THE FURY AND THE FEAST
NEW FICTION BY ROBERT CRAIG
Outside the overcast sky hangs like a heavy blanket. The dull afternoon light fades while radiators hiss and ping. The old plumbing clanks as the steam roars out of the basement. An anxious dog waits with wonder, drool dripping, eager for something to fall to the floor. It was a long slow morning watching the thanksgiving parade on the couch. Stuck in his thoughts. Memories simmering in a sauce of sadness while the sleeping dog next to him kept kicking him in his sleep. Now they’re side by side in the kitchen. The dog has been his shadow since he started peeling.
With a burst of steam, he drains the potatoes in the sink and begins to make them by hand with the old masher that belonged to his grandmother. A sturdy tool of well worn wood and wire. He remembers watching his mother make his spuds. They were easy on his stomach after another brutal day. When his mother passed away, he stole it from the kitchen, before his father started selling everything that meant anything. Today Bruce is making the mashed potatoes for their thanksgiving dinner. This year it’s just them again.
Two years ago, before the pandemic, just as everyone was sitting down for thanksgiving dinner, Roy rose up and flipped the fully dressed table. The wingspan of his arms sudden and severe. Plates full of food, glasses of beer and wine, all sent sailing. Sick and tired of the bullying and bullshit. Enough. The shock on Bruce’s family’s faces as gravy ran down the old nicotine-faded 80’s wallpaper. Sweet potato casserole with burnt marshmallows in a heap on the floor. One of Bruce’s brothers got up to challenge Roy then sat back down as Roy stood there waiting. The room perfectly still. Bruce’s father sitting silent wearing canned cranberry jelly in his hair, staring at the floor in fear or shame or both. A childhood stolen. And a den of thieves covered in Thanksgiving.
Roy and Bruce left without saying a word, laughing uncontrollably when they got to the car. They stopped for Chinese take out and grabbed donuts for desert. That was the last time anyone in his family said anything about Bruce ever again.
And now the oven timer dings. Rolls are ready and Roy shows up. He gets the glasses down from the cabinet. There’s a brief moment on his way to the kitchen table when he’s behind Bruce at the stove. He pauses to smell the back of Bruce’s neck: mix of musk and shower soap. Different than the early morning. It’s the way he smells at the end of the day. He closes his eyes for a moment. He hesitates. Then steps around the stubborn dog who won’t budge for anything except buttery spuds.
Bruce puts the rolls in a basket and hands them to Roy then puts the cold butter into the hot potatoes and slowly stirs. Then a little milk. The dog is next to him, staring at the pot. Wide eyes open waiting. Bruce tastes the potatoes and the dog barks. He dips two fingers in and lets the dog lick them clean. Then adds a little more salt. A little more milk. Stirring while the dog is barking: more more more.
He finishes the potatoes and puts the pot back on the stove. He rinses and washes the masher and puts it back in the drawer and then one more finger full for the dog. A long starchy tongue licks. Bruce whisks the gravy before pouring it into the boat. Checks on the rest of dinner. The table is set. It’s nothing fancy. His mother always had a dramatic centerpiece. Some years it was difficult to see over and around but today the bare kitchen table is more like a weeknight and less a holiday. Today it is simple; focused on the traditions soaked in savored memories of dinners long past and their mothers cooking and complaining: yelling to turn the TV down, don’t get dirty, and stay away from dessert.
They sit down to eat and the dog sneaks under the table instead of waiting on the dog bed for the men to finish eating. It’s a holiday so Roy lets the dog stay. There’s a feast of food. Plates full of the flavors of their childhoods.
Then a loud sudden bang at the door. The knocking reverberates through the house. The dog goes crazy and with a howl runs for the front door tearing across the old wood floor. They look at each other surprised. Roy goes to answer the knocking. He moves the barking dog out of the way and opens the front door. There’s no one there. Then he notices on the front steps: the pudgy prodigal has returned. You gotta see this he says.
It first arrived last December in a bomb of bubble wrap. Fat with a hat and a smile like a smirk. Bruce's aunt sent it to him unannounced. It has been in the family for decades: the little swollen Santa garden gnome. Last year Bruce put it outside, in the front of the house, tucked between two shrubs. Then one day shortly before Christmas, it was gone.
There’s a loud crash back at the table as the dog pulls off a plate of food when no one was looking. Roy yells at the dog who is licking up the pile of potatoes and gravy off the floor in a hurry before he knows he will get dragged away. Bruce picks up the gnome. He shuts the door and places the troll on the kitchen table. Looks and smiles. Fat little fucker. He grabs the paper towels and cleans up the floor as the dog licks his paws clean in a slow victory lap. He gets another plate. They sit down. There’s a new old centerpiece this year. Rosy and red, chipped paint and a stare like a glare. The grace hangs in the air. The sound of silverware on plates. Pass the mashed again.