by Barb Goffman
* * * *
“Jesus. Aren’t those steaks done yet? I’m hungry.”
Dwayne had finished his afternoon delight pretty quick and fallen asleep. Now, after an hour’s nap, he’d parked himself at the kitchen table and was two beers into his last six-pack.
“Don’t you like the salad?”
He pushed the plate away. A cherry tomato rolled onto the floor. “What’s the point of eating healthy anymore? We’re all gonna die tonight anyway.”
He had a point there. My frying pan sizzled as I sprinkled minced garlic over the mushrooms. The savory fragrance wafted around me. “Dinner’s almost ready, and I made a nice peach pie for dessert with extra sugar on top.”
Dwayne grunted. Given that this was his last meal, I’d wanted to make a dessert he’d tuck into with fervor, so I’d chosen peach filling—his favorite—and added the sugar to make it especially enticing.
“I was talking with Jenny today,” I said, adding evaporated milk to the potatoes. “She reminded me how much I like cooking for people. I should have opened that bakery when I had the chance.”
Now Dwayne snorted. “Not that crap again, Violet. You’d never have been able to pull something like that off. You don’t have it in you.”
I growled under my breath as I began to beat the potatoes. How many times had I let him discourage me with those demeaning words? The back screen door slammed against its frame again, but it was only the wind. It had really picked up. I blew out a deep breath. Just a few hours left. At least I wouldn’t have to listen to Dwayne’s put-downs anymore.
I dished the mashed potatoes onto our plates, then the steaks, my large frying pan sputtering as I pulled it off the stove for the last time. Then I poured the garlic and mushrooms on top of Dwayne’s steak. I’d never cared for mushrooms, but he enjoyed them.
“Here you go.” I set the plates down on the table and settled into my chair, facing Dwayne. Behind him, the back door rattled. The sky looked black and daunting through the door’s window, but the warm yellow porch light gave me comfort.
Dwayne picked up his knife and fork and dug in.
“I flipped through some photo albums today,” I said. “You remember how much fun our wedding was?”
I got no response other than slurping and chewing noises. You’d think given that it was his last meal, Dwayne would savor the food, but he was shoveling it in.
So I gave up on conversation and sipped my sweet tea between forkfuls of salad, steak, and mashed potatoes. How Larry had loved Mama’s potatoes. He always ate ravenously, too, but at least he told good stories between bites, like the one about the boy who grew up near us who loved to wander the countryside. He came home one day with real bad stomach cramps. Thank goodness his family rushed him to the hospital. Turned out he’d eaten some poisonous mushrooms. You’ve got to be real careful about what you pick in the woods.
Soon enough, Dwayne practically licked his plate clean. He popped open another beer and said, “Where’s that dessert you promised?”
I still had half my dinner remaining, but why should that matter to him? I got up from the table to serve his highness. I sliced an extra large piece of the peach pie and brought it to Dwayne. “Bon appétit.”
I sat back down and decided to make another stab at conversation. “My garden has really come in handy these last couple months. We haven’t had to worry about food, unlike some city folks I’ve seen on the news. Even tonight, with our last meal, everything’s fresh.”
“Another reason why it’s good to live in the country,” Dwayne said while chewing. Then he set down his fork and touched his stomach.
“Everything okay?” I took another bite of my potatoes. They had come out just right.
“A little indigestion. Guess I ate too fast.”
“Well then, take a breather. That pie’ll sit.”
I heard a snap, then the roof shook. Sounded like a large branch had crashed onto it. I went to the back door and looked out the window, but I couldn’t see anything or anyone.
“Dwayne, are you scared?” I asked as I resumed my seat.
“Not worth being scared, Violet. What’s gonna happen is gonna happen. I plan to drink the rest of this beer and be sound asleep when that old comet hits. You remember how my daddy died in his sleep. It’s the best way to go.”
Yes, I supposed it would be.
Dwayne lifted up another bite of pie, brought it toward his mouth, then started looking peaked. He dropped the fork and ran to the bathroom. Soon I heard him losing his meal. A small smile crept across my face as I kept eating mine.
“You sure you’re all right?” I asked when he finally returned to the kitchen. He was pale and clutching his stomach. He tumbled into his chair, grimaced at his remaining pie, and pushed the plate away.
“Jesus, Violet. My last meal and you gave me food poisoning.” He began moaning and put his head down on the table.
“Nope. There is no bacteria in this food. You know how careful I am with my cooking.” I finished the last of my steak. Delicious.
Dwayne ran back to the bathroom. He was in there a while, losing more of his meal from both ends, apparently, as I cleared the dishes. When he finally came back to the table, sweating and breathing hard, he looked like death. Of course, death was a few hours off. I didn’t know if he’d die from the comet or those special mushrooms or the little something extra I’d added to the pie. Either way, before his end came, Dwayne would spend his last hours suffering.
As he should.
He slumped back in his chair and started moaning again.
“Maybe you caught a bug, Dwayne. My meal tasted just right.” I took my seat at the table and looked at the wildflowers I’d gathered that morning, sitting in a vase on the counter. They were so much nicer than Dwayne’s scrunched-up face. “Or maybe it was those mushrooms you ate.” I looked him square on now. “I picked them just for you.”
He stared at me, eyes wide. “What did you do?”
Dwayne lurched at me. I clenched my jaw and scooted my chair back, but before Dwayne could reach me he groaned loudly and fell to the floor, grabbing at his stomach.
“Cramps?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. Just kept lying there, moaning and writhing and gasping for breath, while the wind howled outside and the back porch began to creak.
Suddenly the back door screeched opened. A man with long, messy brown hair walked in. His face was lined and craggy, and his nose was off center, but his eyes were as sharp as ever. Larry.
I jumped up, ran around the table (stepping on Dwayne’s hand—oops), and hugged my brother. Oh, how I’d missed him. And how grateful I was to that warden who’d let him out.
When I pulled back, Larry rubbed my cheek, then looked over my shoulder and began shaking his head and laughing.
“Dwayne’s dinner didn’t quite agree with him.” I smiled. “Would you please carry him out on the porch? All his moaning is getting on my nerves.”
Larry scooped Dwayne up as if he weighed nothing. When Larry came back inside, I was slicing up the second blueberry pie I’d made that morning. Larry looked at the peach pie I’d thrown in the trash.
“Oh, you don’t want that. I made it special for Dwayne. It has some Comet and other cleansers in it, in honor of our impending doom.”
“Nice touch.” Larry chuckled. “But why’d you do it? I told you when I called that I’d get here by tonight and would take care of him for you.”
I paused and let out a deep sigh. “I appreciate that. But after everything Dwayne put me through, I decided I was going to stand up for myself, once and for all.”
“Good for you, Sis. I always knew you had it in you.”
I nearly laughed at his wording. “Thanks, Larry. I just wish I’d known it sooner.”
We sat at the table with our pie and old photo albums. The wind howled again, but I didn’t mind anymore. I finally had my big brother back, if only for a few hours.
“Bon Appétit” fi
rst appeared in Nightfalls: Notes From the End of the World, published by Dark Valentine Press in 2012.
This story was a bit of a challenge. The editor of Nightfalls, Katherine Tomlinson, asked me to submit to the anthology. Every story in the book would be set on the night before the world was going to end. Katherine wanted to see how people would spend that night, knowing their time was definitely limited. That set-up might prove easier to authors of romance, I thought. I write crime. If the world were ending, certain crimes would become obsolete. Money wouldn’t matter anymore, so that ruled out stories about burglaries and robberies. Terrorism would probably be out, too, since the world already was doomed. I thought and thought, and ultimately I realized that in the end, all you have is love and self-respect. Oh yeah, and revenge. Definitely revenge. And “Bon Appétit” was born.
THE WORST NOEL
Okay, Gwen. Get ready to fake it.
It was nearly my turn to share what I was thankful for. Then we’d eat some pie, Thanksgiving dinner would mercifully end, and I could escape for home.
But first I had to pay my annual homage to Mom, saying how thankful I am for my family. Every year I contemplate only mentioning my friends and work, but I always chicken out. Mom would make me pay if I didn’t smile and mention her.
My sister, Becca, finally stopped blathering about her husband and baby, and Mom slipped into the kitchen, clearly satisfied, as always, with Becca.
Becca’s husband, Joe, started sharing his thanks. I reached for another roll, slathered some butter on it, and swallowed it down in two bites. Joe finished talking. I steeled myself. My turn had come. I smiled and—
“Happy birthday to you,” Mom sang, emerging from the kitchen with a large pumpkin pie, a candle in the middle. Everyone joined in, Becca’s in-laws looking uncomfortable, while Mom set the pie before me.
“We would have wished you happy birthday earlier,” Joe said, glancing at his parents when the song ended. “But we thought your birthday was tomorrow.”
“Oh, it is,” Mom piped in. “But Becca and I will be busy shopping, so it only makes sense to celebrate Gwen’s birthday now.”
I wished I had a different family and blew out my candle.
“Pumpkin pie as birthday cake,” Joe said. “How unusual.”
He knew my preference for chocolate. As did Mom.
“Well, it is Thanksgiving. Besides”—Mom poked me with her elbow—“it’s not like Gwen needs any more cake.” She smiled as if she hadn’t just been incredibly rude to me. “Becca, would you please slice the pie? I’m going to get Gwen’s gift.”
A couple minutes later, as plates of pie made the rounds and I considered dropping mine, face down, on Mom’s Berber carpet, Mom handed me a gold-wrapped box. I opened the envelope first, and a small gift card fell out. I turned it over and cringed. Not a gift card. A membership card. For a gym.
This was a new low, even for Mom.
“Read the greeting card,” she said.
Lord save me. “To our darling daughter on her birthday,” I read aloud. Not that Mom or Dad had penned that sentiment. It came straight from Hallmark. At the bottom, Mom had written, “We got you this gym membership and a personal trainer for the next six months. Happy Birthday.”
Oh, yeah. There’s nothing like being reminded that you’re fat to make your birthday a humdinger!
“What a wonderful gift,” Becca said in that tone she’d used since we were kids—the one grown-ups always thought sounded sweet and sincere but I knew was chockfull of sarcasm.
“There’s more!” Mom said, pointing at the box, looking proud.
I shuddered to imagine what might be in it. I gingerly opened the gold wrapping paper, not because I cared about ripping it, but because I wanted to delay every second I could before the inevitable torture.
Paper off, the box’s lid caught my eye. Bloomingdale’s. Really? Excited, I lifted off the cover, pulled back the crinkly, white tissue paper, and…mentally kicked myself for thinking Mom might have gotten me something nice.
“Hold it up,” Mom said. “Let everyone see.”
I pulled out my gift. A red sweat suit. Size medium.
“You can use it at the gym! With the trainer!” she said.
I watched Becca try not to laugh while her in-laws and Joe sat there, mouths open.
“Thank you, Mom. Dad. How very…thoughtful.”
“Go try it on,” Mom said.
“Oh, no, not right now.”
“C’mon, Gwen,” Becca chimed in. “Don’t be shy. Let’s see how it looks.”
I glared at her. She knew damn well how it would look.
Mom gave me her don’t-embarrass-me frown. So I shuffled off to my old bedroom, sweat suit in hand. As an elementary school principal, I’m used to standing up to people and holding my own. But you wouldn’t know it seeing me around my family. While I took off my clothes, I wondered for the millionth time why Mom and Dad favored Becca so much. Growing up, they had always given her great presents. First the hottest toys, then trendy teenage clothes, and then expensive jewelry from Cartier in Boston. Oh, how she’d always loved to laud her gifts over me.
Especially since my presents always sucked. When I turned eight, Cabbage Patch dolls were all the rage. I got a Skipper doll. Mom wouldn’t even spring for Barbie. At fourteen, I begged for bohemian clothes from Annie Dakota, a funky store that used to be downtown. I got a science tutor instead. “A far better use of the money,” Mom had said, looking me up and down. “We can’t count on you finding a husband like Becca surely will, and I don’t want to have to support you for the rest of my life.” Becca had snickered while my few friends whom I’d invited over for cake gasped—they’d heard my stories about Mom, but nothing shocked like seeing her in action.
Given the history, I shouldn’t have been surprised by today’s events. And yet a tiny part of me hoped every year that things would be different. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I struggled to get the sweat suit on, tugging the snug pants over my hips and fighting to pull the top’s zipper over my bosom. When I finally finished and peered in the mirror, I cringed. The red sweat suit had a white collar and cuffs. I looked like a pregnant Santa Claus.
“What’s taking so long, Gwen?” Mom called from the hall. “If you don’t come out right now, I’m just going to come in on my own.”
I opened the door, Mom sucked in her breath, and Becca burst out laughing.
“I’ll have to return it.” I gestured at the red nightmare. “It’s a bit tight.”
“Of course it’s tight.” Mom rolled her eyes. “How will you ever be encouraged to lose weight if you constantly wear fat clothes? That’s why I bought you a medium.”
Tears welled up in my eyes, but I wouldn’t let them flow.
Mom clapped her hands together. “That’s enough about you, Gwen. This is a holiday for the whole family, after all, and we have guests. Get dressed and come back and join everyone.”
“Wait.” Becca handed me another box. “This is from me and Joe. But you don’t have to model it now. I’m sure it’ll look great on you.”
Right. I closed the door and sank onto my old bed, the springs creaking. Sighing, I opened Becca’s gift. A royal blue sweater with horizontal white stripes. At least it was the right size, but stripes! It would look hideous on me. Of course it didn’t come as a surprise. Every year since we’d become adults, Becca had given me gifts that made me look bad. In return, every year I’d bought her gifts she wouldn’t like. Last year, a bargain-brand video camera. This year, a silver bracelet. Becca only wears gold.
I looked at my watch. How soon could I leave without Mom calling me rude? Whatever the time, it wouldn’t be soon enough.
* * * *
Two Saturdays later Hanukkah was set to begin, and once again, I had to deal with my family. Mom demanded we celebrate the first night at my place this year, which was unusual. Since Dad was the only real Jewish person in our immediate family—Becca and I had been raised Presbyterian, like M
om, but with a fine appreciation for the gift-oriented Jewish holidays—we always celebrated the first night of Hanukkah at Mom and Dad’s. Odder still was Mom’s insistence on coming over early in the afternoon. Hanukkah didn’t start until sundown, and I couldn’t imagine Mom really wanted to hang out for several hours in my rented townhouse in my “bad” neighborhood.
Still, shortly after lunch, Mom and Dad arrived. Mom made a beeline for my Christmas tree. She stood silent, arms folded, studying it. I had just strung up the colored lights and a few glittering ornaments the night before. It looked great.
“Honestly, Gwen,” Mom finally said. “Why must you pick the scruffiest, most pathetic tree every year? It’s like you try to embarrass me.” She walked over to the window and pulled the curtains closed so the neighbors wouldn’t have to suffer seeing my tree.
Stung, I went downstairs to take some deep breaths and dig out my menorah. I found no leftover candles. Fabulous! I could escape to the market to buy a box. I’d need two candles for tonight, three for tomorrow, and so on for the eight nights of Hanukkah. I always liked saying the prayers and lighting the candles. It made me feel peaceful.
Focusing on staying calm, I returned to the living room, and my eyes nearly bugged out. Mom was directing two delivery men to move my love seat to a corner and set a big box in its place.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Surprise!” Mom waved her hand at the box like the girls from The Price is Right do. “Happy Hanukkah.” She nodded at the workmen, and they pulled apart the box to reveal…oh, my Lord. A treadmill. “It’s for snowy days when you can’t get to the gym this winter,” she said.
I felt a major migraine coming on, and I never got migraines.
I stood dumbfounded while the workmen set up the treadmill. I still hadn’t said a word by the time they left.
“Don’t give me that look, Gwen,” Mom said. “Once I saw that sweat suit on you, I knew you wouldn’t wear it out of the house. Now you have no excuse not to put it on. Come, Henry, let’s go home and give Gwen a chance to try out her present.”
“What?” I shook my head. “What about lighting the candles tonight?”