“Whatever,” I tell him. “The chipmunk’s great and everything, and I’m sure the two of you are going to have a blast, but I’m going back to bed and I need to know that you’re not going to bother me again until I awake naturally, fresh and healthy, ready to start my day on my own terms. Failure to abide by this very reasonable request absolves me of any responsibility of what I may do in retaliation.”
“All right,” he laughs, putting his hands up. “Go back to bed. I just thought you might want to taste my first attempt at breakfast-stuffed mushrooms.”
“What the hell is that?” I blurt.
“I remember you said you liked portabella mushrooms, so I picked some up from the store,” he says.
“You’ve already been to the store this morning?” I ask. “When did you get up?”
“Ah,” he says. “This close to a fight, my natural schedule changes a little bit. I probably should have told you that.”
“Are you sure that’s all this is?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “Why? What else would it be?”
“First off,” I tell him, “I’ve seen you before a couple of fights now, and I’ve never seen you go manic like this. Therefore, I’m going to really take a chance and guess that the fight doesn’t really have anything to do with it.”
“Oh,” he says. “You think I’m up early because—” he laughs. “No, I just got up early,” he says. “That’s all.”
I’m no less tired than I was a few minutes ago, but that short amount of time spent standing in this kitchen has awakened some of my finer senses.
“What’s in the mushrooms?” I ask.
“Bacon,” he starts.
“Sold,” I answer. “I’ll have some and then I’m going back to bed. You are a foul temptress. I guess it wouldn’t be temptress, though, would it? That’d be the feminine version. Would it be tempter? Now I’m starting to do it.”
“You’re waking up,” he says. “Want some coffee?”
“No,” I snap. “I’m delirious because it’s my day off and I’m not used to waking up before noon on my days off and you’re in denial because you’re upset about your brother getting arrested, but you’re so pissed at him for it that you won’t let yourself admit to yourself,” I repeat, “to yourself, mind you, that Chris getting arrested bothers you. There. I’ve done my good deed for the day, now point me to my mushroom and I’ll be on my way.”
“I’m not in denial,” he says. “I’ve just been expecting it for so long that it really just doesn’t bother me that much.”
“I’m sure that’s part of it,” I tell him, “but you’re acting like it doesn’t bother you at all. That’s your brother. I don’t know if you’re pissed or depressed or disappointed or scared or what, but it’s not the guy making stuffed breakfast mushrooms which, if I could just get a plate—” he hands me a plate “—thank you,” I say. “It’s not the guy making stuffed breakfast mushrooms and chipmunk-watching.”
“I thought you said you were going back to bed,” he says. “Why are we still talking about Chris?”
“Fork?” I ask.
He hands me a fork, at which point I cut off a piece of the stuffed mushroom and watch as cheese oozes out of it.
“Yeah, it’s not just bacon,” he says, “although that was a bigger part of the process than you’d think. You have to cook it to just the right level of crispiness: Too little and it won’t break apart in pieces small enough to stuff a mushroom, too much and crumble it all you want, it’s burnt bacon.”
“Are you not hearing that?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” he says.
I gather my piece of stuffed mushroom with my fork and blow on it a little before putting it in my mouth.
There are hints of bell peppers, provolone cheese, small-but-crispy bacon bits and I don’t even know what spices. The whole experience of it is almost enough to make me want to stay awake.
“The reason,” I say, swallowing, “that I’m still talking about Chris—”
“Oh god,” he groans.
“The reason I’m still talking about Chris is that, tired and irritated enough to seriously consider your untimely demise as I am, I care about you more than that,” I tell him. “I know you were mad at him, and I’m sure you probably still are, but you can’t pretend like it doesn’t affect you. I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe that’s how you deal with things, but I think it’d be better if you let it out.”
“There’s nothing to let out,” he says. “He broke the law for a long time and it caught up with him. I don’t know that there’s really anything else to say about it.”
“All right then,” I say, walking out of the kitchen on my way back to the bedroom. “I’m going back to bed, then.”
“You said ‘then’ twice,” Mason teases.
“My mind and my ears are shutting down now, thank you,” I tell him. “Good night.”
“You’re taking the mush—” I close the bedroom door behind me.
I set the stuffed mushroom on the nightstand and I collapse back into bed. If it weren’t for the knowledge that the beautiful culinary work sitting next to me will become inedible if I just leave it and fall asleep, I wouldn’t bother opening my eyes again.
After the food has gone from plate to belly, though, I am out.
* * *
I wake a few hours later, this time far less hostile. The only problem is that now my mind’s clearer, I’m beginning to think there’s another possible explanation to why Mason’s so blasé about Chris being taken away.
Getting out of bed, I rub my eyes as I walk to the door.
There’s the metal clink and clang of Mason’s barbell, and I find him out on the corner of the back porch on his weight bench.
“Need a spotter?” I ask, walking past the lawn chairs toward him.
“Sure,” he says, “just as long as you can lift this thing off of my struggling, but useless body in the event I misjudge my strength.”
“I’ve seen you lift weights,” I tell him. “I’m pretty sure I could out-bench you.”
He wheezes laughter, the bar swaying a little above him as he lifts it and sets it back in place.
“You almost don’t need a gym membership at all,” I tell him.
“I need a new setup,” he says. “The bar’s hollow. My dad used it. See how it’s gotten all bent and rusted over the years?”
“Yeah,” I say, looking at what he’s showing me, just wanting to keep him talking.
“The weights won’t come off,” he says. “I’ve tried bending the bar back straight, but it’s too old, too worn down.”
“You’ve never really talked about him,” I say.
“Yeah, well he left when I was just little, so I don’t really remember him,” he answers. “Mom said he was an ass, though, so maybe it’s just as well.”