Where The Good Utensils Are

“Get up, Franks, it’s time to eat dinner.” The shock from being woken up so abruptly outweighed the shock of hearing Dad’s voice at first. His familiar grip came around my elbow, pulled me out of bed, and dragged me down the stairs, leaving me no chance to throw on socks or houseshoes. This dance we did was not unusual, but the iron grip he kept me in was just shy of bruising and unfamiliar.

I rubbed the sleep induced crud from my eyes as I stumbled after Dad, his pounding footsteps rattling in my head. They jarred the last dregs of sleep from my mind and once they cleared came the realization that Mom and I had already eaten dinner that night.

Lately, our meals weren’t memorable. Cans of soup months past their expiration date with stale crackers. Or cold soupy beans with cups of instant rice. Or baked beans with cut up hot dogs. Beans had become the main source of food in our house.

The change, though not entirely pleasant, did not receive any verbal complaints from me. But it came with a few others I didn’t dare not voice my displeasure towards; Dad had stopped eating dinner with us and since, Mom wept every time she cooked.

She always faced away from me, back rigid as she stood in front of the stove, sporadic sniffles shaking her shoulders. I hummed to give her privacy. Songs from music class or things I remembered hearing on the radio.

Once dinner was done, Mom would turn off all of the burners and go to the bathroom. While I pretended not to hear her cry, I would watch the cherry red coils fade to their original metallic color, put away my homework, and stick my bookbag next to the stairs at the side door for school the next day. When I was done, I would sit and kick my feet, the tips of my toes brushing the wooden bar on the legs of the chair. A few moments later, Mom would emerge from the bathroom, happy face plastered on and set the table for dinner.

Tonight, she’d had the same happy face, and with good reason, for there was store-bought rotisserie chicken on our dinner plates along with canned greens and boxed mashed potatoes. The best meal we’ve ever eaten since I could remember.

I cleaned my plate and then some, grabbing the greasy sides and licking as much of the remaining juices as I could, greasy face smiling at the sound of Mom’s admonishing tsks between giggles. It was the most carefree I’d seen her in a long time.

Of course a deep slumber followed a belly that full. The sleep onset almost immediately after my tongue made the last drag across the foam plate. Mom carried me up the stairs, not something she did often but necessary after my insistence that I was so full my legs could not work.

As she carried me up the creaking stairs, exaggerated huffs and puffs leaving her mouth as she dragged her worn out houseshoes across the steps, I pushed out my stomach with all my might.

Upon reaching the landing, Mom insisted she could no longer carry me and I would have to roll the rest of the way. She laid a blanket down first, so my hair or pajamas wouldn’t catch on the gaps in the wooden floor or the raised nails. I could not stop giggling as her gentle hands pushed me across the newly padded ground until I was nothing but a head and little slippered toes sticking out of the blanket.

Mom scooped me up and placed me on my rickety bed. Unwrapped me with a soft smile and covered me properly before kissing my forehead and wishing me sweet dreams.

I must’ve fallen asleep as soon as she left the room because when I was jarred awake, I expected to see her. Dad greeted me instead.

Once we reached our destination at the bottom of the stairs, Dad muttered a quiet, “watch your step,” and used his grip on my elbow as leverage to lift me up.

I rose up on my tip toes to ease the strain, my feet brushing something wet. Dad dragged me to the kitchen and forced me in my dinner chair and I slouched in it with a yawn, still rubbing my eyes.

The table had three place settings instead of two, and the good plates were used, which was odd. We never ate as a family, even when Dad was living with us. Mom and I had our meals together and bed time immediately followed. In bed, I could hear Mom moving about downstairs packing up Dad’s food. It was always sandwiched between two foam plates and placed in the microwave. I would hear the microwave door shut and the beep of Mom hitting the 1 minute and 30 seconds button so all Dad had to do was press start when he got home. Only after that could I finally sleep, but sometimes I woke up to the sounds of cries, the abrupt movement of furniture, or the slam of that microwave door.

After spotting the plates, my eyes rose to watch Dad reheat the leftovers from last night. The plates, though Mom had picked them up from the dollar store, were ‘good plates’. Printed with yellow lemons and a flurry of green vines, they were reserved for special holiday dinners. We hadn’t pulled them out since Christmas. In the middle of February, without a holiday, special occasion, or birthday, they had no use. Valentine’s Day had already passed, a fact my mother mentioned with averted eyes and hunched shoulders as she washed dishes a few nights ago.

Dad lined up the containers on the stove before shoving them in the microwave. It was then that I spotted the time on the oven clock. It was two hours fast but I knew it was 11:37 p.m. I’d been asleep for not even two hours when it felt like ages.

It was then that the little details came to me.

The overturned foam plates nestled in the corner, a messy cluster of food beneath it, the juice from the greens creating a brownish puddle on the floor. Not too far from it was a clump of hair. I craned my head before whipping it in the other direction and only caught a flash of Mom’s slipper flipped on its side in the middle of the threshold before the sound of the microwave banging open drew my attention back to Dad.

He pinched the too hot container of greens between two fingers as he pulled it from the steaming microwave. There was no lid on it and I could see the condensation collecting on the walls as the steam cleared. Mom would be upset. She always covered the food to make sure the smell didn’t stay in the microwave and kept it clean so old food droplets wouldn’t stain and dry up. The microwave was white and Mom wanted to keep it looking nice.

Next went in the large black container filled with the remains of the Rotisserie chicken. The container was too big to fit in the microwave, but Dad stuffed it in and closed the door. He hit the 30 second button repeatedly until a large enough number appeared before starting it up. The dish only rotated a quarter before getting stuck.

Dad moved the greens and mashed potato containers to the middle of the table and stuck a plastic fork and spoon in each container respectively. He grabbed some cups from the cupboard and put them next to each plate.

Humming, he grabbed apple juice from the fridge and came over to my cup to fill it. I watched Dad as he leaned over me to pour the juice. His eyes, rimmed in red, were focused on his task as his shaking hand poured. He was still in his work clothes; dirty jeans and scruffed up boats, though he’d taken off his work shirt and just wore the white tank underneath.

I spotted his work shirt folded against the back of his chair when the cup began to overflow. “Dad,” I muttered as the beverage pooled on the table and dripped onto my pant leg.

His eyes shifted from a spot by the threshold before refocusing on the cup. His pupils seemed to tighten as his attention returned and he muttered a curse before putting down the juice. “Sorry, Franks,” he muttered.

“Let me clean this up,” he whispered to himself and lunged for the napkins kept in their plastic atop the fridge. He grabbed a handful and divided the pile. Leaning over me, one cluster he used to wipe up the mess on the table. The other hand he held over my thigh, patting the air above.

I blinked up at him. “It’s okay, I got it, Dad.” Carefully, I eased both bundles out of his grip.

The microwave beeped just in time and I watched as his body jerked with a start and he whipped toward the microwave. My eyes scanned over his back and watched as he pulled the Rotisserie chicken from the microwave and set it on the table. Then he took the napkins from my hand and threw them to the garbage. I didn’t fight him even though I hadn’t started cleaning the mess up. That was when I’d noticed the scratches on the side of his neck. The feeling I got when I’d cross the street leaving school and saw cars pulling to the cross walk came to my belly.

I glanced over my shoulder at the slipper in the middle of the threshold. Saw the pale brown bottom of Mom’s feet a couple inches from it, hidden in the shadows. The wall cut off the rest of her body but that feeling in my belly flared once more and my gaze returned to Dad as he placed napkins next to each plate on the table. He held a few extra in his hand as he walked toward me.

I swallowed. “Dad?”

The smile he flashed me looked awkward on his crusted lips. “Let me go get your mom. Then we can eat.” He swiped his hand over my forehead as he always did when he passed me. His fingers were ice cold.

I began to kick my feet as I waited but the tips of my toes grew cold since they were wet. Glancing down at my toes, I wiggled them as I scooted back in my chair to catch a peek of them in the dim light. The tips of them were coated in a red substance.

My skin ran cold and I stared. My mind didn’t register the grunts Dad made around the corner until I saw him in the corner of my vision.

His back was to me as he dragged Mom’s body into the kitchen. My mouth fell open as I watched her limp limbs flop about, the soles of her feet being pulled across the metal floorboard that separated the hall from the kitchen, rattling it. Her head hung to her chest and the dark ring around her neck was pronounced, even from this shadowed angle.

Dad banded an arm across her chest and held onto her armpit, propping her torso against his thighs as he dragged her toward the table. His other hand, which still clutched the napkins that were now bloodied, pulled out her chair. He turned as he fitted her into the seat and I saw the bleeding gash on her forehead.

Blood ran down the side of her face like a river, smeared against her forehead and cheek from where Dad had tried to wipe the torrent away. There was a growing blood stain on the shoulder of her pink night gown. And her hair was wild, most of it loose from its ponytail that hung low in the back, leaving the hair in front to puff up. Her eyes were still open but they didn’t shift an inch.

“Dad. . .” I whispered again as he struggled to move her body into the chair. He finally managed to fit her back against it, and push her in far enough so she wouldn’t slip down. Her neck fell forward at an odd angle and her head lolled to the side.

He then busied himself by fixing her hair, trying to flatten the curly mass around the ruined ponytail. Once finished, Dad clapped and the sound made me jerk as he bounced over to his seat and held his hands together to pray.

Dad glanced to Mom before glancing to me. “Come on, Franks, put your hands together.”

Slowly, I put my shaking hands together. I didn’t close my eyes as Dad muttered the prayer. Just watched as his lips moved and his hands shook, looking at the scratches on his neck, and the blood now staining his fingertips.

He concluded prayer with an, “Amen,” and didn’t wait for me to do the same before reaching for the containers. Just as he was about to spoon greens onto his plate, he cursed.

“I forgot the utensils.” He got up and headed to the drawer. I watched as he stared at it for a long time.

“Francisca,” Dad said and although I was already watching him, my body jerked with attention. “It's all plastic. Where are the metal utensils?”

My mouth opened but didn’t work. Surprisingly, I knew this answer since it was something Mom had told me about not too long ago when she walked me to school one day. How she was going to wait until she got her first paycheck and then we were going to go to the nice home goods store and pick up some proper china for the house. The store where the good utensils were, the ones that you had to turn upside when you took a bite of food off. I wasn’t entirely sure what Mom meant but her smile was the brightest it had been in weeks so I was happy to dream with her.

So, I smiled with Mom as she told me her plans to cook this meal and that meal and eat it off of our good plates and our good utensils.

When I finally found my voice, it came out hoarse and small. “We don’t have any. Mom was going to wa-”

Dad shook his head. “A meal like this, we can’t eat it with plastic. I got the good plates out, we need good utensils too.” He grabbed his work shirt from the back of his chair and shrugged it on. I saw blood stained on the front of his chest.

He patted his pocket for his keys and nodded when he heard them jingle. “What store would be open around this time?”

I glanced at the clock, where the time inched closer to midnight. “The drugstore around the corner is open 24/7.” That was where Mom would always go to grab me medicine when I woke up sick in the middle of the night.

Dad snapped and nodded his head. “They should have forks. Thanks, Franks.” He patted his pockets again. “I’ll be right back. You and Mom keep the food warm.” He walked toward the side door, past my overturned bookbag, notebook and pencil case spilled out, and pulled it open. Its hinges squeaked and I noticed it hung crooked in its frame.

“I’ll be right back,” he said again with that strained smile. Then he slammed the door shut.

I didn’t wait for the sound of his car to start as I slipped out of my chair. I stared at Mom’s dead body and wanted to cry but knew there was only so much time before Dad would be back. I grabbed Mom’s phone from the counter and dialed 911.

“911, what’s your emergency?” a lady said after a few rings.

“Hi. . .” I glanced at Mom’s body once more. “My dad killed my mom.”

There was a pause. “Are you hurt?”

I shook my head then said, “no.”

“Where is your dad, sweetie?” the operator asked.

“He went to the store.” I named the two streets it sat on the corner of. “He’s buying utensils.”

“Okay. I’m sending someone to go help your dad at the store. Where are you now?”

“At home.” I gave her my address.

“And your mom. Can you tell if she’s breathing?”

I clutched the phone to my ear and stood by my chair. I didn’t want to touch her. I didn’t want to have any more blood on my skin. And I knew she’d be cold and didn’t want to feel it. My pant leg was still wet.

“She’s still bleeding. There’s a lot on her forehead.” I said. “And her neck is purple. . . I don’t want to touch her.”

“I understand, sweetie. This is something that is very scary but you are so brave for calling 911. You did the right thing. What’s your name?”

“Francisca.”

“Well, Francisca, the ambulance is on their way and will be at your house in a few minutes. I’ll stay on the phone with you until they get there.”

“Okay.”

“Is anyone else in the house with you?”

“No, just me and Mom. It’s just the two of us.”

“Does your dad live with you?”

“Not anymore. My dad argued a lot and made my mom sad so she made him leave.”

“What’s your dad’s name?”

“Francisco Auburn.”

She repeated the name back to herself. “Do you know what he was doing at your house?”

“He wanted. . .” I glanced at the cooling food containers clustered in the middle, the drops of greens juice leading to Dad’s plate, the napkins and spilled juice, the lack of good utensils, the plates covered with lemons but empty of food.

“He wanted to have dinner,” I said.