Scraping Knives
by Keith LaFountaine
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
Nobody responded. The seconds ticked by, each moment seeming to span an eon as he held that glass forward, the melted ice and amber liquid mingling underneath the yellow lights. He thought about the tree then, about the contrast between the tinsel and the green pine needles. About the gold tree skirt.
Gerald did not say anything further. When he brought the glass to his lips, everyone at the table, including Megan, followed suit. Jonah downed the last of his drink and placed the empty glass behind his empty plate, next to his empty wine glass. His stomach did an odd somersault when he saw Megan’s face. She stared at her father dotingly. With an affection he’d never seen before.
When they were alone together, Megan made her father seem like a wealthy tyrant deserving of his own Dickens novel. But there, sitting at the table with her tousle of salad and her wine glass, she looked like she’d always adored the man.
A clatter of forks against plates ensued as everyone dug into their salad. Jonah licked his dry lips, wishing he had a refill, or even just a small morsel to nibble on. The absence of anything sent his anxiety into high gear. But the bizarre thing, the thing that genuinely curdled his blood, was that nobody spoke.
His family had its quirks, but they spoke at the dinner table. His Dad would discuss the Red Sox with his uncle, while his mother would chat with his sister about the latest episode of This Is Us. There would be inside jokes galore and stories swapped. But at this table, there was nothing. Just those forks scraping away against the fine china, and the wet mashing of mouths, and the crunching of teeth powering through a crouton.
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t seem to get any salad,” Jonah said.
Megan looked up at him. Fear flashed in her eyes.
Gerald placed his fork down on the plate. He pinched a green romaine leaf between his lips before sucking it in and cleaning his teeth with his tongue. Nobody spoke. And now the sound of scraping forks was gone, too.
“Do you feel you deserve salad, Jonah?” Gerald asked.
Stammering at first, Jonah managed a nod and spluttered, “Yes.” He’d never been asked whether he deserved food or not. It did not help that Megan’s face grew more worried by the second: her eyes guarded, and her eyebrows turned down. She had a hand wrapped around a fork, but he could see it trembling.
“Interesting,” Gerald said. He sucked on his teeth and extended a hand toward the rest of the family. “Is there anybody else who believes Jonah deserves salad?”
Jonah looked around, hoping at least Megan would speak up for him. But she averted her gaze, opting instead to stare down in her plate. Four excruciating minutes went by. Nobody so much as tapped their foot. Uncle Jackie had the hint of a smirk on his lips, but other than that, nobody at the table offered emotion.
“I guess it’s settled,” Gerald said. He turned back to his salad and finished it in a few bites. The scraping forks resumed, a horrid, chattering chorus.
Uncle Jackie helped clear the salad plates and set new ones. Jonah didn’t see the reason why: everybody at the table, except him, had cleaned theirs. Not even a dot of dressing or a blot of cheese remained. The musky cologne returned as Uncle Jackie leaned over Jonah to take his clean plate and replace it with another identical disc. Then, Megan’s mother came out from the kitchen with a huge pan full of baked potatoes. With an oven-gloved hand, she grasped each brown spud and placed it on a plate, going right down the line.
Again, she passed over Jonah.
After the potatoes, her mother went back to the kitchen and returned with more food: green bean casserole, homemade stuffing, sweet corn, and roast lamb. Still, Jonah’s plate remained empty. Now, his stomach was starting to work against him. The aromas around the table were hard to ignore: the smell of the potatoes as they were cut open; the steaming lamb and its accompanying sauce; the corn, doused in a thin sheen of butter. He wanted to reach over to Gerald’s plate and steal a handful of it. But he sat there, his eyes focused on Megan, and watched as everyone devoured their meal.
He opted to count the seconds: something his mother had taught him to do when he was waiting. At sixty, he would make a mental tally and move on, all the while doing his best to plaster a satisfied grin on his face. As though he was happy to be smelling food, as if all he wanted for dinner was a mouth full of drool.
When he got to one hour, he stopped counting. Still, the family ate. Knives and forks scraped against plates. Uncle Jackie took to dipping a spoon into his pile of corn, crunching it happily, disregarding the yellow mash that dribbled down his lips.
At the other end of the table, Megan’s mom mutilated her baked potato, scooping out the white innards and cutting up the brown skin, eating and savoring it like it was a fat piece of bacon. The young people were feeding each other green bean casserole, ignoring the messy results. Even Gerald, with his stern ways, didn’t seem to care that cream of mushroom sauce and crispy fried onions were staining his carpet.
And Megan, the woman he loved, the woman he wanted to start a family with, the woman he found attractive and genuine in equal measure, dove her incisors into the lamb. Blood dribbled down her chin, but that didn’t stop her from eating with gusto, forgoing forks and knives, and instead holding the meat in one hand. She chewed on it, her eyes rolling into the back of her head with orgasmic delight. She didn’t even wait to swallow a bite before she dove in again.
Jonah looked over at Gerald and realized Megan’s father was staring at him. He smiled — not hiding his glee or trying to pretend it was something else. Hell, he was practically laughing in Jonah’s face.
That was when something misfired in Jonah’s mind. It felt like he’d thrown a belt, like his engine was clipping along, but had lost the traction it needed to keep firing. He looked at Megan as nausea filled his stomach and sour vomit climbed up his throat. She still devoured her meat, a feral growl escaping her mouth.
Gerald was laughing now, a deep booming sound bouncing off the walls. An orchestral melody of scraping silverware, booming mirth, and hungry grunting filled Jonah’s ears. His mind was so addled, he almost didn’t realize he was falling. Or, rather, his head was descending. Down, down, down it went until it cracked against the china plate. He felt it shatter underneath him. And still, Gerald laughed.
He was suddenly tired, so tired. He couldn’t stop his eyelids from slipping over their glassy orbs. And when he plunged into darkness, a part of Jonah knew he was not going to be leaving the house that night.
When he opened his eyes again, Jonah realized he was staring at the ceiling. Something felt off, though. When he tried to move his arms, he discovered a thick rope had been wrapped around his wrists and ankles. That realization made him struggle harder.
“Shhh,” Megan said. Her cool hands were in his hair, against his forehead. “This will be harder if you struggle.”
He craned his neck backward. He wanted to see her, wanted to drink in her kind face, and understand she was there to help him. But when he saw her, he wanted to upchuck. Only, there was nothing for him to spew.
Above him was a sagging creature: a horrifying bloat of humanity, with a preponderance of redundant flesh. Glassy orbs were settled in a doughy, pink mess that was a face, but he didn’t recognize it as Megan. Not as the woman he had held so many nights before. Not as the woman he had made love to. Not as the woman who had laughed with him, and told him stories, and whispered dark secrets in his ear.
She raised a gelatinous arm. Fat jiggled as she pointed forward. Jonah craned his head down, practically shoving it into his chest, and that was when he saw Gerald. He was similarly deformed, but his skin was a sickening green hue. Like the color of the vomit Jonah desperately wanted to unleash. He was naked, a swollen, pudgy stomach rolling over where his groin should have been. Two pouting breasts sagged forward, practically falling to the floor. His neck flab wobbled around like a turkey’s. Carved into his chest, bright red as though the wound was still fresh, was a pentagram. But his teeth were what struck the fear of God into Jonah: they were rotten and blackened, the gums receding from the bone. He could smell the fetid odor from the middle of the table. But Gerald was still laughing, still smiling.
“It’s a pity, son,” Gerald said. His voice carried a resounding, booming echo. “Meg really loved you. But I can’t accept somebody like you into our family. You see, with us, you’re here forever, by the grace of Beelzebub himself, and you sicken me.”
Uncle Jackie stood by the table, also naked, his eyes shining with glee. Megan’s mother approached Gerald. She held a gleaming carving knife. He took it with glee and climbed onto the table.
Jonah writhed against the ropes. Adrenaline shielded him from the burns, but his skin eventually broke, and hot blood dribbled down his forearm, sticking in his shirt sleeves. The knife gleamed in the yellow light, as did Gerald’s broken teeth.
“Please,” Jonah begged, looking back up at Megan. “Please, help me!”
“I’m sorry, baby,” she said, her crimson lips sagging in the meaty sack that had become her face. “But it was either you or Uncle Jackie this year. We were all getting so old, baby. But I really did love you. More than the others.”
She leaned down and kissed him on the lips. Her tongue slithered into his mouth, and he gagged.
“What’s wrong, son?” Gerald boomed. “My daughter not attractive enough for you? Well, don’t worry. The feast is what gives her those good looks, after all. A hundred years strong, we are.”
Sitting on his knees, Gerald rose the knife into the air. Jonah pulled against the ropes; his delirious mind was still convinced there was a way out. All he needed to do was pull the rope hard enough, to strain it just enough that it would snap, and he could throw some punches.
“Here’s to a hundred more!” Gerald bellowed.
And then the knife went diving into his leg, slicing through flesh, sawing through bone. Hot crimson splashed the table. Jonah screamed, but his voice wasn’t the loudest. No, even louder than it, rising above his pain, was the clamor as everyone — Uncle Jackie, Megan, her mother, her sister, the couple from the couch, and Gerald himself — rushed toward the table and began to suck down the blood that flowed.
Jonah’s eyes rolled into the back of his head. Black spots were appearing in his vision. His lips moved uselessly, his dry tongue flopping around in his mouth. A metallic smell wafted above him, like decrepit pennies. But then Gerald climbed higher, his crimson-stained knife flashing evilly. With a few strokes, Gerald cut the shirt away from Jonah’s chest. A meaty thnkk sounded, and then the knife sawed, its ridges cutting with glee. Thick blood rose upward, like water being pulled from desert sands, and then ran down his chest in thick gushes.
The knife was still working when the world spun away from Jonah. The last thing he saw was Gerald’s jowls flapping and Megan’s pursed, red lips sucking at his calf, drinking with fervid delight.
Copyright © 2021 by Keith LaFountaine
