at the dinner table

A loud knock and the boy heard the door to Suite 667 swing open and Aunt and Uncle—running late, but just in time—allowed for themselves to enter, arms full, smiles feigned. Younger Sister skipped around the corner, cheerfully, throwing herself into a hug and kiss, and, as the couple sneered towards one another, they yelled out greetings to the family and made their way into the dining area.

The young boy dried his hands and took his seat across from Father’s and watched the man’s giant face take in a giant whiff. With a satisfied smirk, Father lifted the cutters high in ceremony, hummed along to the Christmas choir before tearing into the carcass, gleefully, slicing and carving proudly. The boy, too young to understand, took note of the pleasure Father took in the act, thought something odd about the glazed eyes Older Sister possessed as she placed the settings, something surreal—if he knew what surreal meant—about the lights, the trees, the ornaments and awkwardness of the situation in itself.

The table jerked back and forth on its wobbly legs and no one spoke, but Father snared his teeth as he ripped apart the meat. Mother, still in the kitchen—where she’d been standing since the beginning of that week—yelled something that nobody cared to hear. Uncle sat next to his brother and mentioned how ‘wonderful everything looks and how delicious everything smells’. Aunt ignored him, as she did with everyone. She reached for her glass and her left eye twitched as her right eye sparkled and her neck loosened as the husband, with his proud, greasy smile, opened the bottle, making a loud popping sound with his dry and blistered lips. He placed it in its reserved spot—right beside the turkey… The turkey rested on its special plate in the midst of the table, circled about by dried flowers, crushed potatoes, and candles—candles with the momentous task of simultaneously lighting the otherwise darkened room to conceal the boredom and contempt.

“Merry Christmas, Y’all.” Said Aunt to her glass, toasting her reflection.

And Father continued, not pausing once; sweat dripping off his brow. The boy watched in just as much horror as he did in intrigue as the flowers swayed and the red juice spilled from Mother’s untouched and overflowing glass.

Teenage Daughter, the eldest of the three, suddenly stuck her nose up and snarled, and out loud she protested. “Why do you insist on shoving this shit down our throats each and every year?” She turned to the boy and bounced a brussel sprout off his head.

All the boy could do was wail out a shriek so loud and high-pitched that all time might have stopped—save for in that second Father slipped the knife and the blade slid across the palm of his hand. Blood squirted all onto the white plates, all across the table and into his brother’s face. The boy’s eyes grew and his mouth dropped and he shrieked louder, as Mother yelled profanities from the kitchen, waving her arms and stomping her slippers. Sisters jumped, knocked back their chairs, screamed in unison, and the table wobbled some more, enthusiastically, as Father bumped around, and the turkey jerked as Aunt sprung up—holding onto her husband and her husband’s glass but not the table as the leg stopped wobbling, and, with one loud ‘CRACK,’ simply gave out. Everything slid and not one person breathed, but all eyes watched as the turkey rolled across the carpet right back into the kitchen, slowing to a stop in between Mother’s spastic feet.

And when she screamed, louder than ever before, head raised at the ceiling, hands tight, no one knew exactly how to react, not one of them—except for Cat, who from nowhere had sprung, hoisted the turkey with its chops and knew only to run.

Everyone sprung and gave chase to Cat—past all the bedrooms as it ran down the hall. Turkey in mouth, cornered at the front door, it hissed and fled through all their legs as they fell to the floor, and then back around the corner, carrying on under the table and onto the balcony where Aunt was hiding, smoking her joint all on her own.

Rolling her eyes and shaking her head, she did nothing to stop Cat from jumping onto the chair and then onto the ledge. One by one, they tripped through the door, stood anxiously as the pet finally spat out the bird, sniffed and pawed like it would at a hairball, spread its legs and licked its groin. Uninterested, Cat lifted its tail and carried off.

No one moved. Father smiled, and Mother sighed, but only the boy understood what would happen next. Aunt lost her wig as the giant black Crow batted her head with its wing, swooped down and around, snapped its beak, lifted, and flew away—painfully, slowly, low to the ground, weighed down and chased by others cawing enthusiastically for their feast.

In Suite 667 not a word was spoken and heads hung low. For the rest of the night, only the aroma mingled with the angel on top of the tree.


Ldm