Mother for Dinner

by Shalom Auslander

  So? said First. Julius married his sister.

  Gross, said Seventh.)

  Mudd held her pastries out to Unclish.

  Morning glory? she offered.

  Unclish politely declined and entered the house; he walked as if carried upon the wings of seraphim, one hand tucked inside the lapel of his long black overcoat, the other gently tipping his tall silver top hat as he crossed the threshold.

  The boys straightened their backs, fixed their hair, and kissed their Sunday good-bye.

  Today, he said to them, you become men.

  But the Giants game is on, said First.

  Mudd clopped him on the head. The only giant you’ll be watching is your uncle, she said.

  Unclish led the boys to the living room, where he closed the blinds, drew the curtains, and handed each of the brothers a signed copy of The Complete Guide to Field-Dressing and Processing Your Deer. Theirs, he said, to keep and guide them for the rest of their lives.

  Seventh looked at the cover, upon which a smiling hunter in a camouflage jumpsuit kneeled proudly beside a gunned-down deer.

  Which one’s us? Seventh asked First.

  What do you mean which one’s us? asked First.

  Are we the hunters or are we the deer?

  We’re both, stupid, said First.

  Gross, said Seventh.

  Unclish set up before them a serious-looking metal easel, upon which he had placed a large pad. He removed his top hat and coat, laid them on the chair beside him, and class began.

  Tell me, he said to the brothers, why are we here?

  Because Mudd said we have to be, said First.

  The other children giggled.

  We are here, Unclish said tightly, because we are dying.

  We are? asked Third.

  It’s just an expression, Second reassured him.

  We are, said Unclish.

  I’m dying? Third asked, beginning to panic. Sixth had died just a year earlier, and Third was still having trouble understanding what death meant, where Sixth had gone, and when he would be back.

  You’re not dying, said Seventh.

  Then why did he say I was dying? Third asked.

  First nudged Third with his elbow.

  Stop asking so many questions, he said. I wanna wrap this up and watch the Giants game.

  Our people have consumed America, Unclish said, his voice beginning to rise, as it often did when the chance to preach presented itself. Its values, its morals, its philosophies! And in turn we have been consumed by America. Today our people are disappearing. You are the last, my children. Look at what the great Cannibal Jesus achieved with only twelve apostles. He conquered the Roman Empire! He conquered the world! But it won’t be easy. You must know all our laws, and you must know all our rules, for it is upon you that the future of our people rests. Today we begin to study them, and we will study them every Sunday morning until they are complete.

  Every Sunday? First asked.

  Every Sunday, said Unclish.

  Even Super Bowl Sunday?

  We begin with the first three rules of our people, said Unclish. These are the three most important rules of all, the three rules you must never forget and the three rules you must teach to your own children, so that they may teach them to their children and their children may teach them to their children. The rules are as ancient as our people, except for Rule Number Three.

  What’s Rule Number Three? asked Second.

  Unclish pulled the cap off a thick black marker and turned to the presentation pad.

  Rule Number One, he spoke as he wrote, and then, below it, in large black letters: No Cops.

  He underlined each word twice.

  No.

  Cops.

  If you remember nothing else, Unclish said, remember this.

  He looked each brother in the eye, a look of such gravity as they had never seen.

  No cops, he said. Ever.

  Minority communities have always had something of a love-hate relationship with the authorities, who are supposed to protect them from oppression but who often become the source of oppression themselves. For the Can-Am community, though, the police presented an even greater threat than to other minorities—a threat to their ancient traditions, which were prohibited by the very law the police were sworn to uphold. To call the police upon the death of a Cannibal, Unclish explained, was to ensure that the Consumption, the central rite of their unique cultural heritage, could never take place. State and city regulations demanded the removal of a deceased body from the home, by a qualified remover, to be released only after examination, and then only to a registered funeral home or cemetery representative.

  If that happened, Unclish explained, they were as good as dead.

  Good one, said First.

  But Unclish never joked, and First knew it.

  Death, Unclish said, is for other people.

  He turned to the window, peeked out the curtains, turned back to the Seltzer brothers, lowered his voice to a whisper, and said:

  Cannibals live forever.

  What? asked Second.

  Cannibals, said Unclish, live forever. When we Consume our beloveds, they live on inside us. They guide us, inform us, comfort us, inspire us. They become us, and we become them. In this way, my children, the past lives on and never dies. But remember: just as Consumption assures us eternal life, burial in the ground assures our eternal death. For we are not trees, and we do not grow in dirt. The grave is an end, fit only for an animal. It is for this reason that the police must never be called. If we follow the rules, if we remain with our people, we will live forever. You will live forever, and you will live forever, and you will live forever.

  Forever? asked Third.

  His eyes were bright, and Seventh knew he was thinking of Sixth. Seventh was too, and he knew what Third was wondering: if Cannibals who were Consumed lived forever, and Unclish had Consumed Sixth, was Sixth alive?

  Where was he?

  Why hadn’t he said hello?

  Maybe they could go find him, thought Seventh.

  Unclish turned and wrote the letters N, Y, P, and D vertically on the board.

  Now Your People are Dead, he said as he completed the acronym. If you call the police, children, your mother and father, your sister and brother—your people—are dead. No. Cops.

  The brothers fell silent, looking one to the other and at The Guides in their laps. Mudd had said it before, but to hear Unclish confirm it was something else: The future of their entire people was in their hands.

  Unclish turned to a new page on the presentation pad.

  Rule Number Two, he spoke as he wrote, and then, below it, in large black letters:

  Commit Nothing to Paper.

  He underlined the word nothing twice.

  Our people, Unclish said, invented math. Did you know that? We invented the microscope, the telescope, the telephone. So much have we done for the world, and yet the world still treats us as savages, as beasts, as monsters. One day we will find acceptance. One day we will be free to live as our ancestors did. But until then, absolute secrecy is of the utmost importance; anything written down can and will be used against us, and so it is critical that nothing ever be written down.

  What about this? First asked, holding up The Guide.

  What about it? asked Unclish.

  It’s written down.

  Except that, said Unclish.

  But you just wrote that down too, said Second.

  Wrote what down?

  That we shouldn’t write anything down.

  Unclish clopped them each on the head with the back of his hand.

  Stop being stupid, he said.

  He flipped over yet another sheet of paper and wrote, Rule Number Three.

  Rule Number Three, he said, is
just as important as the first two rules. Maybe even more important.

  And then, below it, in large black angry letters, he wrote:

  JACK NICHOLSON IS A SON OF A BITCH.

  He underlined the word BITCH twice.

  Who’s Jack Nicholson? Seventh asked.

  We’ll get to that next week, Unclish said.

  What’s a bitch? asked Third.

  We’ll get to that too, said Unclish.

  And with that he pulled on his long black coat, put on his tall silver top hat, and left. The brothers watched him go.

  Who’s Jack Nicholson? Seventh asked First.

  Who gives a shit? said First, turning on the television. But by then the Giants game was already long over, and the Giants had lost by seven. First was furious, and he threw his copy of The Guide to the floor and kicked it at the wall.

  If that son of a bitch lives forever, he said of Unclish, we’re all fucked.

  * * *

  • • •

  The publication of The Complete Guide to Field-Dressing and Processing Your Deer nearly proved disastrous for the Cannibal-American community. Even before it was published, many thought it an unnecessary risk of exposure, not to mention a flagrant violation of Rule Number Two. Unclish, though, was adamant that a book of rules and regulations was critical if their people hoped to maintain their unique cultural identity in the melting pot of America. He assured them that nothing could possibly go wrong, but the first copies appeared with a tragic typo, right on the front cover, the word Deer somehow having been spelled Dear.

  The Complete Guide to Field-Dressing and Processing Your Dear caused a wave of panic across the community. The people blamed Unclish for the debacle, and for jeopardizing their people. Those who passed through Brooklyn in those days might recall seeing flyers posted around certain areas with the face of pro wrestler André the Giant, who was Cannibal, and the words RULE TWO! scrawled beneath him. Unclish decried these postings, claiming they were violations of Rule Two themselves. And so, as the day of the book release approached, Can-Ams took to their basements and attics, awaiting the pitchforks and torches once again. But it never came to pass. Booksellers, thinking the book a satire, placed it in the Humor section, where it had a reasonably successful holiday season.

  Father, telling this story to Seventh, said it demonstrated his brother’s hubris and need for validation.

  Unclish only loved his people, he said, so that his people would love him.

  Hogwash, said Mudd when Seventh asked her about it later. That was no typo. That was your uncle sticking his finger in the eye of the nation that ostracized his people! He was mocking them, laughing at them! Your uncle is a hero, Seventh.

  And your father, she added, is worse than Jack Nicholson.

  * * *

  • • •

  Eighth returned from the kitchen, wringing his hands. He was beginning to panic.

  She doesn’t have a Guide, he said. How can Mudd not have a Guide?

  So? First asked. She doesn’t have a Guide, so what?

  We need it.

  For what?

  To know what to do.

  About what?

  About what? About her.

  What about her?

  She died at ten past noon, said Eighth.

  So?

  So it’s almost one.

  So?

  So Two to Drain, said Eighth, Twenty-four to Consume. We don’t have much time.

  The words made Seventh shudder. He hadn’t heard them in years.

  Two to Drain, Twenty-four to Consume.

  How many times had Unclish made them repeat that? A thousand? Ten thousand?

  The Victuals, as the Cannibal funerary tradition is known, consists of four basic steps: Draining (of the blood), Purging (of the organs), Partitioning (of the corpse), and Consumption (of the meat). Two to Drain, Twenty-four to Consume was one of Unclish’s Sunday morning maxims: Following death, one has two hours to Drain the body of blood, followed by a twenty-four-hour period in which to Consume it. After two hours, the undrained body is considered putrescent; after twenty-four hours, the eating isn’t considered a true eating. Violating either of these parameters could render the Victuals an Incomplete Victuals, and instead of the deceased being blessed with eternal life, they would be condemned to eternal death.

  Wait! Third suddenly called. I have one!

  You have one what? asked First.

  A Guide! said Third.

  Where? asked Eighth.

  In my room!

  Jesus Christ, get it, you moron! said Eighth.

  Take it easy, said Zero.

  We’re running out of time, Eighth said.

  Time? First demanded. You’re not really considering eating her, are you?

  What do you want to do? asked Eighth.

  Call the police, said First.

  No, Tenth declared. No cops.

  Fifth sided with First.

  We can’t eat her, guys, he said. Don’t be ridiculous.

  Why not? asked Eighth.

  Did you see the size of her? said Fifth.

  She’s enormous, Fourth agreed. It will take a year. It will take ten years.

  We’re not supposed to eat all of her, said Eighth.

  How much of her are we supposed to eat? Fourth asked.

  One bite, said Eighth. A bite and a half, technically.

  A bite and a half? asked Second. That doesn’t sound right.

  Again Seventh felt that bilious resentment toward Second for marrying a Jewish woman, and it made him realize that this might not ever happen again: a Cannibal family gathered together to Consume their beloved.

  They were the last.

  Eighth recited another of Unclish’s mnemonics:

  A bite and half

  and you won’t need another,

  whether it’s your father, your sister,

  or even your mother.

  The words stung Seventh; the old dictum was having the paradoxical effect of making him want to run screaming from the house while at the same time making him want to run upstairs, fall to his knees beside Mudd’s bed, and beg her for forgiveness.

  A bite and a half, said Fifth. I remember that.

  Me too, said Ninth.

  A bite and a half isn’t too bad, said Fourth. Considering.

  First got to his feet, irate.

  Are you all nuts? he demanded. Have you lost your minds? Do you even hear yourselves?

  How big a bite? Eleventh asked Eighth.

  Yeah, said Twelfth. How big a bite? Third’s bite, or Zero’s bite?

  Your own bite, Eighth said.

  You’re talking about a felony, said First. Do you realize that? A felony. That’s jail time, real jail time.

  What did you think we were going to do, First? Eighth demanded.

  I thought we were going to do what everyone does when their mothers drop dead, said First. I thought we were going to have a little booze, tell a couple of stories to make it seem like she wasn’t a complete cunt, then pick a cemetery and fight over the inheritance. That’s what I thought we were going to do.

  I will not let you insult our mother, said Tenth.

  She wasn’t my mother, asshole, said First. She gave birth to me, but she was never my mother.

  Tenth stood now too, fists clenched, and stepped to First. He was younger, taller, and broader than First, but First’s anger was so intense that it gave even Tenth pause. The two were ready to come to blows when Third came bounding down the stairs.

  Got it! he said proudly.

  The siblings froze, from Zero to Twelfth, and any thoughts of fighting disappeared—for what Third held in his hand was not a copy of The Guide, but an ancient brown leather valise with a worn wooden handle and heavy golden clasps that had blac
kened with age.

  Is that . . . is that what I think it is? asked First.

  Zero, who had never seen the case before, looked to Seventh. What is it? she asked.

  Third? Seventh asked. Jesus, Third, where did you get that?

  Where the fuck did you get that? asked First.

  Third set the case down on the coffee table, mistaking their shock for approval and happy to be the center of attention.

  Mudd! he said proudly.

  Mudd? Seventh asked. Why did Mudd have it?

  She gave it to me, said Third. She said I should keep it, and remember who I’m from and who I am and who I’m not am and who I was or is.

  He unclasped the latches and laid the case open. He had been using it to store his treasures: a pair of dice, some stray Monopoly money, and a few pieces of bubble gum. But below those lay an old, faded copy of The Guide.

  Third stuffed a piece of gum into his pocket and pulled out The Guide. He beamed with pride and held it out for them, but all eyes were on the dreadful Knife of Redemption that he had revealed in the case beneath it. Its pointed silver blade gleamed; the sharp teeth of its serrated edge seemed hungry, ready to bite. Ancient carvings on the cheek of the blade ran from the hilt to the fang-shaped gut hook below its point. It looked deadly just lying in repose.

  What the hell is that? asked Zero, wondering what Third was doing in possession of such a dangerous weapon.

  Seventh felt a terrible dread pass over him. He hadn’t seen the knife since he was a child, when Unclish had brought it to one of their Sunday morning lessons.

  This, Unclish had said, holding the fierce weapon in his hand, is the Knife of Redemption. With this knife, your ancestors were Drained, they were Purged, they were Partitioned, and they were Consumed. That is why it is called the Knife of Redemption, children: because it redeems us from this finite life, from our body, and with it we are blessed with immortality.

  Seventh stepped closer. The blade seemed to have tarnished with age, but as he leaned in for a closer look, he saw that what he thought was tarnish was actually dried blood.

  Sixth’s blood.

  That was why Mudd had it.

  Sixth’s was the last Consumption. The tradition, Seventh recalled, was that the knife remained with the last family to use it. In that way it never stayed in one place, making it less likely to be discovered by authorities. It also reminded one and all that the Knife of Redemption didn’t belong to any one person; it belonged to the people.