The Quiet Work

I sat vacant, watching flames lick up our green dining room curtains. My Father and Uncle threw in slow motion, flinging water from a pitcher and a cup to douse them. Mother wrestled Aunt Claudia, who still brandished the tall candlestick. I glanced down at my empty plate—a flat porcelain circle of Royal Albert roses. The scrapings of chocolate cake still clung to the white center. Logan, my older brother, distracted our two younger cousins. He rushed them into the living room to play with our old train table. We’d always pull it out of the garage whenever they made the drive to ours; they’d soon outgrow it as we did. I reached for what remained of my Pinot Noir, my mouth dry, but containing the aftertaste of a salty birthday pot roast.

Mother and I cooked all morning. I stood in the kitchen, washing two small bags of fingerlings. I scrubbed at the dirt of the gold skin until each was smooth under my thumb and ready for the pot. Then I moved onto the carrots. As I scraped the swivel peeler, the thin shavings fell into the bin like strips of orange confetti paper. Beside me, Mother salted and peppered the huge slab of chuck she’d brought home from the meat market. We listened to Etta James, who wasn’t my favorite but makes my mother hum and sway as she cooks, so I put up with it.

“Are we going to have wine with dinner tonight?” I’d asked.

“Sweetie, it's your father’s birthday! Of course. We’re celebrating!”

“But what about Aunt Claudia?”

“What about her?”

“Mom.”

“I don’t know what you are implying, Holly, but this conversation is over!” she hissed.

I hadn’t been in the picture when her brother married Claudia. Although Logan once told me it caused a family divide for three years. She was the messiest, most complicated woman I knew, but somehow still a better cook than my mother. Our family unified over good food.

I remember my first time cooking with my Dad. He was preparing omelets on a Sunday morning, and no one else had risen from bed. I begged him to let me crack the eggs, as I chewed on a fat piece of cheddar he’d sliced for me.

“Hold the egg like this, right, and tap it, see the split, now pull it apart.”

Mesmerized by gooey yellow yoke and the way it flopped and slid from the hard shell, I fell into a routine beside him. He chopped green onions and tomatoes, oiled the pan, grated cheddar. I cracked, and cracked, and whisked. I haven’t tasted one of his omelets in years.

When Uncle Rob and Claudia arrived at 6 pm sharp with the kids. Claudia held a glass tray with the biggest FUCK YOU to my mother on it. I knew there was no saving the birthday after that. The homemade truffle chocolate cake teased us from its perch throughout dinner. Her dense mousse layers. That ganache-glazed draped like the silk robe of a showgirl backstage. Next to the tiny dry cake my mother purchased at the grocery store, she was decadence.

“Wow, it smells amazing in here!” Aunt Claudia gasped as she kissed my cheek.

Ann and Jace, my cousins, shrieked and raced past us to jump attack my Dad with a birthday hug.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY UNCLE SEAN!”

I remember when Logan and I had that level of energy, when our laughter was juvenile and piercing. We’d giggle so hard doing anything in secret, like using the forbidden scotch scissors to cut construction paper for Dad's birthday card. Every year, we’d make him a construction paper card, and he still kept them in a box in the garage. I should’ve made him one this year.

The candlestick now rested and waned at the edge of the table, and the adults screamed at each other in the hallway. My chair clawed at the wood floor as I stood up and began to gather the dishes. I piled the dirty forks and big silver serving spoons. I carried the overpicked roast tray to the kitchen and let the contents thud into the trash, then started the faucet to fill the sink with soapy water. Mother insisted we hand-wash the china. I fell into routine: scrape, scrape, submerge, scrub, lean. Scrape, scrape, submerge, scrub, lean. I poured out the rest of the wine and watched it gurgle down the sink, a small crimson whirlpool. The sweet, warm aroma hits my nose, and I stop myself from licking my lips. The front door slammed. I heard my other stomp impressively up each carpeted step. Uncle Rob's truck whirred and coughed. I envisioned Ann and Jace buckled in the backseat, tiny hands clasped. I wish we could spare them. Then Logan hovered next to me, his voice shattering the silence.

“We should’ve made Dad a card like we used to.”

I smiled.

“He would’ve loved that, wouldn’t he?”

Logan grabbed a dishrag and started drying the plates. We could hear Mother sobbing in the upstairs bathroom. Father was no doubt in the garage. He’d go upstairs soon enough to tell her it wasn’t the worst birthday he’s ever had. He’d remind her how much he loves her, how hard she works. I went back into the dining room. The room was dark, but it glowed from the two candlesticks that were now burning stubs of wax. The curtains hung charcoaled and tattered. The room still smelled of meat, stew, wine, and chocolate, but with a burnt and sour undertone. I gathered up the tablecloth, folded it, and blew out the candles. Back in the kitchen, Logan stood still, peering out the sink window at the starry night.

“You okay?” I asked, setting the tablecloth on the counter.

He turned to me and smiled.

“Yeah, that was just the richest cake I have ever eaten.”

We burst into laughter. A piercing, high laughter that caused us to clutch at our stomachs. Wiped the hot sting of tears from our eyes.