Slaves
The Entire Pet Incident
It’s Thanksgiving, and Mark is at it again. Pontificating, as Dad would say. Showing off what he thinks with big words, so it sounds true.
His back is turned to us, so he’s pontificating indirectly.
That’s Mark.
Indirect.
Like his voice means something. Like it’s true all by itself.
The Voice of God.
He’s shoulder to shoulder with Mom at the kitchen sink.
They don’t fit.
There’s not enough room, but there he is, right next to her anyway, interfering while she cleans the string beans.
Mom snaps off the ends and drops the beans into a colander under the open tap. Mark snaps them in half just as fast.
It’s not a race. She doesn’t need him there. He’s not even helping really, just asserting his preference.
Mom likes the beans long and natural. Who doesn’t?
But Mark gets what he wants. That’s their compromise.
Everything bite-sized.
Bite-sized like his pea-sized brain and bite-sized like his beady little eyes.
Bite-sized like the flimsy wireframe glasses that keep sliding down his long greasy nose.
Bite-sized like the nasty line of hair above his thin invisible lips over his teensie yellow teeth and his weak punchable chin.
A familiar voice sings over the mass. “And where is our little Cinderella?” she calls.
That’s Nonna.
That was Dad’s name for her. Nonna Bella. It means “beautiful grandmother” in Italian, he said.
And, of course, that makes sense because Nonna is all Italian. A smooth-skinned woman no bigger than a sixth-grader with black spider eyes, pink powdery cheeks, and a ferocious pink mouth.
Her real name is Helen.
Mark calls her Helen—at least to her face. He calls her “Hell-Woman,” under his breath. But never around Mom.
“Oh, Cinderella!” Nonna carols in her sing-song voice.
“And she hasn’t even started drinking yet,” Mark slurs.
He’s so mean.
The slurs of a mean God.
“Let me guess, Helen,” Mark grumbles over his shoulder. “Caitlin is Cinderella now? And that’s because we work the poor girl to death. Is that it?”
Caitlin stamps her foot. “Seriously?” she whines. “She told you that? Uh! I was only kidding, Nonna, gawd.”
Mom spins away from Mark and click, click, clicks across the tile floor toward Caitlin.
“Caitlin, honey, get out of the fridge,” Mom says, wiping her hands. “Go help Nonna with the snacks, please.”
“Well, it’s true!” Nonna says, joining us in the kitchen. “Do we have wine?”
Mom turns from the refrigerator, pouring. “Chardonnay,” she says.
“Look,” Mom hands Nonna the brimming glass, “Caitlin is twenty-three years old now. She’s not a child. She’s free to live her life. Her terms. And she doesn't have to live it here either—not with us. Not if she doesn’t want to. She can go anywhere she wants—anywhere her little heart desires.”
“But what about the pets?” Nonna snaps, hand to her hip. “Who’s going to care for all these cute little darlings?”
“What about this cute little darling?” Mark barks. He nods toward the pallid cadaver listing in a roasting pan on top of the oven.
“We’re going to eat this little darling, aren’t we, dear?” He raises his eyebrows, self-satisfied.
Smug little prick of a God.
Mom sighs. “Not already. Can we please not?” She takes a long gulping swig straight from the amber bottle.
Nonna clucks. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she says. “Anne-Marie! Use a glass, for heaven’s sake.”
Nonna rolls her black spider eyes, takes a sip of her wine and turns back to Mark.
“Look, Mark,” Nonna says, “all I’m saying is young Caitlin shouldn’t be left here to care for this entire place, all these pets, while the two of you go gallivanting across the countryside. That’s too much responsibility for a girl her age.”
Nonna peers over the kitchen island on tiptoe and eyes the turkey. She flicks her eyes to Mark. “You don’t have stuffing in that bird, do you, dear? Salmonella.” she says. “It can kill a man your size,” she smirks.
Nonna turns to Mom, hand to her sunken chest. “Foood poisoning,” she mouths.
“Fooood poisoning,” with long, drawn-out ‘ooo' sounds through pink puckered lips. “Fooood poisoning,” she says. “Fooooood poisoning.”
“Caitlin’s got it pretty good,” Mark says, sliding the turkey into the oven. “Sure, this place is a lot of work. But it doesn’t cost her a dime, either.” He turns his back to us again, busying himself in the sink.
“But the pets,” Nonna digs in. “A girl Caitlin’s age has a life, you know. She should be free to travel. Explore. Seek adventure! See the world!” she says, swinging her free arm. “Not be tied down.”
“They’re just animals,” Mark says. “Pets,” he says, in exaggerated air quotes. Like he’s clawing an invisible wall.
“Her “pets,” I might add. A dog and two cats. She doesn’t want “pets?” Great! Bad idea to begin with. Set ‘em free. Let ‘em go. Shouldn’t have locked them up in the first place.”
Nonna shudders. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Mark,” she backhands the notion. “These pets aren’t locked up. They’re part of the family. You just can’t let them go.” She opens her arms wide, as wide as her tiny little sixth-grader arms can go.
“Then we’ll eat them,” Mark shrugs.
“Mom!” Caitlin screams.
Mom’s no help. Not anymore. No fight left in her. She stares right through me and off into space with her glazed, swollen, tear-stained eyes.
Mark laughs. “Oh, but “I love them,” you say. They’re like “family” you say.”
Again with the air quotes. Always so dramatic.
Drama God.
“They live so well, don’t they?” Drama God goes on. “For prisoners.”
Nonna rolls her eyes. “Oh, really, Mark!”
“They volunteered?” Mark inquisits.
“They’re prisoners, I tell you. Natural predators, carnivores, all of them. Meat-eaters. Hunters. Free souls forced into captivity. Fed fake food. Kibbles and bits out of a bag. Chained and leashed. Locked indoors or caged. Occasionally released on tether to “walk,” he says with his air quotes.
The Gospel of Mark.
An entire sermon with his back to us.
Facing everything but us.
Avoiding us.
Like God.
Coward God.
Caitlin pipes up. “Says here dogs have been domesticated for over 10,000 years,” she pans her phone for everyone in the room to see. “Our faithful, loving guardians,” it says.
“Ha!” Mark shoots a finger skyward. “Legacy does not equal morality, young lady. You, of all people, should know that.”
“Of ALL people?” Caitlin sneers. “What’s THAT supposed to mean?”
“The people of your generation,” God goes on. “Champions of special treatment.”
He waits for a rebuttal but gets none.
Unassailable God continues his homily.
“Everyone has the right to exist as they want to exist, isn’t that right?” he rattles. “To live according to their nature. To be what they were born to be. To live in freedom. Free from slavery. Free from oppressive dictatorship. Free to live their life on their own terms according to their “divine right to exist,” he says in air quotes.
God turns.
His face shines upon us.
“Isn’t that right?” he shrugs.
Smug God.
“What makes you think you have any right to lock up these animals for your convenience?” he scolds. “You kids insist that everyone and everything has special rights, yet only YOU decide what those rights are and who, of all God’s creation, gets them.”
Now he’s waving his arms, too.
The arms of God.
“Ridiculous!” he proclaims.
“But the poor dears will starve, you say.” God is just getting warmed up.
“Oh, but let these little darling prisoners of yours run the streets. Let these felines prowl the fields. Then check again in three weeks’ time. You will not find a single starved animal, no ma’am, and no sir! Turn your gaze in every which direction, and then you will see what these pretty little “pets” of yours are capable of.”
Mom drinks from the bottle again, still staring blankly into space. As blank as a pale sheet. As blank as a stone tablet.
“Then let's say ten years pass,” the testament continues, “and do you know what you will find? Ah yes, these precious “pets” of yours, your precious “family,” have turned their attention to our smallest, weakest, and most frail. That’s right, that’s right,” he exhorts. “These precious “pets” of yours are hunting our babies now, our sick children, our feeble and elderly grandparents,” he points to Nonna. “Picking them off one by sickly one and eating them up.”
Caitlin shakes her head. “Yeah, I highly doubt that, Mark,” she says.
“You doubt that?” he booms. “Don’t believe me then. Doubt as much as you like,” he exhorts. “But don’t for one minute pretend to be holier than thou while you imprison these poor souls and the souls of their offspring, all for your convenience and companionship. It’s unnatural. It’s immoral. And it is just plain cruel.”
That was it.
That’s what broke her.
Mom's shoulders slumped, her posture collapsing under the weight of grief, guilt, and abandonment.
A small gasp escaped her lips, a prelude to the storm that was about to break.
Mark, Nonna, and Caitlin turned in unison, their expressions shifting from anger and irritation to shock and concern.
They watched, frozen, as Mom crumpled to the floor, her legs giving way beneath her. Her body shook with the force of her cries, sobs growing louder, raw, heart-wrenching pain and exhaustion echoing off the walls.
“Better get up, dear,” Nonna warned.
“Your new husband may just decide to eat you.”
Special Thanks
A great big thank you to Laura Lee MacPherson for pushing me to think differently….about writing, creativity, and storytelling in general.
Although it took me twice as long to finish, and although it ain’t pretty…I’m glad I pushed through to the end.
Thanks, Laura.
And thanks to each and every one of you for reading.
I love you guys! ☺️ ❤️🔥
-Paul
Love this!! "The Gospel of Mark" — seriously brilliant. And I want more!