The Family Fang - Kevin Wilson [105]
the last supper, 1985
artists: caleb and camille fang
They had reservations at the most expensive restaurant in Atlanta, the Fangs dressed in such finery that Buster and Annie felt like models for an unattainable lifestyle. “If the menu is in French, how will we know what we’re eating?” Annie asked her parents. “That’s part of the fun,” her mother said. Neither Annie nor Buster, itching in their new clothes, unaware of the exact nature of their parents’ plans, believed they would ever totally understand what their parents meant when they said fun.
“Fang, party of four,” the hostess said as she checked the reservation against the leather appointment book. “Right this way,” she said. The children watched as their parents, smiling, at ease in this strange situation, settled into the high-backed chairs, surrounded by people who wanted only a quiet evening. Annie and Buster felt a sickness deep in their stomachs, were certain whatever transpired would be anything but quiet.
“Are you not going to tell us?” Buster said, his hands cold and clammy, his nerves jangling around inside his body. “No,” Mr. Fang replied. “You just have to be ready. You’ll know it when it happens. And when it happens, you do whatever comes naturally.”
“Can you at least tell us if it will happen before or after the food comes?” Annie asked, desperate for some clue. “We cannot tell you,” Mrs. Fang said, smiling, sipping a glass of wine from a bottle so expensive that Annie deduced that the “event” would be skipping out on the check, running in all directions the minute they had finished dessert. She looked at her brother, who was taking deep, controlled breaths, willing himself to die and come back to life, and so she took the opposite approach, holding her breath until the dim, candlelit room began to bend and tick and turn wavy, finally taking a breath and feeling electric, aware of every single utensil scraping against a plate.
The food arrived. “Eat your food,” Mrs. Fang said to Buster. “I’m not hungry,” he replied, a thin strip of liver, soaked in burgundy, sitting in front of him. He looked around the restaurant for the umpteenth time and confirmed, once again, that he and his sister were the only children in the entire dining room. “You have to eat it,” Mr. Fang said. “Is this part of the piece?” Buster asked. Mr. and Mrs. Fang smiled at each other, clinked their wineglasses, and said in unison, “Eat your food.”
Buster dug his knife into the liver, the sauce shimmering as he delicately sawed a bite away from the meat. He placed the liver in his mouth, allowed the taste of it, the overwhelming gaminess of the meat, to settle on his tongue before he swallowed, no attempt to chew. His parents stared at him, and he tried to smile, beads of sweat on his forehead. “It’s good,” he said.
More wine, no conversation, classical music coming from a source that Annie and Buster could not determine, the dinner continued. Buster, somehow, sheer force of will, had eaten the entire liver without once chewing. He had the constant, insistent need to gag, but he fought the urge. He would not ruin the evening before the evening had been ruined.
Annie thought that perhaps it was the subdued lighting in the restaurant, but Buster’s skin was the most distinct shade of green, sea-foamy and pale. His tongue seemed enlarged, too big for his mouth. She ran her finger along the edge of her spoon, over and over, feeling the dull edge of the utensil dig into her fingertips, erasing the whorls of her fingerprints. Her parents, who rarely drank, disapproving of the way alcohol slowed their responses, continued to sip their wine. They seemed so happy, sharing a secret of how the world would end. It was as if Annie and Buster were not present, as if the children were watching a movie of their parents. Mr. and Mrs. Fang checked their watches, exchanged a glance, and then continued to drink their wine.
Buster stared at a chandelier with such intensity that he hoped the force of his desire would snap the cable and send the hulking, sparkling mass