The Bird that Sang in Color by Grace Mattioli

Author:Grace Mattioli
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: happiness, freedom, nonconformity, literary fiction, selfactualization, fiction novel, family story, rennaissance, artists in fiction
Publisher: Grace Mattioli

CHAPTER EIGHT: 1996

Frank was in the kitchen losing his mind as I sat in our bedroom, holding little Vincie close to my chest, one hand over his head, trying to shield him from the sounds of slamming cabinet doors and screaming rage: “Fuck this goddamned place! Shit’s always disappearing on me here! I can’t find anything in this fucking place!”

I shook from the inside, like a dying lightbulb crazily flickering, as I held Vincie, and feared he might have been sensing my anxiety, soaking it in through his thin, delicate baby skin. My mind stirred with indecision about staying put or going in the kitchen to try to calm Frank down, but I remained as frozen as a mannequin until I heard the sound of shattering glass. I put Vincie down, which started him crying, loud and automatic, and ran in the kitchen to see every cabinet door open with Frank searching inside of them like a starving raccoon.

“Can I help you find something?” I tried to sound like a calm, composed salesclerk, but my voice crumbled in fear, and my stomach flipped like an acrobat.

“What the hell happened to that bottle of vodka I had in the liquor cabinet?!” His eyes were bottomless black, dark and hollow like tunnels that go nowhere.

“I’m sure you just misplaced it somewhere, Frank.”

“What are you kidding or something?! I never misplace anything! I bet you that Cosmo is doing something with it. One of his goddamned science experiments or something!” His arms flailed in all directions like an orangutan. He continued on his search, sidestepping the broken glass, with his heavy feet pounding the floor from one side of the kitchen to the other.

“Maybe you drank it all and forgot about it.” I regretted saying this the minute my words hit the air, but I couldn’t think straight, being one big tremble with my head feeling disconnected from my body.

“What do you think? I’m a fucking idiot or something. Jesus Christ, Donna!”

“Why don’t you just calm down, Frank.” Another stupid thing to say. I knew better than to tell a maniac to calm down.

“Why don’t you just go screw yourself!” He banged his very heavy ring on our table, making a fresh, new dent, and stormed out of the house, slamming whatever doors he could on the way out. Then, he blazed down the driveway, and I made a big sigh of relief and collapsed while standing.

From the other room, Vincie’s cries grew, and I ran in to pick him up and brought him in the kitchen to feed him. I bounced him up and down and spoke to him in baby talk to mask my crumbling voice and did the best I could to seem functional and together. I put him in his high chair and opened a jar of plum pudding—his favorite of all the baby foods. As I fed him, I told myself I’d confront Frank, once again, about his drinking that night. I told myself that this time would be different, but my hope was forced and contrived.

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