Malcolm Doesn’t Eat Lamb
Marla talks the whole way to her house. About random bullshit.
Like her car. She acts like I haven’t seen it before, but I’ve ridden in it a bunch of times since she bought it in January. “Your grandfather said I shouldn’t splash out but I’m old. Why not splash out now?”
It’s a BMW. She can barely see over the steering wheel.
“I bought two pounds of those sausages you like for breakfast.
“Your father said I should keep an eye on you after school. Says you’re determined to fail tenth grade. Honey, you can’t fail tenth grade. I hope you know that. We won’t let you.
“Did you hear about James? The boy you went to preschool with?”
I always liked James. I haven’t heard anything about him. I almost speak, but I know Marla’s going to tell me anyway.
“Malcolm, I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you but James is dead. He took his own life, poor thing.”
Didn’t see that coming.
I thought she might say that James landed a spot on one of those TV shows where people sing and win money. Or maybe that he won an award for going around to nursing homes and singing shows for them. He’s been doing that since he was eleven. I thought James was fine.
“We’re donating to the animal shelter in his name because his parents asked people not to donate to the gays. Did you know James was gay?”
This is a leading question because Marla can’t figure out why I don’t have a girlfriend. But yeah. Everyone knew James was gay. Just nobody seemed to know he was depressed.
This is the second preschool classmate I’ve known who’s died. I can’t figure out why death is following me like this and I decide I don’t care. I’m ready to throw down if death shows up. I’m ready to kick death’s ass.
“Young people taking their own lives,” Marla says. “They just never see the bright side. Things are different now, I guess.”
I don’t think I can survive four more days with my grandparents. I’ve tried so many times to get Marla to see things from a twenty-first-century point of view, but she doesn’t want to see anything. She just keeps the perks—her smartphone, her remote-start BMW, cable TV, and those plastic bags that steam vegetables in the microwave—that’s all this century is to her. She will never wake up. She will never admit that Dad is dying of cancer, either. She says he’s going to be fine.
Marla says, “You haven’t said a word this whole time. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re quiet.”
“Just a little tired.”
“I made lamb chops for dinner,” Marla says and I don’t know if she’s been counting, but I have been, and I’ve told her I don’t eat lamb twenty-four times. She says I should try it different ways until I find a way to like it. Fact: I will never like lamb. I just won’t. It doesn’t agree with me. And Marla makes everything too rich; so after a weekend of food poisoning, there is no way in hell I’m going to eat a lamb chop.
“I’m not that hungry,” I say.
“You’ll eat.”
“My stomach’s not right,” I say.
“Probably have a T-worm from that awful food down there,” she says. “You’re too skinny. You should have some meat on those bones.”
Emetophobes don’t use the real words for anything vomity. Or wormy, I guess.
“I’m not eating lamb,” I say. “You know that.”
“I don’t know why you’re so picky.”
“It’s part of the package,” I say. Because I refuse to explain one more time to Marla about how I won’t eat lamb.
“What girl will be able to cook for you?” she asks.
“Marla, you’re sixty-eight, not a hundred and eight. Please. I’ll cook for myself.”
“Don’t call me Marla.”
“Don’t make me eat lamb.”
“Don’t tell me what to do after we open our home to you and give you all you need!” She’s whining now—trying to get the tear machine going.
“I have all I need at Dad’s house. I don’t need your lamb chops or your BMW.”
“You make us sound like elitists. We donate to the animals all the time. We know there are horrible things happening in the world. We’re a lot older than you, you know.”
“You donate to the animals and you eat lamb chops,” I say.
“I’m being nice! Why can’t you be nice?”
“I’m nice. I just don’t eat lamb. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“You make me out to be some sort of rich bitch or something!”
My brain reels. I have to bite on the inside of my lips so all my words don’t come out. I keep biting my lips as Marla takes her final crazy turn into her cul-de-sac and we head for her driveway. There’s a car parked at the end of the driveway that I don’t recognize.
“Who’s here?” I ask.
“A nice young man who would be happy to eat lamb chops, I can tell you that!” She clicks on the remote control for the garage door and speeds toward it a little too soon and almost takes the roof off her new BMW.
I have no idea how Marla managed to raise five kids with her temper the way it is. She really needs to take it easy.