It
was all so beautiful. Max was shredding the cheese. Elliot cracked
the eggs into a bowl, and with his fork whipped them just until
the point of froth. While sautéing the potato chunks I surveyed
the situation. The troops were in order, and I, the leader, was
proud. Upon finishing the first two omelettes, I served them up
to my faithful underlings, and turned my back to them as I began
work on fashioning my own man-size egg creation that would undoubtedly
drive the boys to envious fits of finger-pointing.
My three-day stay alone with the boys was coming to a close, as
the parents were returning from their conference in Austria later
that evening. One more dinner, one more P.J. outfitting, and one
more bedtime story, and I’d have made it through this particular
gauntlet relatively unfazed.
Suddenly, a dissension in the ranks.
I heard a squeaking noise, followed by some gurgling, then yelling…
I turned around, just in time to see Elliot out of his seat, about
to lunge at Max, fork tines out. My instincts by now finely honed,
I scooped El up into the air before any unfortunate utensil lodging
and held him horizontally suspended above the ground, stomach down,
and tell him to drop the fork. We all went outside the kitchen and
I ask what happened. Max had apparently been strangling him. Recently
Max acquired the habit of wrapping his hands around his younger
brother’s neck and squeezing. What had caused the severe neck
rub this time, I didn’t find out. This au pair was not in
the mood for shenanigans, however, and thus tightened his vice-like
grip of authority. “Max, if you strangle your brother again…
there will be no ice cream.” My threat echoed throughout the
now-silent brownstone. We re-entered the kitchen, a thin veil of
calm necessarily draped over the boys’ eager faces.
The enjoyment of fine cuisine was not enough to hold their interest,
however, and they began to show off their burping prowess. After
allowing them false confidence, I decided to let them know who was
cream of this castle. Out bellowed my belch, deep and fertile and
resonant. They stared in awe. Then they let out their giggles and
asked how I did such a thing. I told them to find the men who taught
me, carefully pronouncing the names of two elementary school buddies
like information guarded by the gatekeepers of some secret society.
I figured a pilgrimage would be a good goal for these boys to have,
and more productive than causing each other’s lacerations.
As I cooked my omelette, I noticed a burning smell. There were some
leftover potatoes in the pan that I assumed were the culprit. Max
turned the fan on, to no avail. The smell grew acrid, and I viewed
the boys across the room as if through a sheet of wax paper. I looked
up into the lights and noticed swirls of smoke snaking along the
ceiling. Oh no please no not this. But where? Was there an electrical
problem? Was it the lamp in the laundry room, knocked over by an
errant guinea pig and burning a hole in the straw rug? Was it coming
from outside in the garden, perhaps from a cat that had crawled
across the power lines for the last time? Then… toast! I went
to the toaster, raised the lever, and sure enough, out popped four
black squares, putrid smoke escaping out of the metal canals. My
nerves were calmed; there was no fire, and we already had enough
toast for the three of us. But the kitchen was filling with smoke
that was rapidly flowing out into the other quarters, along with
that rank smell of char and yeast. The phone rang. The parents would
be arriving within 15 minutes.
With horror I remembered a past conversation, and recalled that
Julie’s house burned down when she was a young child. And
now her present house was rapidly filling with smoke, under my careful
care and supervision. This would not be the most pleasing homecoming
gift. Seventy-two hours of incident-free house and child care, all
up in burnt toast. I would be thrown out with the dogs—no,
the dogs would take my room, being preferred housemates to one so
callous and irresponsible as myself. I would take my new place in
the hierarchy of creatures, excreting my filth on the doorsteps
of others while Scrappy and Rex cozied up together under my down
comforter. No! M and El helped me as I threw open windows and doors
with the zeal often reserved for pre-empting natural disasters.
Thankfully, the 15 minutes became an hour, a fortunate draft cleared
the smoke up and out into the brisk evening air, and I retained
my tenuous hold on order and reason.
The omelettes were consumed, the dishes were put away, the boys
were happy. We combined to form a Back Scratching Train, with Elliot
as caboose and Max on the receiving end of my infamous ‘magic
fingers.’ I am happy to report that El had not cut his fingernails
in quite some time. The chunks of dirt and various meals accumulated
alongside his cuticles, I shall not ponder. Upstairs, I told the
boys to get on their pajamas as I looked for a suitable story to
whisk them off to sleep. Elliot, not happy with my handling of the
situation, offered his own analysis: “Why? ‘Cause you
are stupid? ‘Cause you pee in your bed? ‘Cause you’re
a big baby?” This flurry of insults became oddly endearing
when flung by El, his pants dangling off his head like oversized
corduroy antlers, as he feigned difficulty with dressing himself.
I climbed into Max’s bed, and in lieu of reading Sammy the
Zamboni Driver, the three of us somehow ended up showing each other
our scars. “What’s that one there, El?” I said,
pointing to a line above his right eyebrow. He explained how
Max pushed him headfirst into a wall. “It was just to
do funny,” Elliot reassured me. “What’s that
mark there?” Max then asked me, pointing to the back of my
right hand. I reminded him of the time he pinched me till I
bled. “Oh yeah,” he recalled sheepishly. Before
any more recollections of Max’s destructive past completely
wore away the day’s healthy sheen, I changed focus. Their
eyelids grew heavy as I recounted the tale of the gash on my chin
opened up so many years ago on our backyard ice rink. A2P
|
|
