Sabrina Elkins - Stir Me Up

“What do you mean, used to?” says Brandon. “Get me a fork.”

“Let me serve it first.”

“I’ll just check it.”

“Wait ’til it’s cooled off at least,” she chides.

Okay, the dish is a family favorite. Yeah, I have to forewarn Dad not to be too snooty about it. “Excuse me a minute,” I say. I run into him halfway up the stairs.

“What’s your hurry?”

“Dad,” I whisper.

“Hmm?”

“Brandon’s here.”

“Yes, I know.”

“And Estella’s made tuna casserole.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Tuna what?”

“Casserole. It’s Brandon and Julian’s favorite dinner from when they were little. They think the recipe’s perfect and doesn’t need fixing or improving.”

“Right,” he says with a slight wince.

We head back down together, and I see Estella serving up a huge square of casserole and plating it. I think it’s going to be for Brandon or Julian—but she passes the plate to Dad. Dad’s eyes get wide for a fraction of a second. “Wow. Looks good.”

“Thanks.” She serves even bigger squares to her son and nephew, and a pretty big one to me.

Actually, I can see why Brandon and Julian like this. She uses cream of mushroom soup, and the good tuna and frozen peas and chopped mushrooms. The potato chip crust is pretty damned fine. Better than breadcrumbs would be. This dish is fun.

“This is good, Estella,” I say.

“Yeah, delicious as usual, Ma.”

“Yeah, thanks,” says Julian softly.

“Sure, thank you for thanking me.” She seems happy. Then she spots Dad. Who, unfortunately, is picking at the ingredients with the tines of his fork and probably hoping the whole plate will somehow manage to vaporize into thin air when Estella’s not looking.

Dad sees his new wife’s obvious anger. And eats a bite.

Okay—this could just be because I know him really well, but if Estella had served Dad roadkill, I don’t think his reaction would be much different. Same pathetic attempt to look fine with it in his mouth. I’ve seen him wear this expression before. Most Tuesday nights for the past few months, in fact. “Mmm,” he says.

Yeah, right. Dad’s Adam’s apple’s about to come jumping out of his mouth waving a white flag of surrender. But I have to give him some credit—he’s doing his best to pretend this isn’t happening.

“Oh look,” Estella says. “You didn’t die.”

“Why would I die?” he asks, taking another tiny bite. “I can eat American food. This dish is excellent.”

“Great. Then I’ll have to make it more often.”

Dad pales. “So, what did you do in school today, Cami?”

Poor Dad. So much for me trying to warn him. I try to think of something entertaining to talk about from my day, and then realize I have just the thing. “We played body part hokey-pokey in human anatomy.”

“You played what?” Dad asks.

“Body part hokey pokey. You know, put your ante brachium in, put your ante brachium out, put your ante brachium in and shake it all about.”

“What’s an ante brachium?”

“Don’t remember.”

“Wonderful.” Dad frowns.

“It’s a forearm,” Brandon says with a grin. “How many times did the guys tell you to put your glutes in?”

I smile. “Nope. Butts and such weren’t allowed.”

“Lumbar then,” he says.

“Lower back was a favorite, but most girls just stopped doing it.”

“This is what you go to school for?” Dad asks.

“Then we used play dough to make pretend people. We had to make a pledge not to do anything perverted with our play dough people and then we were able to divide them into cross-sections.”

“You made a pledge?” Estella asks.

“Yes, it was hilarious, actually. The teacher said it and then we all had to repeat it after her.” I decide to recite it for them to help lighten the mood. “I will not make a play dough penis. I will not make a male and female body and then smush them together. I will not put my play dough person in any compromising positions. I will not take two males or two females and put them together.”

This works—Dad’s fighting not to laugh. Estella’s hiding her mouth behind her hand. Brandon’s laughing outright.

Only Julian remains unamused. “Let’s see, the last time I played hokey pokey and used play dough, I was in what grade, Estella?” he asks, deflating everyone’s good mood a little.

“It was just one day of fun,” she chides.

I turn to Julian. “You do remember what that is, right? Fun?”

He looks coldly at me. “I can think of some things I’d like to do to your dog that’d be fun.”

“Why, can’t you even control a little dog?”

“I yell at her but she doesn’t listen.”

“She’s deaf. Of course she won’t listen. Just kick her very gently on the rear and she’ll scoot away.”

“Kick her? Do your eyes work for anything except cooking and using play dough?”

Great, what was I thinking telling the guy with the amputated leg to kick something? Dad gives Julian a sharp look. He doesn’t say anything aloud, but then he doesn’t have to. Julian catches the silent warning and seems a little surprised by it. I’m not. Dad doesn’t like other people giving me shit—just him, and maybe Georges, if it’s related to cooking.

Brandon is watching all this with interest. Dad and Julian mostly seem to avoid each other. Dad works such long hours, they rarely see each other, and I don’t think they’ve actually spoken more than a few words to each other since Julian got here. But then, until tonight, Julian hasn’t really made himself part of the family.

“Pass the salad,” Dad says to me.

Um. Okay. I hand it to him. He peers into the bowl. Sees the bagged iceberg lettuce with the pre-shredded carrots and red cabbage, makes a face, takes a miniscule amount and hands it back to me.

Estella passes him the ranch dressing—ranch dressing...from a bottle.

“Thanks,” Dad says, taking it hesitantly from her.

“This is a perfectly normal meal, Chris. Every other person who lives in America would be fine with it.”

“I am fine with it,” Dad lies.

“Bullshit.”

Brandon makes strained conversation with Dad about downtown Northampton, because he lives there and Dad works there. Then, as I’m taking my plate to the sink, Julian’s wheelchair rolls up behind me.

“Move,” he says.

Okay, wait—Dad and Estella asked me to be nice to him. But does this mean I have to put up with whatever rudeness he dishes out? I decide no. “Hold on, wait your turn.”

“Just take this for me.”

“Why, can’t you do it yourself?”

“It’s a dirty plate and I’m in a wheelchair.”

“So? You can put your own plate in the sink. It’s an easy reach.”

“Not with you in the way. Oh, no. Here comes your animal.”

I take Julian’s plate from him and set it on the floor for Shelby. She’s thrilled.

“I’m not getting that now,” he says. “No, Bran, don’t you get it either.”

I leave.

“We’re not getting that!” he yells.

Suddenly I realize what Dad will do if this keeps up—he’ll open the restaurant on Tuesdays. Next Tuesday, I decide, I’d better offer to lend Estella a hand. Make the salad for her at least. I get my backpack and pass Julian and Brandon in the hall. “The plate’s still there,” Julian growls at me.

“And your point is?” I walk around them and head up to do my homework.

Dad and Estella are still arguing in the kitchen. Man, I wish my upstairs alcove had a door.

* * *

Despite all the fighting over dinner—or maybe because of it—ugh—I’m awakened late that night to the unmistakable sounds of Dad and Estella, particularly Estella, having sex. My face burns and I take my pillow and blanket with me to the downstairs sofa—the sofa that’s like maybe ten feet from Julian’s door. The door is ajar. I don’t hear anything.