Kids of Appetite Read Online Free Page B

place to start from. He explained what it looked like when he closed his eyes, how it wasn’t darkness or blackness, exactly—just nothingness.
And only in a place of nothingness can somethingness be found, V
.
    Now he was Nothingness personified.
    Now he was in a jar.
    I went to my Land of Nothingness, imagined the way Dad poked his head into my room before bed.
    Hey, V. You need anything?
    No, Dad
.
    You good?
    Yeah, Dad
.
    All right then. Good night
.
    Night, Dad
.
    The whole thing, like he was such a nuisance.
    Sock-footed in the oblivion of this dark hallway, one arm outstretched, I stood stuck between somethingness and nothingness, wondering how it was possible for this plain old urn to blaze like a desert heat.
    Dad died two years ago. And I still couldn’t touch the thing.
    * * *
    â€œDynamite meal, Doris.” Frank eyed his sons. “Boys? Isn’t this meal something?”
    Klint cleared his throat. “Sure is, Dad.”
    Kory chewed, chuckled, nodded.
    â€œHow do you get the little”—Frank poked at his potatoes, apparently unable to find his words—“crispy parts here . . . the sweet herbs . . . how do you get them so . . . ?”
    â€œCrispy and sweet?” asked Mom.
    Frank laughed, leaned over, and kissed her cheek. One arm shifted under the table in Mom’s direction. I choked and miraculously didn’t die on the spot.
    â€œI literally did nothing to the potatoes,” said Mom. “But I’d be happy to pass along your compliments to the chef down at the Ore-Ida frozen potato factory. I had been
planning
to make my world-famous lasagna, but someone forgot to pick up prosciutto.”
    Here, she aimed an eye at me.
    â€œRight,” I said, clearing my throat. “Sorry about that.”
    I pictured the face of the Stoic Beauty and knew I wasn’t sorry, not even a little.
    â€œI could have picked up prosciutto on my way home from court, sweetheart,” said Frank, serving himself more green beans.
    Frank loved to talk about court. Court this, court that. Talking about court made Frank the Boyfriend feel more like Frank the Racehorse.
    In reality, Frank was more of a French poodle.
    â€œIn fact,” said Frank, “I called earlier to see if you needed anything, but you didn’t answer. I would have left a message, but—”
    â€œI know, I know.”
    â€œ
Someone
, for reasons passing understanding, refuses to clear out her freaking voice mail in-box.”
    â€œI
know
,” said Mom, smiling ear to ear. “I’ll do it tonight. Okay?”
    Frank leaned in, whispered, “You’ll
do it
tonight, all right.”
    â€œ
Dad
,
gross
,” said Klint.
    Kory chewed, gagged, shook his head.
    I took a sip of soda, wondering what would happen if I reached across the table right now and slapped Frank the Boyfriend across the face.
    Frank was everything my dad wasn’t: dainty, professionally successful, head full of hair. Subtlety completely eluded him. He was a loud-talking, green-bean-chomping lawyer who always wore suits. I’d never
not
seen the guy in a suit. He just really loved suits, I guess. And maybe it wasn’t momentous, but it sure felt like it, because Dad was a wear-his-sweatpants-to-the-grocery-store type guy.
    I was that type guy too.
    â€œSo, boys,” said Mom. “How’s the band coming along?”
    â€œOh,” said Klint, his eyes shooting toward his dad. “Um. Good, Miss B. Really, umm . . . good. Right, Kory?” He elbowed his brother in the ribs. Kory stopped chewing momentarily, focused instead on his chuckling and nodding.
    Frank scooped a third helping of green beans onto his plate.
    I don’t know. The man really liked his green beans.
    â€œWell, that’s just great,” said Mom. “Maybe we can hear something soon. Like a concert. Wouldn’t that be nice, Vic?”
    I raised my favorite