Kimbark Shue had never tasted pickled beets. But when he did, he gagged and spit them back onto his plate. This was met with a quick smack to the back of his head. And a choir of angels sang, finish your plate.
It was an insurmountable mass. The bits that fell from his mouth osmosed into the greater blob so that the beets, in their putrid silence, appeared untouched. It was a dirty trick they played as it left the beets blameless. No one could see their poisonous stings, their hatred. Kimbark tried another mouthful. He bit into the fork and dragged the tines from buttoned lips in the hopes of preventing the inevitable, involuntary gag. But when he forced a swallow, the beets whispered, you will die a thousand deaths tonight, which caused another regurgitation.
The beets knew what they were doing; Kimbark was patsy perfect. He was a visitor in his father’s house, which was a remarried house with a new mom, new brother, and fruits and vegetables. It was at this house where he tasted his first tangerine, ate his first lunch (a roast beef sandwich cut into triangles, just like the movies). But with those few pleasures came a bevy of new hells: meatloaves, lima beans, steamed carrots. He often longed for the coffee table of his mother’s apartment where dinners were one of two options: pancakes or hot dogs.
At his father’s kitchen table, he dined with Wrath and Vengeance. It started with a whack to the head. If that didn’t work, a spanking would follow. If the hand tired, a belt would follow. But nothing was as feared as the biting justice of the Wooden Spoon: tall as a spatula, heavy as a brick. He got it good a few times. Afterward, there was nothing to do but lay in the dark as his butt and legs throbbed. He could calm himself by placing the spoon in kinder situations. I bet it would be happier, he thought as his body lifted from his tears and hyperventilated sobs, and floated miles away to a woman in her kitchen singing “Jesus Loves Me,” it would be happier stirring that big pot of Grandma’s sauce. I bet it would be happier, he thought as he traveled back to the 4th of July, his cousins running to the creek to catch bullfrogs and box turtles, it would be happier stirring a pitcher of Kool-Aid. But the spoon would never do any of these things. The Wooden Spoon held one thing in its bowl: the dogs of war.
And the beets knew. Those malevolent spirits with vinegar for blood and rot for bone, they knew that this table was not a table for Christ – he was only welcome on the walls. This was a table set for the G-d of Numbers and Judges (KJV). And the beets gathered at each open plate, and murmured, let G-d sup upon us tonight, so that we may know of Him, and pour into His mouth, and infect his Word, and plague His dominion. But G-d in his wisdom, hid from the beets. Instead, there was just Kimbark. And the beets hissed yes, yes, give us the boy.
Kimbark checked his status: two slaps to the back of the head. The spankings would be next. He started to cry, which he tried not to do. Crying made swallowing next to impossible. Again, the angels sounded, finish your plate! And Kimbark shook his head, pleading not to G-d or Christ, but to his own gods, meaning his stepmother and father, puh-leez, I can’t! I can’t! I’m gonna be sick. They’re makin’ me sick! And Kimbark howled as his father yanked him from his seat and hurried him into the bathroom. Okay, his father said as he lifted the seat and knelt at his side, puke. And he tried. He honest-to-gosh tried. But the more time he spent in front of that pristine throne, the more his sobbing magnified, which made his nausea vanish. His father warned, in the warm tone he used to tuck him into bed, he said, if you’re not sick, you’re gonna getta spankin’. The punishment was decided; the terms set. Kimbark wiped the snot with his forearm and stayed his shivering lip with a deep hum. He said, okay, Dad. That’s okay.
It took a minute for his father to understand what he was saying. Kimbark’s tears were gone. He stood like a boy made of stone. His father expected resignation, but there was none. There was only a resolve. It was a look too old for a child. And Kimbark’s father sat still for a moment, caught in bewilderment. But wherever Bewilderment goes, Violence follows.
Kimbark was yanked from the bathroom. That’s it! You’re gettin’ the spoon!, his father shouted, his baby brother awoke, and his stepmother bolted from the kitchen, that flaming utensil of Gabriel in her hand. Kimbark pulled at his trapped arm with all his weight, his butt scraped the hallway’s carpeting as he futilely fought his father’s pull. You said a spankin’! You said a spankin’! Kimbark screamed.
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
In the tumult of his beating, Kimbark’s thoughts raced to match the spoon’s fury.
To paraphrase:
WHACK! The covenant of the bathroom has been broken.
WHACK! This was not justice. Why have you betrayed me?
WHACK! Okay, that one really hurt.
WHACK! These people aren’t my parents. These people aren’t my gods.
WHACK! Their plates are clean! Pickled beets where their souls should be!
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! There are no gods for me.
But then it stopped, abruptly.
His stepmother stood at rest, a splintered rod in her hand. She heaved to catch her breath. At his feet, laid the other half of the Wooden Spoon. Kimbark had beaten the beater. The mighty Wooden Spoon was now two bits of kindling, a meager offering to the burn barrel. He looked at his parents; they didn’t share his surprise. Kimbark had never seen his parents like this. He had only seen it on other kids. They were afraid.
Kimbark didn’t cry that night. His backside still burned as he lay in bed, but his mind didn’t run to his grandmother or the 4th of July. Instead, he felt the welts rising to meet his fingers. There was no happier place to imagine.
Don Malkemes lives in Chicago.
Photo by Eva Elijas from Pexels