Harold wished they would just shut-up. Bina nagging at Elise over the wedding plans, Louise leaning into Sharon’s face, screaming at her over a comment made earlier, Julia poking Louise in the back, telling her to leave Sharon alone. Sharon crying, spit from Louise’s mouth dripping from the ends of her hair.
He would have loved to break a chair over Bina’s head, to drag her down to the basement and stuff her into the furnace. If he was ever to act upon his thoughts he would throw Louise from their tenth story balcony and then run over her body as it lay in the street. He wanted to strangle Sharon until her pathetic face turned blue, to take her deformed nose and slam it in the knife drawer. He wanted to put a bullet right between Julia’s eyes, but not before making her admit that ballet was for thin, pretty girls and not for cows like her and that it was a mistake for him to spend all that money. He wanted to beat them all until they shut their mouths and they would eventually hear what it was he might someday have to say.
What Harold really wanted was to be alone with his youngest daughter, Elise, to have her call him Daddy, for her to refill his glass of water, to butter his bread, to tell him hair was stupid and even if he wasn’t bald she’d want him to shave his head. He wanted her to stop talking about her wedding and to start asking him his opinions. He wanted her to write cute little love notes and slip them into his briefcase like she used to do, for her to meet him in the city for lunch, to wear a white dress when she visited him at the office. What he wanted was for her to be afraid of the shadows on her walls, to come to his bed at night and lie next to him, to snuggle close to him and he would keep her warm and she would sleep and not wake up when he did what it was he had always wanted to do.
Harold, Bina cackled, a piece of brisket hanging from her chin. Harold. Harold, tell Elise, tell her they can’t get married in a Chinese restaurant. Do you hear me, Harold? The meat fell from her chin and onto her red cape.
Listen to your mother, Harold said. Whatever she says. All of you. She’s in charge. Chinese, Japanese, whatever. That stuff they put in the food gives me a headache. And my brother’s allergic, as if that matters to anyone.
He excused himself from the table and went to his room. The magazines were under the mattress, just where he left them. Sometimes he wished they wouldn’t be there, that Bina would find them and finally they could talk. This was not one of those times. He removed his pants and settled in for the night.
Thomas Bonfiglio’s stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Fiction, Northwest Review, Lake Effect, Flatmancrooked and The Florida Review. His story Jamestown, N.Y. received Special Mention in the 2007 Pushcart Prizes: Best of the Small Presses. He teaches at Arizona State University.