Fiction Short Story

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Fiction Short Story

by KLC Austin

Supper Time

A car door slammed just outside the house, startling her from her reverie as she stirred the milky beige gravy in the old cast iron skillet. She dropped the ladle into the spoon rest beside the burner and shoved her hand into the embroidered pocket of her apron, its frayed threads tickling her skin. It made her think of how fatigued Aunt Betty's arthritic fingers must have been by the time she finished the stitches on Friday's apron, having started with Sunday's. She fingered the contents of her pocket and sighed.

"Mama! I told her she can't use my bicycle!" The screen door slammed and Sally ran into the kitchen, her prematurely acned face glistening with sweat.

"Mama!" The screen door slammed a second time, ricocheting off of the frame as Julie burst inside, right on Sally's heels.

"Sit down, both of you. It's supper time." Margie grasped the stack of four plates and began to distribute them around the kitchen table, followed by silverware, napkins and glasses filled with milk. "I heard your daddy's car and he'll be walking through the back door any minute. I do not want any fighting. Did you wash your hands?"

"But Mama, you said I could use Sally's bike because mine's flat and we don't have an extra tube and ..." Julie's voice trailed as Sally interrupted.

"Mama, how could you? I need my bike to ride over to Didi's after dinner and it's too far to walk and still get back before dark!" Sally's eyes filled with well-rehearsed tears.

"Damn it Margie!" Howard came through the back door and crossed the kitchen to the table, his hands balled into blackened fists caked in railroad soot. Even through the layer of black powder on his face, Howard's expression was unmistakable. "I'm only home one week out of the month! Why is it that, the second I walk through the door, the first thing I have to hear is all of this squabbling? Can't you control these kids?"

"Go wash up," Margie replied, her eyes focused on the table. "I'll have your plate fixed for you when you come down,"

Howard stomped upstairs leaving a trail of sooty footprints along Margie's freshly varnished hardwood. At the first sound of running water, the girls resumed their argument, nattering at one another like blue jays guarding a bird feeder. Margie emptied the contents of the skillet into the gravy boat, deciding it might be best not to leave the pans until after dinner.

With the hum of the ceaseless argument in the background, she began washing the cookware as she dished the meat and vegetables into serving bowls. She watched the steam rising from the food as she rinsed the pans, knowing that Howard would comment on the temperature of his dinner. But in the finish, what was one more argument in a long string of many that would take place over the coming week? Margie slipped her hand into her pocket and her tension eased.

The dinner was typical of Howard's first night home. Margie stared into her plate, taking only token bites of food, as the girls continued to chip away at each other across the table. Howard's complexion, now free of soot, reddened with every stab at his plate. The low pitch of his voice wove beneath the staccato jabs the girls spat at one another and the meal ended in the usual fashion with Howard giving a steam-engine shove to his half-empty plate, sending it sliding the length of the table. Like a well-launched hockey puck, the plate fired bits of ceramic into the air as it knocked bowls askew, spilling the contents of the other dishes until it had thrust its way across the table, striking Margie's plate and landing along with hers in the center of her lap.

Her family now silent, Margie moved the plates back to the table, scooping the food out of her lap with her napkin, and wiping her hands on one of the cleaner spots of her apron. Mindful of the polished floor, she drew the apron carefully into a sling with one hand, untied the strings with the other and laid it on top of the plates in a bunch. As she withdrew her hand from the mess, she reached into the pocket, removing the delicate pistol, so small that it nestled snugly inside her palm. She stood up from her chair and dropped her arms to her sides, gazing at her family.

"What the hell are you doing, Margie?" Howard demanded. "Get this crap off of the table and out of my sight!" He threw his napkin to the floor, then planted both hands on the table as if he were about to rise.

"I just wish that ..." Margie paused.

"What?" Howard's face purpled. "What do you wish?" He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a cigarette and lit up, flicking the dead match at the mess on the table.

Margie took a breath.

"Speak up!" Howard bellowed. "What could you possibly wish for?"

"I just wish that, for once," she sighed, "just once ... everyone could get along."

Margie put the gun to her temple and pulled the trigger.

© Copyright 2003 KLC Austin

About the Author:

KLC Austin writes horror from the suburbs of Washington, DC. Her work has been published in print and online. At WVU, she can sometimes be found wandering the halls of ShadowLand, where she keeps close company with the ghost of Oscar Wilde.