About halfway down the stairs David caught the aroma of the garlic and lemon. He placed his hand on the railing. He inhaled again. Before he entered the kitchen he heard his wife chopping cherry tomatoes and her quasi-chiffonade of basil. He knew she would add his favorite dessert – sweet blueberries mixed with the bite of strawberries.
Then he heard a voice. The husky rasp of his daughter-in-law sucked the air out of the house. His eyes lifted, and, as if hit by a hammer, he saw her and her nineteen-year-old son, Brian, shuffling toward David’s wife. If they were in his house, his step-son was soon to follow – that thrice-fired for the same offense, fifty-six-year-old minimum wage man. At that point they would suck not only the air, but also the space from the house. He looked at the bulky tribe and stepped back. He opened the glass door. Retreated onto the dining room balcony, leaned against the railing, and heard the front door open. Within moments he returned to the kitchen.
His stepson rushed into the kitchen. And as was his practice, he was whispering to his mother. When he left. the front door remained open. He returned with bags. Without a word, he walked downstairs, came upstairs carrying things. No one looked at nor talked to the man. Until –
His wife – still facing the sink: I haven’t been forthright with you.
David motioned toward the living room, his wife nodded, but did not follow as he walked away, then sat in the living room waiting for her guests to leave.
They did not budge.
He heard his wife: Brian can sleep downstairs.
Upon hearing that Brian ran upstairs.
David walked up the stairway where the young man was flayed across the hallway floor. He looked at Brian – a slow-witted, slow-talking, whiny kid, much like his father – then kneeled near Brian’s left leg.
David said: That furniture in the downstairs bedroom has been in my family since 1858. Do not damage it.
Brian said: Not your family anymore, old man, it’s mine now.
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