I walked into the kitchen just as mother was plating our lunch. She looked at me and smiled. I didn't smile back. I was determined to fight.
"What's wrong?" mother said. She picked up our plates and walked to the small table in the corner of the matchbox kitchen next to the basement door.
"Nothing," I mumbled, making my way to the table.
She placed the plates on the mats and arranged the glasses and spoons and forks around it. I was about to sit down when she snapped her fingers twice. I looked up. She was pointing to the sink. I got up with a frown and shuffled over to the sink to wash my hands. When I got back, she was already sitting at the table, waiting for me.
"So, are you going to tell me what's wrong, Sulky Sulkerson?"
"I said nothing. Nothing's wrong," I poked the meat island in the thick gravy with my fork.
"Is it the pizza nonsense again?"
Mother was in her usual pink dress. An off-white apron covered the front of the dress. Her hair was a neat bun at the back of her skull. She sat erect behind her plate, cutting the meat into small bite-sized pieces, soaking them in the gravy.
Of course it was the pizza nonsense again.
"I thought we were having pizza today," I said softly, with the right amount of hurt and anger in my voice.
Mother looked at me. She was chewing with her mouth closed. And then she stopped.
"You know we can't afford it. Why do you desire things we can't afford?"
"I don't desire it," I said stressing on desire, "it's just pizza."
She had a sip of water and wiped the corners of her mouth with a paper napkin.
"Are you mocking me?"
"No," I let go of my fork and it sank in the gravy. I looked away, tears welling up.
"Your father provides these meals for us. You know the condition we are in. The condition he is in. Why are you being so difficult? A little gratitude is all I ask. And some decency to not want silly things. Things that cost money. A lot of money. There will be no more pizza talk – "
"Father? What father! He doesn't provide anything! He just – "
Her palm didn't let me finish. The slapped side of my face burned. Fury boiled in my head, my heart. Yet somehow, the first thought that came to my mind was that if the kitchen table was bigger, her hand couldn't have reached my face.
I got up, pushing back the chair so hard it toppled over. She had closed her eyes hard and there were little wrinkles around them. Her right hand, the slapper, was bunched up in a fist on the table, next to her plate. For a second I thought she was going to cry and I wanted to hug her and say I was sorry. But I was beginning to see red and I stormed out.
At around seven in the evening, I stood outside her room and knocked on the door. I knew she was inside. I knocked again and entered. The room was dark. I could make out she was on the bed. She was sleeping, facing the wall on the other side. I could see the bun of her hair. I walked to the foot of the bed and slipped under the blanket. She opened her eyes to see my face in front of hers. She smiled. Her eyes looked puffy and I knew she had been crying.
"Sorry," I whispered, tears welling up again.
She put her arm around me and rubbed my back. She kissed my nose.
"I'm sorry too," she said and kissed my forehead.
"I made you cry," I said. Tears flowed along the side of my nose, stopped at the tip and dripped onto the pillow.
"No. I made me cry. I made you cry. I shouldn't have hit you. You're my sunshine. You're full of sunshine."
I smiled.
"I'll never ask for pizza again," I said.
"I'll see if I can arrange some money. My sunshine wants pizza, he will get it."
I looked up and smiled. She looked so tired.
"Shall I get dinner today?" I asked.
She considered it for a second. I had never done it. She wasn't sure if I could. But I had seen her get it so many times.
"Why not? You're old enough, aren't you? What are you, six now?" she was smiling.
I giggled.
"No! I am almost nine!"
"Really? Wow. My sunshine's such a big boy? How come I didn't know?"
I buried by face in the pillow and giggled some more.
"Will you go get dinner then?"
I nodded and crawled over her, out of the bed. She squealed and laughed. I reached the door and she called out, "And get the last scoop. I was saving it for a special night but I think both of us could use some dessert tonight."
With a delighted scream, I ran to the kitchen. I grabbed a plastic bowl off the counter and took the knife and the scooper from the shelf next to the basement door. I made my way down the narrow, noisy wooden stairs to the cold, dark concrete floor of the basement. I switched on the white tube light and squinted.
In the middle, there were three rows of glass jars, twelve in all, with chunks of meat in salt water. Behind them were two empty jars. I opened the one closest to me and cut off two moderate slices of the wet cured meat. I closed the jar and looked around.
I placed the bowl and the knife on the floor and picked up the scooper. I walked over to the small freezer behind the pillar and opened it. Father's head was cold, hard, almost blue and smoking. I scooped his one remaining eye out with great difficulty. It was frozen solid. I closed the freezer and my eyes. I quickly murmured the prayer mother had taught me, offering my respect and gratitude to Father, the Provider.
I picked up the bowl, the knife, switched off the light and ran up the stairs to mother and dinner.
