The Father was weary. For three consecutive nights, tonight the fourth, he walked through the front door like his essence had been squeezed out of him, like marrow out of a chicken bone. For years, he built complex programs for sophisticated machines and his know-how with languages and frameworks kept the Software Firm’s many clients happy. The Father was the man who put out fires before they started. And he was a slave to that success. The outcomes had been different these past few weeks.
A top-priority client assigned his team a project, whose deadline was just two days away. Sadly, some system constraints mandated a design change, leading to an unanticipated amount of alterations that added stress given the time constraint. The team was understaffed, and overworked, but with The Father on the team, they expected a miracle. Demanded it. The title Senior Engineer came respect and expectations.
With a watchful manager breathing down his neck and the impossible deadline, The Father adjusted to do the impossible. Every morning since the design change, he woke up before daybreak. He’d slip into his white collared shirt The Mother had left laid out for him, accompanied by one of the three ties he owned.
As the walls stirred awake by outside’s dark-blue light, The Father hunkered over his code, reviewing re-implemented functionality, dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s until his eyes were bloodshot. He left no stone unturned. Daybreak meant to leave for work. It was challenging work. Nevertheless, he counted his blessings; life here was nothing compared to the troubles of growing up in Jamaica. During his formative years, he stood on the gray street corners of PennyRoad, selling polished wooden figurines for older ladies to decorate their tidy homes. As a boy, while his parents – both laborers at the local sugar cane factory – slept, he carved his figurines by the sleepy candle, bringing to life the many folklore characters his mother used to regale him to sleep with. He had brought a figurine from Jamaica to remind him of how far he’d come. It was of a majestic dove and resided on a wide shelf in the dining room. They had all prayed for a better life. And The Good Lord delivered. Here in The United States, The Father had a steady job and a beautiful family to provide for. The people of Pennyroad knew him by name, given how his money sent back to The Island uplifted his parents. 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 the child out of mischief. Charlie – Charles when he misbehaved – went without want. They strived to give him security and a meaningful childhood, a true essence of what they lacked. There would be many chances to put away all childish things. The Father made sure that day wouldn’t come too soon. This vow extended to always making it back home to be on time for dinner.
The Mother greeted The Father at the door, her round face wrinkled with worry and fatigue. She looked like an eggplant. His shoulders were slumped, as they had been consistently when he came home from 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 coat stand. 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 every day after setting down his briefcase. Soon enough, Debussy filled the small office, the sound emanating through the rest of the modest home. They contributed heavily to Charlie’s college fund.
The Mother wiped her hands on her apron – the one with the red apples – and glanced over fondly at Charlie – Charles when he misbehaved. 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. He deeply enjoyed jumping on the seats, pretending the ground was deadly lava. Since his birthday this weekend, and the Nintendo he was gifted, he had found a more enjoyable distraction. The Mother took no issue with his new obsession, especially because it promised a seamless cleaning experience. A clean home before The Father’s arrival was important, especially this week. She almost lept to the kitchen when she realized it was almost time for dinner and nothing had been prepared yet.
Dinner was a religious ritual in this household. It was prepared by 6:30, placed on the table by 6:45, and everyone was seated by 7 on the dot to say grace. Even Charlie, every night at 6:55 knew to put the Nintendo away and wash his hands in the sink. Tonight they were having brown rice and sauteed vegetable stew, Charlie’s favorite. The Mother hummed in the kitchen while she assembled spices and ingredients while Charlie played. She gathered carrots, tomatoes, and peppers among her other conquests from today’s market. They glowed under the kitchen’s warm yellow lights.
“Momma!” Charlie yelled, alarming The Mother just as she reached for the large kitchen knife. The Father, who was in the middle of writing a unit test, twitched in his seat at the outburst.
“Charlie, what are you doing?” The Mother said in disbelief. “You know The Father needs his peace and quiet,” she whispered sharply. The Mother noted the child’s reddened face as he dashed into the open kitchen. Lips quivering, he extended his arm to hand her the game.
“It stopped working.” He sulked, his glossy eyes threatening tears. He looked like a ripe tomato. The Mother struggled as she picked up her heavy five-year-old. Sweat rolled down her forehead.
“I told you to put it in the charger before you weren’t listening” she whispered, burying her face in his thick hair. “Now,” she continued, setting him back onto the ground, “let’s be as quiet as possible while it recharges.” Betrayal crossed the child’s face as The Mother plugged the device into a nearby outlet. She was supposed to fix it immediately, like she did with everything else. “If I hear so much as a peep, I will give you something to cry about,” she threatened for good measure. “Come now and help with dinner.” Before the child could protest, The Mother swiftly unfolded the tall stool leaning against the fridge and placed it in front of the sink. It was a silent demand for his participation.
The ache gnawed. Charlie fidgeted, running his fingers along the counter. He took in the smell of garlic and The Mother’s humming, he wished for nothing more than to play. As if seeing right through him, The Mother shot him an intense look just as he thought about pulling on 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. With that, as if Apollo himself reached down and touched the boy, Charlie transformed the modest kitchen into his plaything. Charlie imagined the stool chairs were strong knights protecting the island at all costs. The Mother was queen of the realm.
“Go on and wash these carrots and tomatoes” the queen said, not turning her eyes from the garlic she was mincing. She gathered the vegetables into a large white colander and passed it to Charlie. He looked down at the vegetables, realizing they would make for the perfect loot. By contributing to the preparation of dinner, Charlie will have captured his kingdom and won over the queen. The kitchen would finally be under his rule.
Carefully, he stepped onto the stool. He placed the colander in the sink and turned on the faucet. The boy and The Mother’s backs faced each other as they worked. She hummed a familiar tune as she minced, the pile of crushed garlic growing by the minute. Charlie brushed the vegetables unlike how The Mother had taught him. Impatient, he scrubbed hard, not paying close attention to what he was doing. The Mother poured pre-washed rice into a large boiling pot of broth.
What suddenly unfolded next shattered the boy’s delusions. The kingdom slipped out his fingers, like rice into boiling water. He sensed an unexpected bump on the unknown vegetable in his hand. Looking down closely for the first time, Charlie’s eyes widened in disbelief. Two eyes stared back at him, dull and empty with death. Another pair of eyes – this pair more child-like – peered at him from under thick lashes. The garlic sizzled behind him and each passing second awakened a new face as the other vegetables in the strainer gained consciousness. Consciousness. Was that the right word for it?
The child stood paralyzed in derealization. The lanky orange carrots squirmed with adrenaline, and the large broccoli bunch blinked in panic just like Charlie when he’s had a nightmare. The family of tomatoes – a real family it turned out, glanced at each other with horror and disbelief on their faces, a verbal commotion ensuing among them. It was like Charles himself was also waking up for the first time.
“…Momma?” A small voice trembled. Yet Charlie hadn’t spoken. The smallest tomato from the bunch fought against the attached green stem, struggling to face his neighbors. A rounder, riper tomato hyperventilated, her raspy voice breaking while trying to soothe the smaller one. Another shrieked in desperation for meaning.
“I don’t know, Tommy,” said the round tomato, “I don’t know. Maybe—”
“This must be a dream. This must be a dream,” the bush of broccoli whispered. It was unclear what had brought them to this point. But one truth was undeniable. In this universe Charles was the devil himself.
They had faces, the boy thought. Voices. All of them did. His rapid, shallow breathing made the hairs on his arms stand. His knees trembled, but his thighs felt tense.
He suddenly wished for a questless world. The boy bit off more than he could swallow. 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. King or no king, he would have to see this through. His parents would see to it.
Any day now. Any day, The Mother would respond and save him, the boy thought. But instead, The Mother continued her humming, oblivious. Charlie glanced at her direction many times, his mouth gaping open each time, only to close it, not knowing exactly what to say.
“Momma?” Charlie whispered finally, not recognizing his own voice. His throat felt dry. There was olive oil in a nearby pan, the stove yet to be turned on. The Mother reluctantly looked at the boy. “I think they’re alive,” Charlie said. He swallowed, which burned his throat. There was a moment of silence.
“All plants are living organisms, honey,” she responded, misunderstanding his observation. Looking down at the colander, Charles identified the tomatoes to be a family; a father, a mother, and a child. The fourth had unmoving eyes and it was unclear which role he once played in the bunch. A piece of tomato skin draped over half its body, revealing red flesh and tomato juice oozing out into the sink.
“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.
Father, what’s happening?” a smaller carrot begged, its wide mouth quivering like a leaf. 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 bruised, lifeless tomato to his right.
“Hey you!” A big zucchini screamed hysterically, “Who are you?! Please help us!”
Charles opened his mouth to respond just as The Mother grabbed the colander from the sink. She shook it before transferring it over to the counter.
“Charlie! Look what you’ve done,” she said, plucking the ruined tomato. Charles stepped down from the stool, his knees buckling. “I’ve told you before. Scrub gently, or you risk puncturing the fragile ones.” She noticed, yet missed everything. She pursed her lips as she turned the ruined tomato around between her long fingers. “We’ll have to make it work,” she decided. She lined the vegetables, prepping them to be diced then sauteed. She wrapped her fingers around her knife’s handle and sharpened the blade against a whetstone.
After giving it a quick rinse, she put the knife straight to work on the bruised tomato. Its deformed body bled, its juices seeping into the cutting board. “We’re gonna die today,” one said, which Charlie identified as the red bell pepper. A series of cries followed as The Mother tossed the chopped tomato into a green plastic bowl.
“Mamma!” Charlie cried, his raw throat scratching against itself as he pulled her apron. He tried to climb her like a tree, like he used to when he was little. Her 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. Although only a few seconds had passed, the boy’s screams made it feel like minutes. They were briefly interrupted by the dull thud of the office door. Now he had really done it.
The Mother closed her eyes, drawing in a sharp breath, trying to shoo away her fatigue and anxiety from the long day. When she opened them, her eyes were severe and looked straight at Charles.
“Charles Walter Groves!” she snapped. “Stop making so much noise! Your father needs his quiet. And I need to make dinner.” Mama don’t you hear them? They’re– “
“I don’t want to hear it anymore,” she yelled. She sat the boy on a stool too tall to climb down from. Charles blinked back tears. There it was; the shiny counter that had once been his conquest. The vegetables layed limply next to the large cutting board. For the first time in his life, he felt powerless. There was nothing he could do. Looking down on the ground which seemed far away, he couldn’t even make an escape. His frame shook as he fought back a flood of tears.The Mother lit the fire beneath the oil-filled pan before lining the carrots on the cutting board. As the seconds trickled, the boy counted the blurry white tiles on the island. With one swift laceration, The Mother chopped off the 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.
The Mother chopped the carrots from head to tip then swiftly tossed them in a crystal bowl. Charles moved on to the pendant lights above, counting them even though there were only five. The oil sizzled when The Mother threw in the garlic. The quick cuts of the knife against the cutting board were deafening. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Crunch, crunch. These sensory details made him dizzy and nauseous. The broccoli fought to will the boy into some kind of action, but the boy said and did nothing. They both watched silently as The Mother held the red peppers down and split their heads in half, chopping them into a moist pile. 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 a few moments, Charles glanced up as The Mother emptied the crystal bowl’s contents into the hot pan. Next, she mixed in her prepared bowl 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 would have to be added soon. The first tomato went in peace, if you could call it that. His body went limp before the knife even touched him. Nearby, still attached to the stems, the roundest tomato cried as the smallest one begged her for answers. The Mother plucked the roundest, ripest tomato from the bunch –the mother, followed by a helpless plea. “PLEASE Please promise me. Promise me that my boy, that you’ll spare my Tommy, promise that–”
Her words were cut short. The sweat on Charles’s neck turned cold as it trickled down his back. He shuddered. In a few moments, it would all be over. It would be over soon, he told himself. Poor child.
He had closed his eyes shut, but make no mistake he knew that the smallest tomato’s number was up. Unlike his predecessors, he didn’t cry. His little eyes were wide with innocence. With hope. They held something Charlie could not recognize. “This one’s so cute,” The Mother said, picking up the tomato. “It kind of reminds me of you,” she smiled. “I almost don’t want to cut it.” In that same breath, she did exactly that.
Holding the cutting board with one hand, The Mother transferred the diced tomatoes into the pan, scraping the knife against the board until all the juice flowed into the pan. Charlie cried silently, his cries complementing the sizzling vegetables. Moments had passed before she had decided. She set Charles on the floor. “Go now. Go play and keep quiet.” Charles ran, but to The Mother’s surprise not to the Nintendo attached to the outlet. His legs buckled down as he rushed to the living room, causing him to scrape his cheek against the clean wooden floor. He pulled himself up, willing himself to the back of the three-seater in the living room. By then, his sobs had turned into hiccups.
As the sizzling from the pan turned into a low boil, she threw in diced onions. From behind the couch, Charles reimagined the last tomatoe’s big eyes, the zucchini’s deep voice, and the hopeless resignation from the broccoli. He watched as The Mother tasted red sauce with a wooden spoon. As the smell intensified, Charles wretched violently, a sour pool of his meager lunch forming. He squelched some more before his stomach had had enough. He absent-mindedly pushed the vomit under the rug, then wiped his hands on his shorts. Like clockwork, The Father emerged from the study, hungry. “Smells good,” 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 kissed his forehead as she set a full plate of rice in front of him. After setting Charles’s plate as well as her own, she went to the kitchen and returned with the bowl of vegetable stew, which she placed on the 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 picked him up, strapped him into the dining chair and pushed his seat in as The Mother sat down.
Charlie looked at his parents bankly 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 transform into a portal and take him elsewhere.
“Amen”, The Mother said, taking a spoon and adding stew on Charles’s rice as well as her own.
“Momma..? It was alive before and –” The Mother’s cold eyes pierced Charles. A hearty spoonful went into her mouth and came back out empty.
“The food,” Charles said louder, “the food was alive. And — and —”
“Yes, of course it was alive dear,” she said. “You must be very hungry,” she added between clenched teeth.
The Father rose a spoon full into his wide mouth, slurping up sauce in delight. In the pot, bits of carrot and peppers floated, features and limbs seemed stacked over each other. Charles avoided his own plate.
The adults talked about the details of their day, their hubbub making the stew impossible to avoid. There was no way around it. Charles would have to swallow this one down. 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, two pairs of eyes fixated on the boy. Their bowls were empty. The Father nodded curtly at the boy’s bowl, silently ordering him. Food never went to waste in this household.
“They were alive” Charles protested, meeting The Father’s eyes. “Right before y..you cut them to p..pieces”. A fresh set of tears rolled down his cheeks.
“With that imagination son, you should become a storyteller!” The Mother said jokingly, stealing a glance at The Father, trying to lighten the mood. It was not working. Charlie was strapped to the chair, and his hands trembled. Yet the father continued staring at the child. “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.
At 7:52PM, it was clear they were in a standstill. The Mother quietly cleared the table. The rice and stew went in the fridge, and The Mother had cleaned the kitchen until every surface was pristine. All was put away, except for Charlie’s plate, which had been left untouched. Charlie’s stomach tightened when The Mother quietly sat next to him, the red apples on her apron so close he could reach and grab one. The Mother’s face was inches away. They sat like this, all quiet except for the clock on the wall.
“Charles,” she said gently, but matter-of-factly, “you can’t leave this table until your plate is clean.”
“I’m not hungry” Charles replied just as definitively, his wet eyes glancing at The Mother’s bottom lip, then back at her eyes. They were glossy like fish eyes.
“Charles. You know the dinner rules. And you didn’t eat much after school, you must be starving,” she furrowed her brows.“You have to eat to be strong. To be a big boy, like us.” she smiled encouragingly, exposing her tiny teeth. “I cannot have a meal wasted.”
The child’s eyelids felt heavy with fatigue. His blood pressure must have dropped. Encouraged by this observation, The Mother picked up the silver spoon by the plate. She stirred the lukewarm vegetables into the rice then lifted a spoonful. Charlie watched the spoon inch closer and closer to his face, knowing he had lost. The Mother’s small hand angled the spoon toward his mouth. A sharp turn from his neck thwarted the contact and the spoon prickled the boy’s round cheek instead of his lips. “Charles…” she purred. She had never been so patient. “Just one bite my big boy, one bite for me.” It was 8:13PM. The standstill was nearing an end given away by the boy’s heavy lids twitching with fatigue. The Mother looked at the full plate, then back at Charles, a smile on her lips. She could taste victory. If he did as he was told, Charles thought, he could finally rest his head and this day would be over. “Do it for me,” The Mother cooed sweetly. There was no going back. Only forward. As The Mother edged the spoon closer to his mouth, Charlie’s brown eyes widened, like time had moved backward for a brief moment. He opened his mouth and took a deep inhale, as if he were going down the slide at the playground. The spoon clunked against his front teeth and chunks of vegetables stirred in his mouth. The Mother nodded encouragingly, prompting Charlie to chew. “That’s it Charles, you’re doing it,” she continued, scooping another spoonful of seasoned food. By 8:30, the plate was empty, and the boy’s belly full. The parents had won. The boy was going to grow big and strong.