"Gina, don't fill up on milk. Eat your dinner."
"I don't like it."
"Well, that's all there is and we don't waste food in
this house."
Gina put her glass down too close to the edge of the table
for her mother's comfort. Her mother instinctively reached
for the glass, picked it up and set it down deliberately
at the top of Gina's plate. She was always telling Gina
to eat her dinner. Gina scowled into her plate of stuffed
bell peppers. Large, floppy green cups stuffed with a chunky
ground beef mixture. They'd both fallen over, spilling their
stuffing messily about the plate. The heat of the oven turned
them a drab green, the color of a rotten apple.
"Brad, could you pass the bread please?"
"No, you have to eat your dinner," Brad sneered
back at Gina.
With her brother's response, Gina's shoulders caved inward
as she slid down in her straight-backed wooden chair. She
knew her chair well. She sat in her chair for hours on end.
Almost every other night was spent sitting in the same spot
in front of a plate of food barely touched. Sitting at the
table long after everyone else had finished and moved on
to watch TV or to the sanctuary of a bedroom.
"Brad, stop tapping your foot on the table leg and put
your napkin in your lap."
Brad's tapping continued, testing his mother's patience.
He swiped the napkin from beside his plate tumbling a knife
and spoon onto the table. Gina's older brothers Brad and
John ate anything put in front of them. They just wanted
food, as much as they could have. Walking garbage disposals.
Brad's tapping became inconsistent at best, refusing to
fully comply with his mother's request. She glared across
the table at her husband who remained intently focused on
preparing another bite of food to replace the one he was
still chewing. Gina's mother sighed loudly and reached for
her wine glass.
John was talking between mouthfuls of his stuffed peppers
about the engine work his VW van needed. It was lucky it
was running at all, being fifteen years old and in the hands
of a boy only slightly older. Its true function was that
of a mobile bedroom he could drive as far away from the
house as possible.
Gina picked through the ground beef, arranging configurations
with it that she hoped would make it look like she was eating
it. The ground beef itself wasn't that bad, but the flavor
of the peppers bled into everything they touched. She ate
the beef crumbles that didn't slip through the tines of
her fork. It all tasted like drab bell peppers. She returned
to rearranging the crumbles into new patterns.
Her milk glass was now half empty. She was rationing the
last of it in small, precious sips. Her brothers would catch
up to her eventually, causing one of them to go for refills.
She might be able to refill her own when they did. And hopefully
swipe a piece of bread during the exchange. She was patient.
Gina was born with the most patience of anyone in her family.
She was the youngest. Being the baby meant always being
the last one in line. The last stop for hand-me-downs; the
last one to start school; the last one to get a bicycle.
And on most nights, the last one at the table.
Her father was almost finished with his dinner. He'd finally
taken a break from eating to tell his wife about his business
trip next week. His trips always made her mother a lot crabbier
than usual. And Gina would have to go with her everywhere.
She wasn't old enough to stay home alone or escape to a
friend's house like her brothers could. She slid a little
farther down in her chair. The tines of her fork squeaked
across the plate, scattering ground beef into a new design.
John finally got up from the table to get the milk carton
out of the fridge. Brad passed his glass behind his mother's
head so John could refill them both. Gina looked to see
if her mother was watching her before deciding if she could
ask John for more milk. In one motion, John handed a full
glass of milk to Brad with one hand and filled Gina's glass
on the table from the carton in the other. Her mother didn't
notice. She was badgering her father about his trip and
miscellaneous household details she'd have to manage in
his absence. Gina beamed up at John, grabbing her glass
for a gulp of fresh, cold milk.
As Gina eagerly filled her mouth with milk, Brad leaned
slightly to his left, releasing a deep, resonant fart that
rumbled through his jeans and the seat cushion, reverberating
powerfully against the hard wood of the chair beneath. He
was smiling proudly as his brother and father began to heave
with laughter. Gina couldn't begin to swallow in time as
her own laughter exploded in her throat, launching a wide
spray of milk out through her nose, covering her plate and
its surrounding area of the table.
John inhaled deeply for his next wave of hysterics, sending
him backwards strongly enough to tip his chair too far back
to catch. The wooden back slapped loudly onto the linoleum
tumbling John off onto the floor beside his chair. Gina's
father was overwhelmed with the chaos at the table, causing
his face to flush pink like a rare steak as he fought for
breath between his convulsions of laughter. His eyes clenched
shut as tears formed at the outer corners. Brad could not
contain his pride, howling with laughter and showing partially
chewed food inside his gaping mouth. John was trying to
get off the floor and right his chair as Gina began reaching
for napkins to catch the milky snot dripping out her nostrils.
Gina's mother had been silent since the fart, but now banged
both her clenched fists on the table screaming over the
din of laughter, "It's not funny!"
A vain attempt to restore order to the table. Her outcry
made everything funnier and more difficult for her family
to control their laughter. John was finding it difficult
to maintain balance to sit back down in his chair. Gina
jumped up to grab the kitchen sponge and paper towels to
address her messy display of hilarity. Gina's mother would
be more upset about the mess she'd made than the ruckus
her brother caused. That, on top of not eating her dinner,
would certainly secure her a few more hours at the table
by herself long after everyone else had been excused.
"Gina, just sit down, I'll get it," her mother spat
as she shoved her chair out from the table and barged past
her to the sponge and towels.
Gina backed away silently and returned to the familiar
hard surface of her chair. Her plate, glass, utensils and
napkin were all removed as her mother wiped the milk puddles
off the table. For half a second, Gina's heart leapt at
the thought that the milk contamination might mean she wouldn't
have to finish her dinner. With the last swipe of the sponge,
her mother returned her plate, fork and napkin to the table.
The only milk allowed to her now was pooling in spots between
piles of ground beef on her plate. Gina's chin fell to her
chest as she prepared herself for another night of daydreaming
to pass the time.
Her father and brothers quickly finished and excused themselves
after the farting debacle, still giggling. Gina's mother
ate slowly and finished in silence for what seemed like
longer than the entire time they'd been at the table. It
was worse to have to sit at the table while she was still
there. Her mother's presence caused her to want to lean
away when there was no one else around to share the burden.
It would be easier when her mother cleared her own plate
and began cleaning the kitchen.
Now her father and brothers were watching TV. She wasn't
supposed to watch. Just sit there. But she could hear it
and see it reflected backwards in the window. It was better
than staring at her own reflection or the round & round
holding the salt, pepper, sugar and napkins. Four prime
time sitcoms aired by the time her mother grew frustrated
enough to give up for another night.
"Get down and clear your plate. "Jesus Christ, I need
to clean up the kitchen and you're just wasting my time."
Gina slid off the chair and pulled her plate from the table
to carry it to the counter. Her relief was stifled by her
mother's reproachful glare as she set her nearly-full plate
by the sink. She walked quietly down the hall to her bedroom,
the night all but over and time for bed, desperately hoping
tomorrow night's dinner would be something she could eat. |
