’d gotten the steaming hot tater tots, which sat in freezing cold ketchup, still full of tiny ice crystals.
“Markus,” said Takashi.
Markus nodded.
“Do you think this will slow us down tomorrow?”
“Slow you boys down for what?” asked Mrs. Mist.
Markus looked up at his mother.
“Tomorrow, we have floor hockey in gym,” answered Markus quickly.
“Floor hockey?” asked Mr. Mist. “Why is that so important?”
“Oh, Mr. Mist,” said Takashi answering for Markus. “Markus and I got an overlord-level floor hockey rivalry going. We’re not just betting lunches. We got some real money down. Should be pretty intense. Markus—your big boy hockey hero—is our enforcer who’s got offensive skills to dominate the day!” Markus wondered if Takashi could talk any bigger. “If he could skate, he’d be on the starters of the school’s hockey team for sure.” He could, realized Markus.
“Then, you could skate with me,” said Markus’s little sister with a mouth-full of bread roll.
“Really,” asked Mrs. Mist ignoring Janet. “Markus, do you like hockey?”
“Yeah, a little,” said Markus.
Mrs. Mist waited for Markus to elaborate, but Markus added nothing. Luckily, Takashi was there.
“Oh, and we have two girls on our team. They can’t play for shit!”
“Young Mr. Takashi,” said Mr. Mist. “I know you have a loose mouth; but I am asking you again not to curse around me and my family,” said Mr. Mist, accompanied by a stern look, directed at Takashi, that said, “Don’t even think of testing me, boy.”
“Dad,” began Sean, Markus’s little brother swallowed a piece of chicken. “Is that stuff the high hydrocarbon corn you work on?”
Everyone but old Takashi looked out the windows at the young, super-green corn behind the restaurant that stretched between the outdoor dining area of the restaurant and a strip mall off in the distance.
“No,” said Mr. Mist. “That is just regular ol’ Indiana grown corn.”
“No. Not this field, the one to the left of the hobby store where we got my trains. See that, the
dark stuff.”
Mr. Mist put down his fork and leaned to see what his son was talking about. Everyone followed suit trying to see out and around the closed umbrellas on the patio area. Mr. Takashi, seeing his son and everyone else looking out the window again, looked out too, trying to see what they were looking at.
“No,” said Mr. Mist. “I’m not sure what that field is full of, but the h. h. corn looks like regular corn, except it is a lot darker. If you want to see some, I know a field on the way home.”
“Cool, thanks dad.”
“Why the interest, little Mr. Mist?” asked Takashi.
“I was thinking about doing an essay for class,” said Sean.
“What’s it supposed to be about?” asked Takashi.
“What your parents do for their job. Everyone’s been talking about that corn, and my dad does stuff with it.”
“Really, I didn’t know that.” Takashi turned to his father who was soaking up some gravy with a thick slice of bread. “Dad, dad?” The old man looked at his son. “Mr. Mist works with high hydro corn.”
“Oh,” said the old Takashi with some understanding. The old man smiled and added, “Very good. Good work. Good pay.”
“Speaking of corn,” tried Mrs. Mist, “are you boys going to do some detasseling again this season?”
Markus nodded.
“Sure are,” said Takashi. “We minorities have got to represent out there.”
Markus chuckled.
“And we are a good team. Markus can pick on just about every level since he’s so tall. And he’s easy to find because he’s blacker than the dirt we’re standing on.”
Mr. Mist visibly moved with an old learned behavior that he quickly quelled into a controlled sweep of his hand that simply looked like a bad attempt at grabbing his water glass.
“And he doesn’t get bothered by the sun. Last year, he lost his hat. No problem. Gotta be real nice being so full of melanin. I’m just a beige shade of olive, but I’m not as bad off as some of those girls—aye, Markus?”
“Some of them are Irish,” added Markus.
“I don’t know how they do it, Mrs. Mist,” said Takashi. “They come out there with clothing covering every inch of their bodies; sunscreen smothered faces, hands and necks; and they wear giant hats. Sweatin’ n’ burnin’ up even then. One of the girls last year got a sunburn on her face with all that get up. I don’t remember quite how that happened?”