Now my thoughts were confused, scrambling together, and I had texted him from bed, after I’d read the letter, before I’d even looked to see what time it was.
Are you busy today?
What did you have in mind?
Want to come over?
My parents were at a ball game in Boston, something my father pretended to like because my mother’s father had been in the minor leagues for six years and she’d grown upwith dugout dirt in her hair, baseline chalk underneath her fingernails.
“Do you want something to eat?” I asked. “I could make you an omelet.”
“What kind of omelet?”
“We have vegetables and stuff. Whatever you want.”
“Are you going to have one?”
“I’ll have one, sure.”
“I’ll have whatever you have.”
I made us toast and matching omelets with mushrooms and spinach, bell peppers and tomatoes from our garden, with shredded cheese. We ate on the deck, and I pulled a ceramic figurine of a boy and girl out of my pocket and told him about my plans to destroy it.
“Destroy it!” he said, taking the figurine from me. “Is this a stand-in for Alvin and Margo? Kind of morbid, no?”
I could think of twenty things more morbid off the top of my head, but I didn’t say that. Instead I said, “It’s not really a stand-in for them. More like an offering.”
He thought about it, taking a bite of omelet and then picking up his toast thoughtfully, turning it around in his hand. “Where’d you get it?”
“At a tag sale. A long time ago. Because it reminded me of them, yes.”
“An offering,” he said. “I get that. I like that.”
“I think it makes sense. It’s weird to imagine my aunt being so violent.”
“Is it?”
“She wasn’t exactly the confrontational type.”
“Not all violence is about confrontation.”
“I guess.”
“This is a really good omelet, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
“So where do you want to sacrifice these poor souls?”
“I have somewhere in mind. Are you done?”
We cleaned up the plates, rinsing them and stacking them in the dishwasher, then I put my shoes on and grabbed a baseball bat from the garage, and we got into my car.
It wasn’t a far drive to the sacrificial destination, barely fifteen minutes, and we listened to music and Sam held the little ceramic figurine in his lap, making sure the boy and girl were comfortable in their last hours on earth. Then he rolled the window down and made them surf the wind and said, “Isn’t it funny how the air gets thicker the faster you go? That’s how planes fly, you know.”
“You’d better not drop that,” I answered. “No premature sacrificing.”
“Don’t worry; I have them.”
