“Babe?” said Elizabeth.
Cody looked up. “Huh?”
“The new podcast, babe. Tell Sonya.”
He turned to me and smirked. “Three words. Serial killers’ last meals.”
“That’s four words,” I said. “But go on.”
We were nearly done with dinner. I’d been measuring the evening in bites of scrod, and I was about four bites away from sweet release. I hadn’t mentioned Melanie Joan or the case,because no one had asked me about it. Dad had tried, only to be interrupted by Mother, who preferred talking about Richie’s job and why he had “chosen it over his future family” tonight.
“So, like, for each episode I spotlight a different killer,” Cody was saying. “I talk for maybe ten minutes about what they did to get on death row. Murders, trial, bla, bla, bla…But then we get to the meat.”
“The meat?” my father said.
“Their court-sanctioned last meal,” Elizabeth said.
“Ah.” Dad said it genially. Dad was always genial.
“Every episode, I describe what the murderer ordered before his execution. And then…” Cody peered around the table, a gleam in his eyes. “I eat it.”
“Spoiler alert,” I said.
“I also critique it from a culinary and societal perspective,” Cody said.
“The meal,” Dad said.
“The whole, entire meal. Unless the serial killer didn’t finish it. I only eat as much as he did, for accuracy’s sake.”
“It’s got something for everyone,” Elizabeth said. “True-crime fans. Foodies.”
“That’s not everyone,” I said. “But go on.”
“It’s a significant portion of the podcast-listening population, Sonya,” Elizabeth said.
“How many of these recordings have you made, Cody?” my mother said.
“A dozen,” Cody said.
“How industrious,” Mom said.
“And filling,” I said.
“You’re telling me,” Cody said. “John Wayne Gacy ordered a whole bucket of KFC original recipe, twelve fried prawns, an extra-large order of fries, and a pound of strawberries. Oh, and a Diet Coke. Irony. Anyways, he ate the whole thing, so I did, too. It was a lot. But, you know. The pod wants what the pod wants.”
Elizabeth beamed at him.
“Such devotion to craft,” my mother said. “You creative people never cease to amaze me.”
“I can’t do anything half-assed,” Cody said. “It would be an insult to the Cody Culture.”
“Cody Culture?” Dad asked.
“That’s his fandom,” Elizabeth said.
I managed to keep from gagging.
My dad said “ah” again, without a hint of sarcasm. It didn’t faze me. It was our family dynamic, and I knew it well. My dad humored my mom and they both humored Elizabeth (and anyone she happened to be involved with, whose egos tended to be even more fragile than hers). Nobody humored Dad or me, which was fine. But get-togethers like this one exhausted me. I wished Richie was here, so that at least I could have somebody to roll my eyes at.
