“Um…sorry,” I said. “I guess I’m a little tired.”
“Well, what do you think about me doing the cooking while I’m staying with you?”
“I think I haven’t had a decent meal since my mom was cooking for me.”
“How long has that been?” Tria asked.
I went stiff almost immediately. I straightened my back in the chair and looked quickly at the window to stare at nothing. I tried to make my mind match the blank image in my eyes. I had no idea why I had made that comment. I didn’t want to think about, talk about, or even broach a tangent conversation regarding my family.
“You never talk about your family,” Tria said softly.
I clenched my jaw and grit my teeth. I didn’t look at her, and I didn’t respond. After a moment, Tria reached part way across the kitchen table but stopped moving as I sat back and pulled away.
“Long time?” she said quietly.
“Yeah,” I replied. I kept staring out the window until I felt a little more in control. I tightened my fingers around the neck of the beer bottle and quickly tilted it up to my lips to drain it. “We better get this shit finished.”
I stood immediately, and Tria was just a fraction behind. She seemed to want to say something else, but I wasn’t going to give her the chance. I started cleaning up again, and she took the hint.
Tria wiped down the inside of the refrigerator while I gathered up the apple cores and beer bottles into a big trash bag and hauled it out to the dumpsters behind the building. After tossing the bag into the bin, I pulled out a cigarette and lit it.
The conversation about meals and the mention of my mother had left me on edge. I didn’t want to go back in feeling like that. I didn’t let that shit get to me because I just didn’t think about it. I didn’t want to be thinking about it now, either, but I couldn’t help but remember the last meal I shared with my family.
Breaded veal cutlets, mashed potatoes, and green beans seasoned with those tiny, round onions. Mom and Dad drank wine from crystal glasses, and Mrs. Carter served crème brûlée for dessert. No one said a word while we ate, and at the end of the meal, Dad had dropped his glass heavily on the top of the carved cherry table.
“When are you going to stop moping?” he snapped.
“Douglass, don’t,” Mom said in a hushed tone.
“How long is he going to act like this?” He turned abruptly to her while gesturing toward me.
“I’m not moping,” I replied. I shoved the spoon into the crusted top of the dessert and carved out some of the custard underneath.
“Well, what else would you call it, then?” Dad asked.
“Contemplating.”
“There’s nothing to contemplate,” he said. He picked up the glass again and pointed it toward me. “It’s over. Take care of it, and get away from that tramp.”
I dropped the spoon audibly onto the plate and sat back in my chair.
“No.”
There.
I said it.
I shifted my gaze to meet those of my father. The intensity was almost too much, but I managed not to look away from his fearsome glare.
“What did you just say?” he asked slowly through a tensed jaw.
“I said no. I’m not going to ‘take care of it.’ At least, not in the way you mean.”
“How the hell else could you mean it?”
“Douglass…”
“Shut up, Jules. This is between the men here.”