Slice of Life

The last slice of pumpkin pie called to David.

It teased him, tempted him, until he could hardly bear the suffering. For several minutes now he had stood transfixed, his gaze beholding the soft decadence of the sweet filling that rested on a bed of warm crust, topped to perfection with a white bloom of whipped cream. And this wasn’t just any pumpkin pie. This was Aunt Rachel’s pumpkin pie. For David, who only saw his aunt during Thanksgiving, this dessert was as rare as common sense was in the federal government. It was a dessert worth dying for, or a dessert worth killing for, depending on which end of the barrel a person happened to be on. 

You deserve this, half of his conscious whispered seductively. He felt saliva gather in his mouth. I really do, David agreed, recalling all of the torment he had endured over the past four hours.

First there were his own parents, Asher and Ruth, who would not shut up about their year-long struggle of trying to find someone to paint the kitchen walls. They never once asked him about how school was going. 

Then there were the Twins, Horvath and Hannah, who vomited all over him after becoming more stuffed than the turkey. They cried afterwards and kept asking their mother, Aunt Abby, for medicine and kisses to make them feel better. This would be all well and fine if the two were children, but no—they would turn 14 come December. 

After cleaning himself up, David endured a gruelling hour of Grandpa Uther’s wartime stories and the atrocities he encountered. “It was hell, David,” he rumbled, his triple chin shaking more than their grandmother used to without her walker. “It was worse than hell.” To which David’s own father countered, “Dad, you worked as an analyst. You never saw combat.” Uther fired back with a ferocious roar, “Office work is hell, Asher!”

And then there was Uncle Joab. David hated him the most. He was a jobless drunk who thought himself better than everyone simply because once he had won the Texas lottery. It was all lost two weeks later in a pyramid scheme, but curiously no one ever cared to mention that part of the story. This man would turn up every thanksgiving and have the gall to criticize David for his life choices. “Vandergriff, huh? Terrible college. A bunch o’ high school girls could beat their football team. Still single? Bet you are. You’re definitely not turnin’ heads lookin’ like that. You been exercisin’ lately? Don’t look it.” David had heard his jabs for as long as he could remember, and today, when this immortally-hungover, thin-moustached, beady-eyed, beer-bellied, tattered-jersey-wearing uncle laughed at David’s decision to major in psychology, it took all of his willpower to not pull his gun on him right then and there.

All of the Kennans carried. 

It was a family trait and one they were notorious for. From an early age David learned to shoot and he quickly became famous in Kado Mills as the fastest draw west of the Trinity River.

He felt it then, that itch, that tingling in his fingers. The longer Uncle Joab guffawed, the more spittle rained down on him from across the room, and the stronger the man-made rainstorm became, the more inclined David was to commit something called avunculicide, a term he had learned last semester when he read through Hamlet. 

But no—he couldn’t send Joab to meet Lucifer for a reason as petty as being laughed at, and so David sought the one thing that could make his mood better. 

He subsequently found his slice of paradise in the kitchen—just the one, and now he stared, his conscious at war with itself. 

Just take it. No one will know. David shook his head and frowned. Joab will know. He always knows. Remember Grandma Gabby? Uncle Joseph? Leave the pie be, David. It’s better that way. The aggressive half of his conscious didn’t like that answer. Better? Sure. But is it right? Is it fair for one man to hoard all of the best food?

David’s fingers twitched and he swallowed hard. 

The pie was not even five feet away. 

Before he could act, the ground shook. Something massive was moving within the halls of the house. David’s heart sank—he knew what beast was coming. 

“There ya are, boy!” Joab announced, thundering in from the living room. “I ain’t done speakin’ with you just yet. Why’d you run off like that?”

“Just wanted some pumpkin pie, is all,” David said quietly, placing himself between his filthy uncle and his taste of heaven. 

“Nah, that there is for me,” insisted Joab, and he jammed his thumb towards Aunt Rachel, who had just entered the kitchen with David’s parents. “My woman promised me the last piece of pie. Everyone heard her, too. Didn’t you hear her, Dave?”

“I guess I was busy changing clothes,” David replied, forcing a tired smile. “My cousins did make quite the mess back there.”

“My sweet babies ate too much is all!” Aunt Abby was now in the room with her children, her arms wrapped around them as if they were toddlers. “Mommy will make sure to feed you less next time.”

Horvath and Hannah remained silent, their chins still caked with dry vomit. 

Grandpa Uther completed the gathering in the kitchen by rolling in, his wheelchair accidentally crushing Hannah’s abnormally large feet. 

“I was in the middle of a story,” he grumbled. “Why’d everyone leave? What’s going on?”

“A little piggy is tryin’ to steal my pie, is what’s goin’ on,” Joab growled. “Gluttony is a sin, ya know.”

“Son, let Joab have the pie,” Asher said, his brow creased with worry. His brother was a good head taller than he was, and several hundred pounds heavier. 

I hope to God I’m adopted, David muttered silently. Look at these people. My family. The thought soured his mind. 

“Your dad’s right,” Ruth agreed, wringing her hands nervously. “Let’s just keep the peace.” She knew what happened last year with his grandma, and the year before with his other uncle. Both had come between Joab and the last of some dish. Neither were here this Thanksgiving as a result. It’s relatively difficult to be anywhere after being buried six feet under. 

“The only piece I want is the one there on the counter,” David replied calmly. He was always calm. Tranquil. Raising his voice, screaming, arguing, roaring—it was never his style. “There’s something broken about that boy,” Joab had once told David’s parents. In a rare twist, his uncle was probably right about that. 

There’s something broken about all of us, David believed, and he told himself that just now as he considered each member of his dysfunctional family. 

“I’ve had enough of this,” growled Joab. “Outta the way before I crack your skull.”

He moved forward, expecting his nephew to fold and step aside.

The young adult did no such thing.

David’s voice was alarmingly soft. “One more step, uncle, and the walls will be getting that paint job.” He eyed his apathetic parents and a ghost of a smirk illuminated his face. “Though I don’t think red is the color they had in mind.”

“David,” Asher cautioned, licking his lips. “You’re better than this…”

“No, I’m not,” his son assured. That itch was back. The tingle in his fingers. “Why would I be, when no one in this family is?”

Joab’s small eyes ballooned with rage as he huffed and puffed, his fury threatening to blow the whole house down. 

“I want that pie, boy!” he bellowed, his face purple. The man was probably experiencing a hypertensive crisis. But he was cool enough, crafty enough, to simultaneously reach for the back of his jeans where he kept his .44 Magnum. 

Noticing his uncle’s movements, David smiled. It was a sad smile.

“So do I, uncle,” he said. “So do I.”

Fastest draw west of the Trinity.

It was over before Joab’s fingers even grazed his pistol.

And the walls did indeed get a brand new paint job.