Joshua Mohr - Some Things That Meant the World to Me

"We're just playing," Letch said.

"Then stop playing."

"I'm only verifying that your intentions were pure with this chicken."

"Enough already!"

"Rhonda, are you ready to dig in?" he said.

I picked up my chicken leg, held its scrawny shape up to my face. I could tell my mom was about to lose her temper, and I didn't want that, so I took a bite of the leg and said to her, "Mom, I really love this," but she stared at Letch and said, "Why do you want to ruin dinner?" and he said, "Relax, I'm only playing," and she said, "It's not funny," and he said, "We think it's funny," and I took another bite and while I was chewing I said to her, "Mom, this is wonderful chicken," and she said to Letch, "Are you going to eat it?" and he said, "Did you poison it?" and she said, "Stop saying that!" and I ate all of the meat off of my leg and took two huge spoonfuls of rice and shoved them in my mouth and tried to chew, but it was so big, my cheeks ballooning out, there was so much food I could barely speak, but I said, "This is so good you should make it again soon," and she said to Letch, "Why are you just sitting there?" and he said, "The five minutes aren't up yet," and she said, "I'm not trying to kill you," and he said, "We'll see," and he looked at me, saying, "Rhonda has taken his life into his own hands. What kind of mother are you?" and she stood up again, killed the rest of her tcha-bliss and said, "I'm going out," and I said, "Mom, look, look I've eaten all the chicken," as I stuck my spoon in the dune of rice, shoveling more into my mouth, and I said, "I'm still hungry. Will you make me some more chicken right now?" and she said to Letch, "I was trying tonight and you can't even give me that," and he said, "Stop it. I'm teasing. Watch," and he picked up his bony chicken leg and nibbled a little bite and said, "Satisfied?" and I shoved the last bit of crunchy rice into my mouth and said, "Can I have more chicken, please?" and my mom didn't even look at me, handing me her plate and saying to Letch, "Why can't you be nice?" and she finished her wine and poured herself more wine, and I ate all the chicken off of her bone, and crammed all the rice from her plate in my cheeks and I opened my mouth to say something, to tell her how amazing I thought her chicken was, but there was too much food and I choked a little, coughing and spitting rice all over the table. Neither of them looked at me. She said, "I'm gonna go out for a drink," and he said, "You never go out for just one drink," and I was coughing up rice but still trying to talk, I said, "This is the greatest chicken I've ever had in my life," and I coughed again, and she said to Letch, "What do you want from me?" and he said, "Learn how to take a joke," and she said, "As soon as you tell a funny one, I'll get it," and I coughed and said, "Man, this is superb chicken," and she said, "I'll be at the bar," and he said, "With who?" and I said, "Mom, would you mind making me more chicken?" and she said to him, "What do you care who I'm with?" and he said, "I care less and less every time," and she said, "This is the thanks I get for cooking," and I said, still chewing, still coughing, "Thanks so much for making the chicken, Mom," and Letch said, "Yeah, thanks," and she said, "Go to hell," and he said, "When did you lose your sense of humor?" and I was out of things to eat. My plate was clean. Her plate was clean. Letch's still had everything on it, except for his one tiny bite.

She got up, took her purse, and walked toward the door.

I said, "Where are you going?"

She said, "I'll see you later."

I said, "Later tonight?"

She said, "Maybe."

I held Madeline close after Vern left. I was in bed, laying on my side, clutching her to my chest, my whole body heaving up congested hysterics. I lay there wondering why. Trying not to think about what I'd done. I didn't have a shirt on and I pinned Madeline to my tattoo and said, "Tell me what you see," but she didn't say anything. "Please, tell me," I said, pulling her in even tighter. Imagine me holding her tighter than I'd ever held anyone in my entire life. Imagine me, Rhonda, gripping Madeline's small body, like I was going to breastfeed her. And imagine how all that beauty got smeared into ugly smudges when I killed her. When I held her too tight and mauled her tiny frame, spilling everything out of her. Imagine the worst smell: mold and ketchup and orange juice that had been fermenting for weeks, suddenly pouring out of her, all over me, all over my sheets, blanket, mattress. Imagine that kind of guilt.

I'd gotten on my knees. I'd laid my arm on the countertop. I'd shut my eyes. I'd heard him say, "This is going to hurt worse than Jesus hurt," and I was ready for anything.

I wanted to open my eyes before he did it. I wanted to watch his face. Wanted to watch as he brought the tire iron down and shattered the bone. I wanted to know if there was pride or regret or anger or bliss. I wanted to know what Vern looked like because Letch never let me look up at him. So I looked at Vern. He hit the tire iron across his palm again. His smile. Letch's smile. They had fangs showing and I wanted the pain because I knew it, and it would make me happy, not happy exactly, but it would let me remember the things I've known, the things I've tolerated: even bad memories can make you happy because they're yours.

I was on my knees. "Do you want a blowjob?"

"What?"

I shimmied a little closer to him and said, "Blowjobs are when a girl puts your cock in her mouth."

"What the hell are you talking about?" He stopped hitting the tire iron across his palm and held it at his side.

"Do you want a blowjob?"

"Shut up."

I crawled closer. "Do you?"

"Shut the fuck up!"

"Do you?"

I crawled a little closer, but he edged back, holding the tire iron above my head like he was about to hit me with it. "You better shut the fuck up!"

"Do you want one?"

He kept the tire iron over my head and I waited for him to bring it down and split my skull, but he didn't swing it at me, dropping it on the floor.

I opened my mouth and said, "Please," and he said, "You're lucky I don't kill you"

I kept my mouth stretched open, like a screaming sidewinder.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" Vern asked.

I felt the skin in the corners of my mouth tear a little, tasting blood. I reached my arms out to touch his legs, but he shoved me away and stepped away and walked away.

I said, "Please don't go," but he'd already shut the door behind him.

I knew I should have showered the smell of Madeline off of me. But I couldn't. I was never going to see her again, and even though her smell was wretched, I didn't want to let her go; I needed to feel her for a little longer, even if the only way I could was to inhale her sour stink. My mattress, sheets, and only blanket were all soaked with her innards, so I bundled up in a couple of coats and slept on the floor next to their wet, tangled scent.

I hadn't had my eyes shut for ten seconds when little-Rhonda said, "What's that smell?" and sat down on the couch's arm.

"Not now," I said. "I've had an awful night."

"Let me make you a drink," he said, but all he did was go grab the whiskey, unscrew the cap, and hand me the bottle.

I took a sip.

"I'm assuming the party did not go well," he said.

I took another sip.

"I'm assuming your silence is a result of the party not going well."