Stephan Clark - Sweetness #9

“I’m telling you now.”

“But for what, Betty? A prescription for what?”

“For what he needs, David. It’s obvious he needs something.”

“I just think we should be very careful. This isn’t a new breakfast cereal we’re talking about, you know. It’s a mind-altering drug, a drug that has but one purpose, to alter our son’s mind. And yet you’re perfectly willing to throw the dice?”

“Throw the dice? I’m not saying let’s dose our son with brown acid and blow smoke in his face. These are federally regulated drugs we’re talking about.”

A sound escaped me: Hooo! “Federally regulated? And who do you think sets these regulations? The same people who’re regulated by them.”

“Clearly your medication is making you anxious.”

She turned out the light and rolled away from me.

“Just tell me this,” I said. “Did you talk to Dr. White before or after learning about this boy in Rockaway?”

“Good night, David.”

“Is it a kind of self-defense, this medicine?”

“Go to sleep.”

“What if this boy in Rockaway’s on the same thing? Have you considered that? Maybe it’s causing him to act this way, not helping him. Maybe we’re all just clamoring for these drugs because the commercials are so convincing they can’t help but boost sales by twenty-four percent.”

Betty sprang up, throwing her pillow down across my chest. “Will you stop it? You’re so sure of yourself, aren’t you? But what about this? What if something truly is wrong with him? What if we can’t know? Doesn’t a scientist — and that’s what you are, right? — doesn’t a scientist believe in the process of trial and error, the scientific method? What happened to that? Can you tell me what happened to that?”

She fell away from me, not bothering to take her pillow. I looked down my nose at it, unable to move.

“All right,” I said. “All right. But can we at least get through the Thanksgiving weekend?” I had an awful picture in my mind of everyone sitting at the dining room table. There was the turkey and the stuffing, the cranberry sauce and the brussels sprouts, and then beside everyone’s plate, in line with the silver and the cloth napkins, a pill or two, each a different shape and color, corresponding with the diner’s psychotropic needs. “Can we at least do that and talk about this afterwards?” I said.

When I came home that afternoon after working a half day, I found a man standing on a ladder in front of my garage, installing an Invisible Eyeball up over the door (this was the soonest I could get him over; on top of everything else, he was getting holiday pay). I parked on the street and walked in through the front door, finding everyone downstairs watching TV in the living room. There had been another attack that morning, this one very close to us in South Plainfield. Currently, however, the station was broadcasting footage from CCTV cameras inside supermarkets across the East Coast. It was supposed to be the busiest shopping day of the year, but the aisles were practically empty. In one clip, a man ran into the frame, stopped before a display of canned goods, and extended his store-supplied reacher while shrinking into himself, as if bracing for a blast. Another clip showed a bulkier male, this one shaved bald. He wore construction boots and just a T-shirt despite the cold, and he walked slowly and deliberately, as if to make a statement. He snatched items off the shelves as if they’d insulted him.

“Maybe we should just order a pizza,” Betty said.

“For lunch or Thanksgiving?”

“Both.”

“Right,” Priscilla said. “Just like the pilgrims did when they sat down with the Native Americans. Do you even realize how pathetic that sounds?”

“Priscilla’s got a point,” I said. “If it were Columbus Day, that’d be one thing. But we’ve got to cook our own turkey, don’t we?”

“We?” Betty said. “Who’s this ‘we’? I’m the one who cooks it every year. You watch football and only come in to turn on the light in the oven. I’m the one who cuts her fingers peeling the potatoes.”

Priscilla stood from the sofa. “I’ll cook,” she said.

“You?” Betty gave her a far too honest look. “Do you know how much work it is?”

She shrugged. “Someone just needs to drive with me to the store.”

“Oh no,” Betty said. “There’s no need to be a hero at a time like this.”

“Your mother’s right.”

I suggested we drive out of state, but how far was far enough? Harrisburg? Pittsburgh? Indianola, Indiana? And could we even get back in time to have the turkey ready by tomorrow afternoon, or would we have to spark a fire and roast it on the side of the road?

Ernest had been lying face down on the floor throughout our discussion, but here he sat up and turned round to face us. “Costco,” he said.

Priscilla howled with disapproval, but I seized on the idea.

“No, no, your brother’s got a point. No Costcos have been hit,” I said, and when she countered by saying the same could be said for co-ops and natural food stores, I told her it was only at Costco that we could buy in bulk and bunker down until all this madness had passed us by.

Ernest was up on his feet and nodding. “One trip. In, out, over like that. Enough food for three weeks, maybe four. Genius. Pizza, too,” he said. “For lunch. Today.”

“That’s right, they sell pizza and hot dogs, so we won’t have to worry about anything till dinner.”

“Everything they sell there is processed,” Priscilla said. “Do you even remember what we did the other day?”

“Priscilla,” I said, “this is like a time of war. Sacrifices must be made.”

“Your father’s right.”

“Now you all stay here and I’ll be back in about an hour.”

“Oh, no, if we’re doing this, I’m going, too,” she said.

“Priscilla!”

“What, Mom? I need to make sure he buys something decent.”

Betty threw up her hands. “Well, if she’s going, I’m going too. What could I say if my daughter died buying me a pumpkin pie?”

Peter sat at the end of the sofa, nursing a cup of cold coffee. “Can you stay here?” I asked. Ernst Eberhardt sat in his armchair, off to our side by the fireplace. “I need you to watch Ernst and Ernest.”

Peter said he’d be glad to be of service, but my son resisted. To prove his worth, he ran into the garage and came back with a metal garbage can lid and the 3-iron from my bag of golf clubs. “Like this,” he said. He held the lid as if it were a shield, then extended his long iron and tapped a box of Ritz crackers that sat on the coffee table. Seeing that it was safe, he lowered his shield and grabbed the box.

“Excellent,” I said. “Did everyone see that? Lift, tap, approach.” I clapped my hands together. “All right, then, let’s gather our supplies and move out!”

We were like a Special Forces unit dropped behind enemy lines. After I showed my card at the door, we scattered in four directions, wanting to be as quick and efficient as possible. The store felt spacious that afternoon, roomier than I could ever remember seeing it. The news had scared so many people away from shopping that Priscilla, Betty, and I had each grabbed a massive cart and pushed off toward our assignments. Betty went in search of pie and stuffing, Priscilla moved off into the cold room to stock up on crates of fruits and vegetables, while Ernest, who’d changed into a pair of camouflage pants and a bomber jacket, ran back and forth between me and my cart, accepting one assignment after another.

“Milk,” I said. “The four-gallon box. Over there! I’ll just grab the turkey!”