AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Our new house was small. A single-story ranch with a converted garage, it had four bedrooms, an office, a living room, and a kitchen. Two of the rooms (the office and master bedroom) had been converted from the garage. The house was twenty-five years old and in dire need of repairs. Even with the garage conversion, it was less than 1,300 square feet.
But to us, it was awesome. My brother, sister, and I each had our own room for the first time in our lives, and we all took time decorating them in our own style. My mom was tremendously proud to finally have a home she could call her own, and she spent much of the next few years fixing the place up and adding her own splashes of personality. There were sixteen walls all painted in different colors--my mom changed wall paint more often than some people change their toothbrushes--and every weekend, Micah and I had to finish our mother's "list" before we could head off to play. We spent our Saturday mornings building fences, painting walls over and over, planting bushes and trees, sanding kitchen cabinets, and executing whatever plan she happened to come up with while at work.
Because the family had little extra money to spend on such things, it was a slow process. To build the fence, for instance, my mom would buy a dozen planks of wood every week, all she could spare from her paycheck. It took her nearly five months to accumulate all the wood we needed to build the fence, but thankfully--in her opinion anyway--the labor was free. Micah and I--no doubt drawing on our roofing experience in Nebraska--were put in charge of constructing the fence, and we did. That it ended up sloping noticeably--as opposed to being straight across the top--was simply one of the outcomes my brother and I assumed our mother had foreseen before deciding to delegate the project to us.
Knowing we'd continue to do most of the work on the house, our parents began giving us tools for Christmas. It was a way of killing two birds with one stone. Not only did we get something unexpected (how could I expect to receive a hammer for Christmas if I didn't want one?), but they would save money at the same time. And it was much better than offering us weapons again. Late one Christmas morning, I sat beside Micah on the couch.
"What did you think of Christmas this year?" he asked.
"It was great," I said, "for a carpenter." I nodded toward my gifts. "What am I going to do with a dowel hammer? Do they want me to start building furniture next?"
Micah shook his head and sighed. "Yeah, I know what you mean. But at least you got a lot of them. I got a jigsaw. What is mom going to make me use that for? I wanted a pair of Levi's, for God's sake."
We sat in silence.
"Our parents are weird, aren't they?" I asked.
Micah didn't answer. When I glanced at him, I saw him staring at the jigsaw.
"What?"
He shook his head, his brow furrowed. "Nothing really. It just says on the box here that this thing can cut through hardwood, like oak."
"So."
"Isn't the hardwood in my bedroom oak?"
"I think so."
He pondered the situation. "And wouldn't you agree that our parents are a little heavy-handed?"
"Absolutely," I agreed. "They're like guards at the Gulag."
He blinked as if suddenly in the presence of a Martian. "What are you talking about, Nick?"
"Never mind."
"You're weird sometimes, too."
"I know." I'd heard this before. "But what were you saying?"
"Well, what if we use this thing to our advantage?"
"What do you mean?"
He leaned in and whispered his plan, and I had to admit he was definitely on to something. And sure enough, as soon as my parents had left for work--we were still on school break--my brother used the jigsaw to cut a hole in his closet floor that led to the crawl space beneath the house. That way, after he'd supposedly gone to bed, he could sneak out at night via his bedroom without our parents ever knowing about it.
And, of course, he did.
It was around this time that my mom decided she was tired of working full-time, and doing all the cooking and cleaning around the house. My dad was thus drafted into becoming the chef.
I remember hearing about it when I got home from school one afternoon, and I honestly believed that my dad was excited about it. He told us that he was going to make one of his favorite meals, one that he used to eat when he was a kid. He forbade us from coming into the kitchen to see what he was preparing.
"It's a surprise."
Neither Micah, Dana, nor I knew what to make of it. The only thing our dad ever cooked on his own was chicken gizzards. Not wings, not legs or breasts, but gizzards. My dad simply loved those things. He would fry up a plateful, and while we eventually acquired a taste for them, it was obvious that gizzards wasn't on the menu that night.
Frying gizzards--frying anything--made for a pleasant aroma in the kitchen. But all we could smell was something burned and scorchy--like flour that caught on fire--and more than once, I heard my dad yell, "Whoops!" and race to open the back slider, so the smoke could clear the kitchen. Then, popping his head back into the living room, he'd say, "You guys are going to love this!" or, "Cooking for you guys is going to be great! I can't wait to share more of my childhood recipes. I'm really getting the hang of it now!"
Eventually, after three or four "Whoops!" he called us to the table. Mom wasn't home from work yet, and we took our seats. My dad brought the food over from the stove and set it before us.
There were two items. A plate of toast, and . . . and . . .
We looked closer, but still couldn't tell. It was in a bowl, whatever it was. Gray and brown and lumpy, sort of gravylike, with specks of black mixed in. The spoon was resting on the slowly solidifying mass.
"I might have burned it a little, but it should be fine. Eat up."
None of us moved.
"What is it, Daddy?" Dana finally asked.
"It's beans," he said. "I cooked them up using a secret recipe."
We looked at the bowl again. It sure didn't look like beans. And it didn't smell like beans, either. It smelled almost . . . unnatural. It reminded me of something the dog ate, partially digested, then offered up again. But okay, beans and toast and . . .
"What's for the main course?" I asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Like hamburger? Or chicken?"
"Don't need it. Not with this meal."
"What is this meal?" Micah asked.
"Beans on toast," he said, his voice ringing with pride. "Your mom never made this for you, did she?"
We glanced at each other, then shook our heads.
My dad reached for the bowl. "Who's going to be first?"
Neither Micah nor I moved a muscle. Dana finally cleared her throat.
"I will, Daddy."
He beamed. Placing a piece of toast on her plate, he started to scoop from the bowl. It was thick and hard, and my dad had to really work the spoon. The smell only got worse as he began to penetrate the substance. I saw my dad's nose wrinkle.
"Like I said, I might have burned it a little," he said. "But it should be fine. Enjoy."
"Are you going to eat some, Daddy?" Dana asked.
"No, you three go ahead. I'll just watch. You guys are still growing and need the energy. Micah?"
My dad dug into the bowl again, grimacing as he worked at the beans, as if he were trying to scoop frozen ice cream.
"No thanks. I'm supposed to be eating at Mark's tonight. I don't want to spoil my appetite."
"You didn't mention that before."
"I guess I forgot. But really, I should be getting ready. I was supposed to be there ten minutes ago."
He quickly rose from the table and vanished.
"Okay. How about you, Nick?"
