Flatscreen by Adam Wilson Read Free Book Online Page B

Oriental tapestries. Beige paper lanterns tagged with black Japanese characters surrounded the table, casting soft light on the diners, who—in my present state—all appeared to be slightly effervescent. Sheila, in her white, Greek-goddess-style summer gown and strappy copper sandals, was especially glowy, serving heaping portions of fried tofu, asparagus, salad. Watched her hands, the way her fingers curled around the wooden spoon as if it were a long phallus and she the gentlest AphroditeAmerica ever knew (Mighty Aphrodite , Magnolia Pictures, 1995). Felt like the world had shrunk down until entirely contained in this house; that the hallways off-shooting the dining room led to mountains, rivers, live jungles animated by sweet-scented animal sex (Jumanji , TriStar, 1995).
    “That Feinberg is a butcher,” Mary said. “All mouth no hands. He doesn’t shut up the whole time, and you can see his hands wobbling.”
    “Probably a failed surgeon who went to dental school,” Sheila said.
    “His own teeth look like something out of Dracula. I don’t know why we still go there.”
    This was a family that made regular trips to the dentist. Teeth were all pearl, no stain (no gap).
    Benjy held Erin’s hand. Sheila and Mary exchanged private approving glances. Norman Rockwell for the new millennium: happy kind lesbians, black adopted daughter, couple cute college kids. Where did I fit in? I sat in the corner with an aquarium in my spine, lightning in my head, smiling giddily, scratching the shit out of my neck, hoping no one would talk to me.
    False hope.
    “What’s with him?” Natasha said, pointed at me with her fork.
    Her accusing eyes were a chestnut brown that matched her skin. Hair pulled back tightly into dual Afro puffs. Body petite, but her presence so large, secure, surely prepped to kick white-boy booty if necessary. Pushed the tofu around my plate, waited for Benjy to save me.
    “Eli just got up from a nap,” Benjy said. “He’s still a bit tired.”
    “Yeah,” I managed. “Sorry, I’m out of it.”
    Raised my eyebrows to appear more alert.
    Natasha moved on.
    “I’m sick of this vegan shit,” she said, stabbed a tofu cube. “My people are carnivores.”
    “Natasha, honey,” Sheila said. “We’ve been over this many times. Just because you’re of African descent does not mean you’re not part of this family.”
    “I’m not talking about the blacks,” Natasha said. “I’m talking about the Jews. Fuck this new age bullshit. I want some fucking brisket.”
    “When you’re out with your friends you can eat whatever you want, but this is a non-flesh-eating household,” Mary added.
    She smiled as she said it. Not condescendingly, more “Kids these days.” Sheila caught Mary’s eye, nodded. They would recap in bed tonight, laugh together at their daughter’s antics, whisper that they were raising strong, independent women. Good mothers, I could tell; they followed your mouth when you spoke.
    “Dad lets me eat burgers.”
    “Well, your father’s getting his own place soon, and when he does, you can go eat burgers there. But while you’re here, you’ll get your protein from peanut butter and tofu.”
    “I think it’s delicious,” I said, in defense of what I viewed as a personal attack on Sheila, my angel. A ridiculous comment, considering I hadn’t eaten a bite. But I liked how it looked on my plate, how it smelled in the dining room, the way Sheila spooned the tofu with the respect it deserved, careful not to mush the cubes during ladling.
    Natasha looked at me dismissively, returned her attention to the destruction of her food.
    “You guys just want me to be skinny like a white girl. Don’t you know I need some booty if any brothas gonna wanna take me out?”
    “Oh, yeah,” Erin said. “Like there are ‘brothas’ at your high school.”
    “They bus ’em in.”
    “I’m Benjy’s brother,” I said, trying to make a joke. “And I’d be happy to take you out.”
    “Fat