A Proper Diet, L.B. Goddard

Joey rolled a piece of meat around with his fork, the metal prongs squeaking faintly against his plate. A trail of thin, brown gravy oozed from the lump of roast. Steam rose from another mound of meat near his potatoes. It smelled salty, overwhelming his senses.

Joey slumped in his chair. He smashed the palm of each hand against his cheeks, resting on his elbows. “Mama, why do I have to eat meat?”

Joey sighed. He was almost four when he discovered the ugly truth. It made him sick to picture his dinner-- walking and breathing... alive. He didn't want to imagine their blood being spilled, their lives being taken for his meals.

The discovery had curdled his stomach. It tied his gut into a knot that got tighter and tighter every time he sat down to eat. His meals hadn't tasted the same in two years.

“I want to be a veg-er-tarian...” Joey mumbled, smashing the scrap of meat with his fork.

“Well,” said his father. “When you are no longer under my roof, that will be your choice to make. But in my house, under this roof, you eat what your mother has cooked.” From the head of the table, his father stared. The lack of expression in his face said it all. It was the calm before a storm. Joey didn't want a storm.

He scooped the roast with his fork, forcing it past his lips. It was tender, the juices saturating his tongue. For a minute, Joey's throat shut off, refusing to let the bite down. The color drained from Joey's face, but he managed to swallow.

Joey's suitcase was packed. He threw it on the bed. It landed with a soft thud next to an old gym bag. Sunlight poured into the open window, his blue curtains ruffling in the wind. Neighborhood kids screamed and hollered in the street below. Joey remembered playing in that street, kicking rocks and bouncing balls. It seemed like so long ago.

He smiled. The big day was finally here. All the hard work, the good grades, the after school study sessions-- those things had finally paid off. No more small town. No more parents making the rules. He was going to be his own man. At last.

He grabbed a baseball cap off the bedside lamp and put it on. The smell of cooking breakfast filled his bedroom from the kitchen below. His stomach growled. He'd grab a donut on the way...

When Joey reached the bottom stair, his mom was waiting in the kitchen. She still looked beautiful, radiant after all the years-- standing in the sunshine, cooking sausage over a flame. He remembered a time when her hair wasn't gray and the lines in her mouth not so deep, but she possessed the same bright eyes that had greeted him every morning of his life.

“So you really won't stay for breakfast?” She wiped her hands on her apron, forcing a smile.

“No, mom. I want to get an early start on things. I'll grab something to eat on the way, I promise...”

“And you'll have us over? Just as soon as you get comfortable.” Her voice wavered slightly. She was holding back tears, Joey knew.

“Of course I will. Please don't worry. I'm only 50 minutes away. I'll be fine.” Joey walked over and hugged his mother. He could see the sausage, over her shoulder, sizzling in the pan. His gut tightened.

“Your father is in the basement,” she said, turning away. He didn't want to see her cry, and she knew it. Best to pull this off quick, like a Band-aid.

Joey retrieved a key from a secret cabinet in the hall closet. He stuck it in the knob on the basement door. He found a string at the top of the stairs and gave it a yank. Light flooded the wooden stairwell.

His father had been running up and down these stairs for years. Often times, he forgot to pull the string, perfectly capable of navigating the steps in the dark. Not Joey. He always turned on the light.

Each stair sagged in the middle, the panels warped and pliable with age. He took a step. The old wood creaked. He kept his balance against the cold stone wall.

Through the other wall he heard a metal blade smashing into a chopping block. Ping. Ping. He flinched at each blow; his eyes blinked shut against his will.

Joey turned and headed toward the walk-in freezer. He cursed himself softly for not putting on a jacket. Cold air swirled out of the open door. His father emerged, forcing shut the freezer door.

A stainless steel table gleamed with fresh blood, its shiny metal lending the red a metallic sheen. On his chopping block was a giant bowl of waste. Joey saw several fingers, some of them with painted nails, small pieces of cartilage, long white tendons, wiggly veins... and what looked to be a scalp underneath--

He swallowed hard to keep the dry heaves from starting. He hadn't eaten last night or this morning.

“So off to college. My boy... all grown up.” He held his arms out at each side--a symbol of pride, perplexity, respect. His yellow gloves were smeared in crimson.

Joey shivered, rubbing his hands on his biceps. There always seemed to be an audience down here. He could feel the dead eyes staring at him, watching from a lifeless body... limply hanging from a hook on the wall. He could see the meatless legs dangling in his peripheral, white bones jutting out like corn dog sticks.

Often times growing up, he caught himself staring at the figure of a naked female. It made him feel wrong to gawk at the curves of a corpse. So wrong. He kept his eyes on his father.

“Well, I won't hug you...” His father picked up the knife. “Got my gloves on. Wouldn't want to get you dirty.”

“Well, go on!” He shooed Joey with a latex-covered hand. “Go into the world. Find your calling. Invite us up there for a visit when you get settled in.”

“Okay, sir,” Joey said, quickly turning his back. He half-ran to the stairs, only stopping when he heard--

“Come home for Thanksgiving. Your mother's heart will be broken if you don't.”

Joey gulped. There was only one thing he could say. “Sure, dad, sure. I'll be home for Thanksgiving.”