Three weeks with my brother - Nicholas Sparks [56]
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?”
“Yeah, okay,” I said, raising my plate. I placed a piece of toast on it; the gravy-burned-bean-substance dropped like a baseball onto my plate, nearly rolling off and hitting the table.
“Just spread it out a little,” my dad suggested. “It’s better that way.”
My sister and I began to poke at the dinner—trying to spread it, but getting nowhere—terrified at the thought of actually consuming it. But just when we knew we couldn’t postpone it any longer, my mom walked in the door.
“Hey guys! How are you? It’s great to see you—” She stopped and wrinkled her nose. “What on earth is that stench?”
“It’s dinner,” my dad said. “Come on. We’re waiting for you.”
She moved to the table, took one look at the food, and said, “Kids, bring those plates to the sink.”
“But . . .” my dad said
“No buts. I’ll make spaghetti. You kids want spaghetti instead?”
We nodded eagerly, and quickly rose from the table.
“Okay. Just get the groceries from my baskets. I’ll get it going in a few minutes.”
For whatever reason, my dad wasn’t all that upset. In fact, I think it had been his plan all along, for after that night, he was prohibited from cooking for us. And whenever my mom complained about his failure to assume more domestic responsibility, he could honestly say, “I tried. But you won’t let me.”
Food in general became a strange sort of obsession in our home. Because we couldn’t afford the same sort of treats that other kids seemed to get—cookies, Twinkies, Ho Hos, etc.—we developed a binge mentality when the opportunity presented itself. If we were visiting someone’s house for instance, we’d devour whatever we could, eating until we felt like we would burst. It was nothing for us to consume thirty or forty Oreos in a sitting. At times, we’d leave our friends in their rooms, sneak back to the friend’s kitchen, raid the pantry, and eat even more.
It was the same way whenever my mom was crazy enough to buy anything