Fragile Things

His team was in the middle of completing a project for a top-priority client. It was due in two days but system constraints mandated a design change, putting them on a suffocating deadline. Nevertheless, they demanded a miracle. He was The Father, after all. 

For four days, The Father woke up before daybreak. He’d slip into his white collared shirt The Mother had ironed out for him, completing the ritual with putting on one of the three ties he owned.

Daybreak’s dark-blue hue found him hunkered over his desk, reviewing re-implemented functionality, dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s until his eyes ached.  He left no stone unturned. It was challenging work. Nevertheless, he counted his blessings; life in Jamaica made all of this look like a cake walk. At 13, hustled on a street in PennyRoad, selling wooden figurines to older ladies to decorate their tidy homes. While his parents – both laborers at the local sugar cane factory – slept, he hand carved the  figurines by a dim candle, breathing life into folklore characters his mother regaled him to sleep with as a child. They had all prayed for a better life. And The Good Lord delivered.

Even though he lived abroad,  The people of Pennyroad knew him by name. He sent money to The Island regularly for his parents’ upkeep. 

The Mother, who had turned this house into a home, was perfection itself. Her thick, diligent hands saw to the home with great care. Although she wasn’t from Jamaica, those hands made an Ackee and Saltfish that could bring tears to a man’s eyes. Most importantly, those hands kept their child out of mischief. While The Mother occupied the boy’s manners, the Father prioritized his college fund. 

 Charlie – Charles when he misbehaved – went without want. The Parents observed with admiration as the four-year-old read books, his curious eyes ravenous for wonder. He loved puzzles, and running around in his red cape with his arms extended. There was a starking difference this week. Sitting on the leather armchair, and knees gathered close to his chest, the boy was enthralled by his new Nintendo. The brown-eyed child with green-rimmed glasses sat quietly on the worn leather armchair, his face glowing with each glimmer from the tiny screen he held between his small hands. The white light accentuated his soft and plump cheeks, which were flushed in excitement. His red cape was tucked between him and the armchair.

Mother greeted Father at the door, her round face wrinkled with worry and fatigue. She looked like a brussel sprout. Today, she wore an apron with red apples on it. The Father’s shoulders were slumped, as they usually are after a day at work. 

“Good evening, dear,” he whispered in a hoarse tone before kissing her cheek. The Mother helped him out of his black coat and hung it on the rack. The Father’s general demeanor was severe, but on stressful work nights it inched closer to irritation. “I’ll be catching up with work,” he said, ducking his head into the office. They hadn’t seen much of him these past few weeks. “I’ll be joining you and Charlie for dinner,” he announced. This was his ritual after setting down his briefcase. Soon enough, Debussy filled the small office, the sound emanating through the rest of the modest home. 

Mother wiped her hands on her apron and glanced over fondly at Charlie. The boy was the apple of her eye. To her, Charles was the name of love itself. Her son had been named after her late brother. They had grown up together in East Baltimore in a disinvested cul de sac. Between school and home, they roamed the bustling streets of Fells Point, which had been surrounded by skyscrapers. They played cops and robbers, running between annoyed tourists and hiding behind rowhouses. But somewhere between colorful facades and iron railings, Charles fell between the cracks. Once the drugs took root, the Charles she knew was no more. Everyone marked him dead.  Although she never saw him again, The Mother never forgot her sweet Charles. Her brother lived on through her boy.

Like The Father, she vowed to keep the boy safe. She believed her parents had worked tirelessly to secure their future, but ironically their absence tore their family apart and led to her brother’s demise. She believed, had they invested in her brother’s early development, he would still be here. She believed staying home close to your kids is an effective way to protect them. At night, she held on to Charlie close to her chest, rocking him until he fell asleep. She vowed to always protect him; to be his emotional support when he fell; to see to his nutrition; to make sure he grew up to be a responsible member of society. She was his Mother, and she carried the title with pride. After one single glance at the clock, she flew into the kitchen and washed a large pot of rice, anxious to be done with preparing a dinner that she hadn’t already started. 

Dinner was a religious ritual. It was prepared at 6:30, placed on the table at 6:45, and everyone was seated by 7 on the dot to say grace. Even Charlie, every night at 6:55 this week, knew to put the Nintendo away and wash his hands. Tonight they were having rice with vegetable stew. To calm her nerves, The Mother hummed while she assembled spices and ingredients on the island counter. She gathered carrots, tomatoes, and peppers among other conquests from today’s market. They glowed under the warm kitchen’s hanging lights. 

After arriving home from Pre-K, Charlie would jump from couch to armchair, pretending that the ground was dangerous lava.  His red cape would flutter against his velocity, catching light as it moved.  At least, that was the case before his beloved Nintendo. For the time being, The Mother took no issue with the boy’s new obsession. As long as it promised a quiet ambiance for The Father’s sake, which it did, it was a spoil she could live with. In the back of her mind, though, she wondered if this game would become a distraction from more important matters. After all, it was paramount for a boy to work hard, learn responsibility, and become a contributing member of society. 

“Momma!” the boy yelled. The Mother nearly jumped out of her skin. The Father, who sat anxiously in the office hunkered over a unit test, twitched in his seat at the outburst.  

“Charlie, what are you doing?” Mother scolded, setting down the large kitchen knife in her hand. “You know The Father needs his peace and quiet,” she whispered sharply, meeting him at eye-level. 

As if Apollo himself reached down and touched that home, the unthinkable transpired. First, it came for the cape. As the boy dashed to the living room, the shiny red fabric snagged on an exposed nail from the coffee table. Its violence left a large tear nearly reaching the cape’s center.

The tear troubled the boy, yet more pressing concerns commanded his attention. Charlie dashed into the open kitchen, the torn cape flowing lazily against the still air. Red cheeks and lips quivering, he extended his arm to hand The Mother the game.

“It stopped working,” his voice shook while his glossy eyes threatened tears. Despite her fatigue, The Mother’s heart softened. She picked up her heavy four-year-old, grunting to propel him upward. A drop of sweat rolled down her forehead.  

“I told you to charge the game yesterday, before you didn’t listen” she whispered, burying her face in his thick wooly hair. “Now,” she continued, gently rocking him like she did when he was an infant, “let’s be as quiet as a dove while it recharges.” Shock and betrayal crossed the child’s face as she set him back on the ground. The doves at the park were anything but quiet, he thought.  He moped as the Mother plugged the device into a nearby outlet and went back to mincing garlic. 

She fixed everything else, why was this any different? He thought.  “And if you scream one more time I’ll really give you something to cry about,” she added, as if reading his mind.

As the minutes trickled back, boredom gnawed at Charlie like a wild animal. The boy fidgeted, running his fingers along the counter. He wished for nothing more than to play his game. As if seeing right through him, Mother shot him a look of warning just as he thought about pulling her apron. Charlie always got what he wanted. And tonight would be no different. He would be entertained this hour. He would see to it. 

“Come now and help me with dinner,” Mother said, grabbing a large onion to chop. She hadn’t noticed the red cap.

 Before the boy could protest, he found himself on a tall stool before the spotless sink.

“Go on and wash these carrots and tomatoes” she said, and it was an order. Mother gathered them along with peppers and a large bushel of broccoli into a white colander and passed it to Charlie. 

Standing on the stool, he placed the colander in the sink and turned on the faucet. Their backs faced each other as they worked. The Mother hummed a familiar tune as she minced onions, the pile growing bigger than the garlic. Charlie looked down at the vegetables in disinterest. Water splashed everywhere, creating droplets on them. He planned to finish quickly. Maybe the game’s battery was full now. Maybe in no time, he would be back on the armchair playing his favorite game. Charlie brushed the vegetables unlike how Mother had taught him. He scrubbed hard and recklessly, apathetic to the consequences. Behind him, The Mother poured rice into a boiling pot of seasoned broth. 

The unthinkable unfolded and the boy became disillusioned. Like the rice falling into the boiling water, Charlie’s kingdom slipped out from his fingers. An unexpected bump on the surface between his hands caught his attention. He looked down closely for the first time at the tomato in his hand and found two dull eyes looking in his direction. A piece of tomato skin draped over half its body, revealing red flesh and tomato juice oozing out into the sink. He searched his mind for a reference – a recollection that could rectify the sight. There were none. He returned to reality empty-handed and reluctantly accepted that those eyes were as cold and dead as its possession. 

 The boy shifted his attention to a larger pair of eyes – a pair more child-like than the previous, peered at him from under thick lashes. Onion sizzled on the stove-top from behind him and each passing second awakened a new face as the carrots and other tomatoes in the strainer gained aliveness. Aliveness? Was that the right word for it? 

The boy stood paralyzed. The lanky orange carrots squirmed, seemingly with adrenaline, and the large broccoli bunch blinked in disbelief. The tomatoes – an actual family it turned out, glanced around in terror, a verbal commotion ensuing among them. Like them, Charles was also waking up for the first time. He felt a chill race up and down his boy, but he could not move. 

“…Momma?” A small voice trembled. Charlie hadn’t spoken. The smallest tomato from the bunch fought against the green stem attaching him to the others, struggling to turn its round body. A larger, round tomato hyperventilated, her sharp voice breaking while trying to soothe the smaller one. 

“I don’t know, Tommy,” she said, “I don’t know. Maybe—” 

“This must be a dream. This must be a dream,” the bush of broccoli screamed, interrupting. 

They had faces, the boy thought. Voices. All of them did. His breathing grew rapid and shallow breathing and the hairs on his arms became prickly. His knees trembled, but he was locked in place. 

Charlie removed his glasses and squinted. Maybe his glasses were broken. Maybe something had gotten into his eyes. Maybe he was having a bad dream. There weren’t enough maybes in his world. He suddenly wished for a questless world but it was too late. King or no king, he would have to see this through. 

Any minute now. Any minute, The Mother would come to the rescue. As she always had. But time moved forward with indifference, and Mother with it. She hummed a new song, oblivious. He glanced behind him in distress, each time his mouth gaped open, but closed.

“Momma?” The whisper barely escaped the boy’s lips. He swallowed, which burned his dry throat. There was olive oil in a nearby pan, but the stove was yet to be turned on. Within a fraction of a second of The Mother turning to face him, the boy leaped off the stool and into her apron, clinging tightly as his legs threatened to give away. 

“I think they’re alive,” Charlie said, voice trembling as he ran behind her for cover. The Mother sucked her teeth before a long moment of silence.

“All plants are living organisms, honey,” she replied. It took plenty of control to maintain her composure as she tried to uncling the boy’s tight grip on her apron. He was hyperventilating. 

“Charles, what’s the matter with you?” she said as she reached for the colander in the sink. She shook it good before transferring it over to the counter. The boy stood standing near the counter, afraid. 

“Mommy,” he hiccuped moisture erupting from every cavity on his face. “The things in the sink, they– ’” 

 “Charlie! Look what you’ve done,” Mother interrupted. She plucked the ruined tomato from the bunch. “I’ve told you before. Scrub gently, or you risk puncturing the fragile ones.” Charlie waited for a more appropriate reaction that never came. The Mother pursed her lips as she turned the ruined tomato around between her long fingers. “We’ll have to make it work,” she mumbled to herself. She lined the vegetables neatly on the counter,  prepping them to be diced. 

After giving the knife a quick rinse, she went to work. The deformed orange body bled, its juices seeping into the cutting board. “We’re gonna die today,” a voice from the counter shook, which Charlie identified as the red bell pepper. A series of cries followed as The Mother tossed the chopped tomato into a red plastic bowl.

 “Mamma!” Charlie cried, his heart thudding inside his eardrums. He tried to climb her like a tree, like he used to when he was little; his breath shallow against her. The Mother’s face distorted into a grimace before glancing at the brightly lit office, where Debussy played, the volume louder than it had been a half hour ago. A glance at the clock revealed it to be 6:30. In just 30 minutes, dinner needed to be served. Charlie continued screaming despite her previous warning. When the office door gave a dull thud, The Mother decided enough was enough. 

She closed her eyes, drawing in a sharp breath. 

“Charles Walter Groves!” Mother snapped, her severe eyes looking straight at him. “Your father needs his quiet. And I need to make dinner.” Kids these days know nothing of respect.

“Mama don’t you hear them? They’re– “

“I don’t want to hear it anymore,” she yelled. She grabbed the boy and sat him on a stool far too tall to climb down from. Charles blinked back tears, afraid. 

He felt nauseous but felt compelled to look; he still believed none of it was real. As he eyed them, the boy identified the tomatoes to be a family; a father, a mother, and a child. The fourth – now gone – had had unmoving eyes and it was unclear which role he had  played in the group. 

“God. I think he can see us!” The boy nearly jumped out of his skin in reaction to the voice. A red pepper glared at him with hatred in its eyes. Cold sweat trickled from the nape of his neck down his spine. 

“Father, what’s happening?” a smaller carrot begged, its wide mouth quivering like leaves in autumn. A cry resembling that of a wild animal pierced Charlie’s ears. It was none but the youngest tomato, eyes wide as he noticed the red moisture on the cutting board.

“Hey you!” Another screamed hysterically. It was a zucchini. “Who are you?! Please help us!” 

Charlie was paralyzed and powerless. There was nothing he could do, even though he had wished for it. His frame shook as he fought back a flood of tears.

The Mother lit the fire beneath the oil-filled pan before lining a row of carrots on the cutting board. As seconds passed, the boy counted the white tiles on the counter. With one swift laceration, The Mother chopped off their leafy heads. Charles directed his eyes to the plaid curtains on the large bay window. They were tucked between two wooden cabinets and he wondered what its burned orange shade reminded him of. 

Humming, The Mother chopped the carrots from head to tip then swiftly tossed them into a crystal bowl. Charles moved on to the pendant lights above, counting them even though there were only five. The Mother threw garlic into the pan, causing loud sizzles.

 The knife moving against the cutting board was deafening. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Crunch, crunch. The boy continued to weep, his little frame struggling to choose between emitting tears or vomit. The broccoli eyed him silently as the others cried. His stare was the most disconcerting of all. The knife and cutting board continued their dance. The Mother held down red peppers and split their heads in half. After chopping them into oblivion, she tossed their remains in with the carrots.  

Charlie looked down at his lap and kept his eyes fixed on his shorts. The zucchini’s baritone voice died down pathetically as the knife punctured its flesh. When her turn came, the broccoli didn’t cry. She went peacefully, then joined the others in the crystal bowl. 

After stirring the onions and garlic, The Mother emptied the chopped vegetables into the hot pan. Next, she sprinkled in her prepared assortment of spices. Charles observed The Mother. He looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time. Tears blurred his vision, but through them he saw the long lashes that rested on her cheeks, the faint smile on her lips, and the sweat shining on her forehead. He saw determination in her eyes. The vegetables sizzled in the hot pan, which meant the tomatoes were to be added soon. 

The second tomato went in peace, if you could call it that. His ripe, oval frame went limp before the knife even touched him. Nearby, still attached to the stems, the largest tomato cried as the smallest one begged for answers. The Mother plucked her, which was followed by a helpless plea. 

“PLEASE PLEASE promise me. Promise me that my boy, that you’ll spare my little Tommy, promise you’ll–”  

Her words were cut short. Charles felt his heart skip a beat as sweat broke on his forehead. He shuddered. 

 In a few moments, it would all be over. It would be over soon, he told himself. Pitiful boy. 

 He had closed his eyes shut, but make no mistake he knew that the smallest tomato’s time was up. Unlike his predecessors, he didn’t cry. His little eyes, wide with innocence, were still waiting for a miracle. They held things Charles no longer recognized. 

“This one’s so cute,” The Mother said as she picked up the tomato. “It kind of reminds me of you,” she smiled.  “I almost don’t want to cut it.” Shortly after, she did exactly that. 

The blade sliced through the small tomato with brutal precision, tearing it apart as if it were nothing more than paper. The boy was quiet. In that quiet lied the stark contrast between what was once whole and its scattered pieces.

Holding the cutting board with one hand, The Mother transferred the diced tomatoes into the pan, scraping until all the juice flowed into the pan. The sizzle lulled into a silent simmer. 

He suffered enough, The Mother thought. Hopefully he’s learned a lesson. “Go now. Go play and keep quiet,” she said, setting him back on the ground. Charles ran, but to Mother’s surprise, not to the Nintendo attached to the outlet.  His legs buckled down as he rushed toward the living room, causing him to fall and scrape his knee on the clean wooden floor. He pulled himself up with his arms and hid for cover behind the living room’s three-seater. 

From behind the couch, Charles reimagined the last tomatoe’s big eyes, the zucchini’s deep voice, and the quiet resignation from the broccoli. He watched as The Mother tasted red sauce with a wooden spoon, adding spices here and there. As the smell intensified, Charles wretched violently, a sour pool of his meager lunch forming. He squelched for several moments before his stomach had had enough. He absent-mindedly pushed the vomit under the rug, then wiped his hands on his shorts. It was almost time for dinner. 

Like clockwork, The Father emerged from the study at 6:58PM, ravenous. “Smells great,” he said approvingly. He hadn’t noticed Charles as he made his way into the small dining room, taking his seat at the dark round table. The Mother had already set the table. She walked over and kissed The Father on the forehead while serving two large spoonfuls of rice on his plate. She did the same for the other two plates. She waltzed into the kitchen and returned with the bowl of vegetable stew, which she placed on a wooden trivet. 

“Charles,” she called, “it’s time for dinner.” The boy felt weak and his eyes ached, but he reluctantly approached the table. The Father gave him a strange look, then strapped him into the dining chair. The boy usually behaved.  Buying that Nintendo was indeed a mistake, he thought. He pushed the boy’s seat in as The Mother sat down.

Charlie looked at his parents blankly as they clasped their palms together to say grace. “Father, we thank you deeply for this bounty,” The Father began,  “…and ask God for your…” God.  Charles eyed a large dark stain on the wooden table, hoping it would widen and swallow him.

“Amen,” The Mother finished, taking a spoonful of stew and adding it on top of everyone’s rice.

The Mother laughed weakly at something The Father had said, then took a spoonful of broccoli, carrot and pepper into her mouth.

By 7:30, the hubbub died down and two pairs of eyes fixated on the boy. Their plates were empty. The Father nodded solemnly at the full plate and met the boy’s eyes. This was a silent ordering. Food never went to waste in this household.  

“They were alive” Charles protested, holding The Father’s eyes defiantly. “Right before y..you cut them to p..pieces,”he glanced at The Mother as a fresh set of tears rolled down his cheeks.

“With that imagination son, you should become a writer!” The Father said dryly, stealing a glance at The Mother. Charles’s lower lip quivered. The father continued staring.

“Please Momma, I’m not hungry” he begged, trying to pry open the seat buckle. The Father, tossing his red-stained handkerchief on the table, let out a breath of disappointment before excusing himself. Maybe it was the long day at work, but he was fed up with everything, his son included. He decided to shower before going back to his deadline.

At 7:52PM, Mother and Charles were still seated on the dining table. They were in a standstill. The Mother got up and quietly started clearing the table. The rice and stew went in the fridge, and she cleaned the kitchen until it smelled like fresh lemons. 8:15PM. All was put away, except for Charlie’s plate, which was still untouched.

Charlie’s stomach tightened when The Mother took a quiet seat next to him. There were bags under her eyes, and the red apples on her apron were so close he could reach and grab one. Her face was inches away from his. They sat like this for several moments while the clock ticked on the wall.

“Charles,” she said gently, but firmly, “you can’t leave this table until your plate is clean.”

“I’m not hungry” Charles replied just as definitively. He glanced at her lips then back to her eyes. They were glossy like fish eyes.

“Charles. You know the dinner rules. And you haven’t eaten; you must be starving,” her brows furrowed. “You have to eat so you can grow big and strong.” She smiled encouragingly, exposing her tiny teeth. “I cannot have a meal wasted.”

The child’s eyelids drooped with fatigue. Encouraged by this observation, The Mother gently picked up the silver spoon by the plate. She stirred the lukewarm vegetables into the rice then lifted a spoonful.  The Mother’s small hand angled the spoon toward his mouth. Charlie watched the spoon inch closer and closer to his face. A sharp head turn thwarted the inevitable and the spoon prickled the boy’s round cheek instead of his lips.

 “Charles…” she drawled. She had never been so patient. “Just one bite my big boy, one bite for me.” She could smell her victory, and Charles knew he had lost.

The clock read 8:30. The standstill was nearing an end. The Mother looked down at the full plate, then back at Charles, a smile on her lips. Her face rested gently on her hand, which propped her up. She could taste victory. If he obeyed, Charles thought, he could be done and this day could finally be over. 

“Do it for me,” The Mother cooed sweetly. There was no going back. Only forward. The spoon once again inched closer to his mouth and Charles’s brown eyes widened. Time was momentarily suspended. The boy opened his mouth and inhaled deeply. The spoon clunked against his bottom teeth and chunks of sustenance stirred in his mouth. The Mother nodded encouragingly and smiled, which prompted Charles to chew. “That’s it Charles, you’re doing it,” she continued, scooping another spoonful of rice and vegetable stew. He chewed and swallowed, feeling far away from himself but closer to the adult he would someday become.