DAYS OF EIGHT ************************************** Can anyone relate? ********************************************* They crept down the hallway, quietly, past the other bedrooms, where the doors were all ajar. They could hear the rattling of snores along with an occasional fart and other morning noises, signaling something from last night was being expelled, going out the opposite way it went in. Danny’s nose suddenly filled with the rich smell of bacon. He inhaled, deeply and held it in, puffing until the grease filled his stomach. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had bacon. The last thing he remembered eating for breakfast, that was hot, was oatmeal and that was a long time ago. They strolled into the kitchen where Richie’s mother was baking something sweet, cookies, maybe, or muffins. He wasn’t sure. The smells and food reminded him of the holidays; Easter, Christmas, and Thanksgiving. He glanced over at the raised cooking tray, covered with hot muffins, fat and plump and still hot from the oven. Richie’s mother glanced up and saw him, staring at the food. “Would you like a muffin?” she asked. He blushed when he realized she had seen him gazing at everything. Richie grabbed one from the tray. His mother looked at him, sternly. “Honey,” she said abruptly, “will you grab a plate for Danny?” emphasizing the word plate, a request delivered with raised eyebrows and a stiff lip. Richie said nothing. He went over to the cupboard and removed a small plate and passed it over to her. She stared at him for a moment before passing it over to Danny who took it, now with a fat brown muffin atop it. Richie opened the refrigerator and removed the milk and after removing the top, he lifted it to his mouth and took a long swig. “Richie!” his mother yelled. “I told you not to do that again! Use a glass!” “Okay, okay,” he said, lifting his hands up and down, like he was patting a pillow, motioning to her, to quiet her down. He didn’t want to wake his father up if he could avoid it. His mother continued cooking and, without looking back, she said to him again, more sternly, “If I have to tell you again, I swear . . . ” She paused to wipe her brow before muttering something to herself. Danny looked over to Richie who had placed the milk on the counter. “And wipe it off . . . at the top,” his mother said. Richie didn’t bother answering her. He did what she asked and didn’t make a fuss. “Ya want some OJ?” he asked Danny. “Um, yeah,” he said while looking over at Richie’s mother. She smiled at him and nodded. “Have a seat,” she said. “Over there,” nudging her nose towards the far end of the table. “Do you like your eggs fried or scrambled?” He hesitated. “I dunno. Whatever’s easiest.” “In this house, nothing’s easy. Richie likes them scrambled.” She looked over at him. “At least most of the time,” a comment wrapped up with a roll of her eyes. Danny got the impression she did that a lot. It was better than hollering and screaming. “Yeah, yeah. That’ll be great,” he said, sitting up erect, excited about the meal that was unfolding before him, all the while trying hard not to sound too anxious. He’d already forgotten about the pancakes Katie had made for him. Danny watched Richie fill three glasses with fresh Minute Maid Orange Juice. He knew it was fresh because the company name was on the bottle and cap; it was the real stuff and not the frozen kind, mixed with water. Richie removed a slender crystal butter dish from the refrigerator and placed it alongside everything else and sliced a thick slab of butter off and lathered it on his muffin, spreading it in until it was wet and oily and falling apart. “Is the old man coming down for breakfast?” Richie asked, warbling the question out from a mouthful of food, half of which dropped from his mouth, onto the table, where it was quickly scooped up with the other hand and stuffed back into his mouth. “I don’t know. It’s early . . . what time is it?” she asked. Richie rolled around and looked at the clock, hanging on an old rusted nail above the sink. It had been there so long, the wallpaper behind it was a dozen shades lighter than the rest of the room. “A little after nine thirty,” he mumbled, spinning back around.
Posted on: Wed, 15 Oct 2014 00:28:37 +0000
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