Indivisible

July 15, 2018 - 3:30AM

Mother wafts the air above the dinner table to rid it of stubborn cigarette smoke and cologne odor. In her smacking motions she nearly clobbers the hovering chandelier, candlelight trembling with tears of wax. The men have left with Father to continue smoking on the porch, but have courteously cleared their plates and stacked them by the sink.

Mother fishes out an air freshener from a nearby cupboard and fires it off, nose pinched, eyes closed, directed toward each guests’ seat.

A meeting with the fireflies on the porch is always their final stop before finally hitting the road, she thinks to herself as chemicals fill the room. It gave her a headstart on rearranging. She shakes the can after an eleven-second squeeze and discards it. Floral fragrance, she reads, hoping to remember next time she’s in the market. Surrounding the trashed freshener can are the leftovers from tonight’s dinner. Mushrooms, cauliflower, half-eaten asparagus, sweet potato skins lined with orange meat, but mostly mushrooms. Kitchen light shimmers off their sliced, brown, oily bodies. Mother takes note of the excess, hoping to remember next time she’s visited.

Too much oil? she wonders. Too thick? Too thin?

Porch chatter seeps through the open front door, intermissions of silence wedged between murmurs and laughter. Varied insects find their way inside. Mother-still-stands above the trash bin analyzing, only half-worried the men will reenter, odor in toe, and stumble upon a tranced housewife. Physically shrugging these thoughts off, she picks the freshener can back up to better account for the mishap of tonight’s dinner. She flicks off a couple of mushrooms sticking to the can.

Too much oil.

After a moment’s hesitation, she digs a nail into one of the mushroom slices on the can and outstretches her finger, like balancing a coin, and examines it under the chandelier. Candlelight gives it an orange glow.

It’s worse than I thought.

She sticks the mushroom-tipped finger in her mouth, saliva and oil eating away at her nail polish, and chews thoroughly.

I see, I see, she almost says aloud, the bittersweet epiphany conquering her taste buds. She sets the can aside, its wrapper dripping in brown shroom juice, and claws deeper into the trash bin, past the mushrooms, cauliflower, half-eaten asparagus, sweet potato skins lined with orange meat, but mostly mushrooms. Minimal movement elbow-deep, her hand twitches amongst the used coffee filters and banana peels like a suffocating fish. A plastic fork penetrates her palm, causing her to retract, the forceful motion bringing some of the leftovers flying from the bin and slapping the floor.

The leftovers form a puddle of oil on the wooden floor tiles. Mother bends her elbow, making an “L” to observe the damage. Blood lightly trickles down her brown, garbage-ridden forearm. A fly formerly of the porch buzzes around her head before landing squarely under her right eye causing a formidable itch that simply had to be dealt with. She quickly slaps her cheek with her dominant albeit filthy hand, missing entirely and painting her face crimson and brown.

Adieu, says one man to the others on the porch.

Adieu, another replies.

Adieu, says Father, already halfway inside. He flicks his cigarette onto the empty driveway and shuts the door, wafting fireflies away from his nose. Boy, I hardly ate, he says just before entering the kitchen and spotting Mother, face fit for a tribe. Flustered, her bare foot steps into the drying, sticky puddle of oil. Father steps toward the dinner table and grabs an unwashed dish from the men’s stack. His stomach growls softly.

Any mushrooms left?