Jeff Jacobson - Foodchain

Frank could see that the place was banged up, but clean. The deep carpet was fluffy, and still faintly damp from last night’s shampoo. The walls had been scrubbed and the table felt oily from the wood polish. Band-Aid came out of the kitchen with a tall glass of ice water. “If you need anything else, my name is Ezekiel.” He stepped back and stood at the wall.

Another brother, this one maybe ten or eleven, with more scabs, Band-Aids, and scrapes than any of the brothers that Frank had seen, came out and lit the candles, four tall, twisted metal candle holders in the middle of the table. When he came around the table, Frank could see that this brother even had stitches, holding most of his left nostril onto the rest of his nose. This was Gunther, but everyone just called him Gun. He didn’t look at Frank, but Frank felt trouble coming off the kid like a dandelion in an earthquake.

Annie bounced into the room, and Frank didn’t even see the kid leave. All Frank saw was Annie’s smile. He didn’t even notice that she was wearing some kind of short dress until later, after dinner. Just that smile.

She kissed him lightly on the cheek and said, “Like your haircut,” as he tried to push the chair back from the table in the heavy carpet. Before he could rise, she was past him and on her way down to the other end of the table. Two brothers materialized out of the kitchen, pulled her chair back for their sister, and shoved her toward the table.

“Thank you for having dinner with me,” she said. “Would you like a drink?”

“Got some water, thanks.”

“You sure you don’t want something stronger?”

“No thanks. I’m good.”

“Well,” she said, “you change your mind, you be sure to let Zeke there know. He’ll take care of it.”

“I’m sure he will. He seems very capable.”

Annie laughed. “Yes he’s that—capable. Last week Mom caught him with three rattlesnakes in his backpack. One, hell, it wouldn’t surprise me around here. But three?”

Frank looked back at Zeke. “How’d you catch ’em?”

Zeke’s eyes watched Annie. She nodded, said, “Go ahead and answer. It’s okay this time.”

“They like the paved roads out in the foothills, around dusk,” he shot a look at his sister, making it clear he wished he was out there now. “They’ll come out on the pavement, soak up the heat. Gets cold sometimes at night. They like the heat.”

“How’d you get them in the backpack?”

Zeke looked at Frank like he was one of the biggest dumbshits he’d ever seen. “Grabbed them. They didn’t crawl in by themselves.”

The other Glouck mother, Alice, came out of the same doorway as Annie, in a long, black prom dress from the early eighties. It would have been tight on most women, but Alice was built like the Eiffel tower, wide feet, thick ankles, narrow hips, smaller shoulders, and a tiny head. She moved in short, shuffling steps, chafed by the dress around her calves. Black lace gloves ended her skeletal arms, like two wooden matches, broken in half. Tonight, her hair was pinned up, and when she got close, Frank was startled to see that she was wearing a hint of makeup. “How lovely to see you again, Frank.” She shook his hand, clasping it in both hands and petting it. “Our little Annie is pleased to see you—you do know that, don’t you?”

Annie said awful quick, “Why don’t we all have a seats. Maybe a drink?”

There was a knock at the front door.

“That must be our other guest,” Alice said, but didn’t let go of Frank’s hand. One of the brothers ran to the door and yanked it open.

He wore jeans and a dark green cowboy shirt with the shoulders embroidered with scrolling, thick black thread. He’d gone to the trouble of wearing a shark tooth bolo tie.

“Please come in,” Zeke said.

“Thank you,” Sturm said and came inside. He moved a little stiff, but otherwise just fine.

“How lovely to see you again, Mr. Sturm.” Alice finally let go of Frank’s hand and worked her way over to Sturm. It took a while in that dress. “Flowers, how lovely.” Her words came out in halting, stiff sounds, like they tasted unfamiliar. She took the flowers and said, “Let me get a vase. Please, please, have a seat.”

Yet another brother appeared. “May I get you a drink, sir?”

“Sour mash whiskey. Two ice cubes. In a glass this wide,” Sturm made a ring with his thumbs and forefingers. “And this high.”

“Yes, sir.” The brother tore off to the kitchen.

Sturm nodded at Frank. “Frank.”

Frank nodded back, not surprised at anything anymore.

Sturm nodded at Annie. “Miss.”

“How are you, Mr. Sturm?”

The same two brothers yanked his chair back and threw him at the table. “I’m doing well.”

Alice came back with the flowers in a ceramic vase. She put them on the table between the candles. “How lovely.” She sat down in the last empty chair. Her sons helped her up to the table. Zeke rushed up to Sturm with his whiskey, then stood rigidly at attention behind Sturm.

Silence grew across the table. Alice looked more and more uncomfortable. Frank figured the Gloucks didn’t entertain folks too often. Four brothers burst into the room, each carrying a bowl of minestrone. The soups were delivered at exactly the same time, quick and smooth; the brothers didn’t spill a drop. They faded into the walls and Frank was impressed with the near professional conduct of the brothers. They worked hard.

“Please. Enjoy,” Alice said.

Frank and Sturm murmured thanks. The soup was spicy, more vegetable than water, and delicious. Neither hesitated for a second spoonful. But as soon as everyone finished their soup, silence bloomed again.

Alice couldn’t take it anymore. “Music! Would anyone like to hear music while we eat?”

“I guess that would depend on what kind of music,” Sturm said.

Alice wasn’t ready for that. “Well, ahhh, we have…classical?”

“We have classical music, Mr. Sturm,” Annie said.

Sturm wasn’t impressed. “Fine.”

“We also have plenty of gangster rap,” Annie said. “Would you prefer that instead?” Frank thought he heard a whisper of a laugh from the kitchen.

Sturm didn’t dignify that with an answer.

“I have some serious black metal—Scandinavian death metal, you know?” Clearly Annie’s favorite.

“I don’t—I don’t think that would be appropriate for the dinner table,” Alice said.

The second course was brought out, giant ceramic tubs of some kind of pasta in a creamy white sauce, with broccoli. Like the minestrone, it tasted fantastic. Edie came out and asked, “You folks need anything?” and got a sharp look from Alice. “If you’re looking for music, we’ve got some really cool disco albums around here.” She started to softly sing under her breath.

“Please Edie, no ABBA. Not tonight.” Alice helped Edie into the kitchen.

Annie’s tone got more playful with Sturm, nicer somehow. “Let’s see. I think we may have some country music around here. Old stuff.”

“I always liked them singing cowboys, the early ones. Roy Rogers, Sons of the Pioneers. Gene Autry. Not like that shit you here on the radio nowadays. Just ’cause they wear a damn cowboy hat. Those people wouldn’t know authentic country music if it came up and bit ’em on the ass.”

Frank himself had a weakness for the Mexican tunes he had heard around the barns from twenty dollar boomboxes choked with dust. The only Spanish he spoke was related to racehorses, so he figured the music had to be love songs. The lead singer sounded wounded somehow, but sang with a rolling melody like water over rocks in a desert creek. The band was almost always made up of trumpets, tubas, maybe a strange little guitar or two, and an accordion holding the whole thing together.