Scraping Knives
by Keith LaFountaine
part 1
Jonah’s gut flipped when he saw the Christmas tree. Red tinsel was wrapped around the green needles like bloody intestines. And still, despite that lurid detail, the tree seemed to hold an aura of power. The green needles, the fresh, pine odor that hung in the living room, the gold skirt that lay perfectly flat on the floor, it all served to remind Jonah of how much his battered suit jacket stood out.
Megan stood in the kitchen with her parents. She was all legs and angular eyebrows, with a Cupid’s Bow mouth and a sprinkle of freckles on her cheeks. On more than one occasion, his self-esteem had questioned the validity of her love.
She chose to wear a royal blue dress that hung just above the knee, a more garish display than her parents were used to. Her mother had offered a tart nod and a short “Oh” as she walked in the door, and her father, Gerald, had said nothing. Now, her mother’s mouth was moving a mile-a-minute. Every few seconds, she would glance in his direction. Her eyes were blue and piercing, like possessed sapphires.
Gerald glared over his bushy mustache, his suit jacket shining and unbuttoned, the folds of his neck fat rolling over his collar. He was deep in conversation with a man Megan had introduced as Uncle Jackie, who was scrawny, slathered in fake tanner, and sporting a wisp of white hair.
The whiskey sour was good and strong, but every sip seemed to earn Jonah another round of stares. Couples he didn’t know or recognize were bolder in the attention they offered, especially the man and woman sitting on the couch. They were his age, no older than twenty-seven, but their eyes belied their youth. There was something old in their gaze. So, he focused on the tree, even with its jarring contrasts.
Megan approached, her dress flapping around her legs, accentuating the paleness of her calves. “You doing okay?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Jonah said. “Just, well, I feel a little out of place is all.”
“They’re like this with everyone,” she said, coating her tone with reassurance. She wrapped a hand into his free one. “My mom especially. They’re just old-fashioned. Smoking room savants, if you will. You’re not chewing on some cigar and offering my dad insurance.”
“You make it seem like your parents are from the ’20s,” Jonah snickered. He sipped his drink again.
“They just aren’t used to you yet. A bearded twenty-something who aspires to direct movies? You know how they read that?”
“They think I’m a barista, don’t they?”
“Yup.”
“Well, I guess I should be the one to offer them coffee after dinner, then,” he joked.
She laughed at that; the sound was soft against Jonah’s ears. Megan clenched his hand tight for a moment, then released it. She turned his face to hers and planted a kiss on his lips.
“I have to go back and mingle,” she said. “You should introduce yourself, though. Get to know some people.”
“Sure,” Jonah said.
She walked away, the bottom of her dress bouncing with her step. He turned to look at the couple on the couch. They were still staring at him, sipping on their drinks.
“She’s a good one,” the woman said.
“A real catch,” the man confirmed.
“Thanks,” Jonah said. “Yeah. Guess I’m just lucky.”
“Something like that,” the man said. And then he turned his gaze back to his drink, pulling it up to his lips and sucking it down in a single go.
“Jonah, mind joining me in my study for a few minutes?” Gerald called from the dining room.
“Sure,” Jonah said.
He followed Gerald, who weaved through the crowd with practiced ease. Megan blew him a kiss and mouthed good luck. Her mother watched with that steely gaze, sharpening a carving knife. Behind her, releasing an illustrious stream of white steam, were homemade rolls sitting on a metal cooling rack.
And then, all in an instant, they were plunged into darkness. Gerald’s study was colder than the rest of the house. The only lamp was by his computer, and it emitted a sour, yellow glow that barely touched the corners of the room.
Aside from a bookcase that covered the back wall, there wasn’t much in the study: a desk with a computer monitor, keyboard, and mouse. On the wall, looking down on the workspace, was an old family photo: Gerald, Megan, and her mother, all standing in the field behind the house. The woods towered above them, dark trunks immobile, leaves pulled sideways.
There was a lone chair on the wall opposite the computer desk. Gerald gestured toward it. Jonah sat down. It was uncomfortable and hard, and the leather was as cold as the room. A ripple of goosebumps tore up his arm, the cold piercing the suit jacket.
“I don’t let many people in here,” Gerald said after a brief pause. His mustache twitched as he spoke, as if it were an interpreter. “In fact, I pride myself on privacy. Every man needs a place that’s his own. Don’t you agree?”
Jonah cleared his throat. His mouth suddenly felt dry and hot, as if he had swallowed a fistful of sand. “Well, I don’t know about that,” he said honestly. “I like my personal space, but I don’t know if I need a study or an office.”
Gerald’s eyes twinkled. He shifted in the chair. “Oh?”
Damn, Jonah thought. He’d spoken honestly, but honesty was somehow seen as a poor trait with men like Gerald.
“That’s how I see it,” Jonah said. “It’s hard enough to find a decent one-bedroom apartment these days as it is, let alone an apartment with an office.”
“Having trouble with money?” Gerald’s voice was as dark as oil.
“No,” Jonah said. “Just... the housing market isn’t what it used to be.” He thought for a moment: smoking rooms with cigars and figures. “I mean,” he continued, “even if I were to put money down on a house today, it wouldn’t appreciate as a house would even a decade ago. And I’d get a worse interest rate.”
Most of his short speech was gobbledygook he’d read in Wall Street Journal articles. Nonetheless, it seemed to impress Gerald. He leaned back in his chair and chewed on his bottom lip. “Interesting,” he said. His mustache danced and then puffed outward as he spoke.
A long silence followed, one that became more uncomfortable with each second that passed. It was then Jonah realized he didn’t hear any noise. Nothing at all. No chatter from the kitchen, no laughter. Nothing.
“You know, the last guy Megan brought home was very different from you,” Gerald continued. “He was a real estate agent. A pretty good one. It was a pity she chose to let him go. That’s one pretty solid market.”
“Well, except for when it crashed,” Jonah said.
Gerald’s irises flashed with plumes of fury, and his face contorted with a glower that cut to the bone. Another one of those pauses ensued.
And then Gerald cleared his throat and continued. “He was muscular, too. An impressive man. The kind of man who’d inherit the Earth if the need arose. As a father, you can imagine I look for that sort of specimen.” He paused, his eyes traveling up and down as he took in Jonah’s form. “But with you, it seems she’s gone the opposite way.”
A devilish smile crept up on Gerald’s face, slashing the fatty skin and breaking through his steely demeanor. Then, he dropped it and drooped his head downward, looking at the floor.
“Well, you don’t have to worry about meekness with me,” Jonah said.
“I don’t worry about you,” Gerald remarked sharply. “If I did, I don’t think I could call myself a man.” He stood and gestured for Jonah to leave the room.
Taking a sip of his drink, Jonah stood and walked toward the study door.
“You just do anything a person tells you, don’t you?” Gerald asked. “Well, no matter.”
Jonah didn’t wait for another soliloquy. He opened the door and broke through the cold darkness, emerging in the white light of the kitchen, greeted by interminable stares.
The only smile waiting for him was from Megan, who had her hands clasped together in front of her chest, her eyes luminous and full of hope. “So, how’d it go?” she asked.
“I don’t think he likes me,” Jonah responded.
Her face faltered, and for a moment, he could have sworn he saw a bubble of wetness accrue in her eyes. But then the countenance disappeared, and she hooked her arm around his. “Well, I’m sure he’ll come around,” she said. “He’s just old-fashioned like that.”
Plates and wine glasses elegantly filled the long, rectangular table. Megan’s mother went around the table filling up each glass. Jonah noticed she passed over him, but he didn’t make a fuss over it, especially not when he saw Gerald at the head of the table. His eyes were still burning with that spiteful fire.
Megan sat across from him, on her father’s right. Jonah wished there was at least a person available to separate him from the patriarch, who was now biting his mealy lips and scowling over his mustache. The folds of his skin sagged and creased, creating the eerie approximation of an old oil tycoon. The only things missing were a few black spots on his cheek and his forehead.
Once the wine glasses were filled, Uncle Jackie went around serving a small Caesar salad. Again, he passed over Jonah as he delicately placed a healthy amount onto each plate, using red salad tongs. He wore some kind of cologne: something musty and strong, which made Jonah want to gag.
Gerald raised his wine glass, the maroon liquid sloshing inside the crystal, and he looked lovingly at Megan. “My daughter has brought home a young man. Such events require pause. To remember the old times and to prepare for the future.” He turned to Jonah, his gaze rancid, his lips curling downward. “Jonah here fancies himself a comedian or a market expert. We’ll know which soon enough, I suppose.”
A chilling pall wrapped the dining room in a hug. Jonah felt a dozen eyes on him: from Megan’s parents, from Uncle Jackie, from the young couple on the couch, from the aunt he hadn’t been introduced to. He raised his whiskey sour, which was almost empty, trying to strike an expression that was jovial and pleasant. “I appreciate being invited,” Jonah said.
Copyright © 2021 by Keith LaFountaine
