Pretending Normal by Mary Campisi

Author:Mary Campisi [Campisi, Mary]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: General Fiction, (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
ISBN: 1434879453
Publisher: Mary Campisi
Published: 2012-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

He’s coming! Frank lumbers down each step, closing in on us. I swallow and almost choke on a chunk of sausage. “Get out the bologna,” I whisper to Kay. “And the leftover potatoes. Hurry.” I grab the pan of lasagna, cut in perfect squares with a gouged-out middle, and bolt to the trash can.

“Sara!” He’s on the landing, only one small room separating us.

“Yes?” I fling open the lid and shove squares of lasagna into the ten-gallon garbage can.

“You cooking tonight, Kay?”

He is standing in the doorway, his bulky frame snuffing out light from the next room.

She shakes her head and busies herself with removing the shriveled skin from a potato. “I’m just helping, Sara.”

“Good girl,” he says, stepping into the kitchen. He pats her shoulder and moves toward me.

“Here”—he grabs the lasagna pan—“I told you to throw the whole damn thing out.” He stuffs the pan in the garbage can and the lid swings back and forth. There is a dark smear of sauce on it with crumbs of sausage buried in the middle.

“I couldn’t eat it anymore,” he says, his voice low, persuasive.

“I know.” You are such a liar.

“She wasn’t half the cook your mother was.”

…such a goddamn liar. I stare at the sauce on the garbage lid. “I know.”

“We’ll be okay, the three of us,” he says.

“Sure.” Why did she have to die?

“We’ll be just fine.”

“I know.” Why couldn’t it have been you, Frank?

He throws an arm around me, hauls me against his side, alcohol and sweat smacking me in the face. I try to hold my breath, turn my head away, but he has me tight against him and there is nothing I can do but suck in sips of air through my mouth. We stand next to the garbage can, his big arm pinning me to him like a grizzly bear swatting its young against its shoulder.

“Sara?” Kay looks from Frank to me, back to Frank again. “What should I do with the potatoes?”

He releases his arm, I step away. “Start cutting them into small squares,” I say. “I’ll help.”

“I’ll be in the garage,” this from Frank. “Call me when it’s time to eat.”

“Okay.” I step back so he can get to the door. I am looking down at his boots, brown, the only ones he ever wears, except for his work shoes that are black with a steel toe. These are big and clunky, with scuffs on the side. I follow the boots past me and out the door, trying to picture a pair of polished wing-tips in their place.

The harsh sound of metal on wood startles me. Kay is heaving the butcher knife into the cutting board, minus the potato. “What are you doing?” I grab her wrist and take the knife. The board is scarred with hundreds of old scratches, most just brushing the surface, a few gouging deeper. But Kay’s savagery has left fresh, crisscrosses in the board. “What are you doing?”

“He is such an asshole,” she whispers, her eyes fixed on the shiny tip of the blade.

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