Page 95 of Cackle

It’s too much. I can’t catch my breath.

I turn in my seat so I have room to hunch over, so my spine can curl the way it wants to, so the tension in my neck releases. I stay like this, laughing, until the waiter comes over and asks if everything is all right.

“It is not all right!” Jill screeches. “There were bones in my husband’s food!”

“What?” the waiter asks.

“Look!”

My laughter begins to subside as I peer up to see what the waiter’s reaction is. I’d say it is mainly confusion.

Dan’s skin looks the color and consistency of cement. There are rust-hued stains on the sides of his mouth from the blood. He’s not bleeding anymore. His jaw is slack, and in the dark void of his mouth, I can see teeth. His teeth. Still attached. His tongue is extended slightly. Also still attached.

He’s fine. No major damage has been done. I use my napkin to dab away my remaining laughter tears.

The waiter stares at the bones.

“Well?” Jill says.

“I’m sorry about this,” the waiter says, reaching to clear the plate with the bloody napkin on it.

“This is ridiculous!” Jill says. “He could have choked and died! Are you okay, honey?”

Dan nods his head but doesn’t say anything. I bet it’s the first time in his life he’s ever been speechless.

“We’re not paying for this!” Jill says. “I want to speak to a manager. This is unacceptable. Disgusting.”

She’s shouting, and her voice carries throughout the restaurant. Silverware begins to clink, clink, clink all around us. The sound of people setting down their forks and knives and spoons, too afraid to take another bite.

The manager comes over and apologizes. She offers to escort Jill and Dan to her office, I assume to prevent the rest of the diners from hearing any further details about the fiasco. Jill helps Dan up, and as he stumbles to his feet, another chuckle escapes me. I cover my mouth, but it’s too late.

Dan looks at me, his eyes focusing after being blank and dead for a few solid minutes. His expression is a mix of confusion and fear. Or maybe it’s suspicion. Whatever he’s thinking or feeling, it’s definitely about me. Jill, too, only her feelings are clear. Anger. Disgust. She glowers at me as I sit with my hand clapped over my mouth.

The manager ushers them away. Dan now possesses a wobbly wide-legged gait, like he’s just had a colonoscopy. Jill follows at his heels, her hands placed on his back as if she’s pushing him or worried he’ll fall. They turn a corner and disappear.

I exhale and take a sip of ginger ale, and when I set it down, I realize Pascal is still here, sitting right next to me.

“Why’d you laugh?” he asks.

“Nervous reaction,” I say, proud of myself for coming up with a quick plausible lie.

“Huh,” he says.

A minute goes by, and in it I come to the conclusion that there’s nothing else to do but leave.

“All right,” I say, standing, “I’m going to go.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” he says.

“Nice meeting you,” I say. “Good luck with the logs.”

He seems offended by my words, which admittedly came out more venomous than intended. I do genuinely wish him luck with the logs. Without a personality, they’re probably all he has.

I hurry out of the restaurant to my car. I take off my shoes the second I sit down and toss them in the backseat.