before Dwayne could reach me he groaned loudly and fell to the floor, grabbing at his stomach.
“Cramps?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. Just kept lying there, moaning and writhing and gasping for breath, while the wind howled outside and the back porch began to creak.
Suddenly the back door screeched opened. A man with long, messy brown hair walked in. His face was lined and craggy, and his nose was off center, but his eyes were as sharp as ever. Larry.
I jumped up, ran around the table (stepping on Dwayne’s hand—oops), and hugged my brother. Oh, how I’d missed him. And how grateful I was to that warden who’d let him out.
When I pulled back, Larry rubbed my cheek, then looked over my shoulder and began shaking his head and laughing.
“Dwayne’s dinner didn’t quite agree with him.” I smiled. “Would you please carry him out on the porch? All his moaning is getting on my nerves.”
Larry scooped Dwayne up as if he weighed nothing. When Larry came back inside, I was slicing up the second blueberry pie I’d made that morning. Larry looked at the peach pie I’d thrown in the trash.
“Oh, you don’t want that. I made it special for Dwayne. It has some Comet and other cleansers in it, in honor of our impending doom.”
“Nice touch.” Larry chuckled. “But why’d you do it? I told you when I called that I’d get here by tonight and would take care of him for you.”
I paused and let out a deep sigh. “I appreciate that. But after everything Dwayne put me through, I decided I was going to stand up for myself, once and for all.”
“Good for you, Sis. I always knew you had it in you.”
I nearly laughed at his wording. “Thanks, Larry. I just wish I’d known it sooner.”
We sat at the table with our pie and old photo albums. The wind howled again, but I didn’t mind anymore. I finally had my big brother back, if only for a few hours.
\
“Bon Appétit” first appeared in Nightfalls: Notes From the End of the World, published by Dark Valentine Press in 2012.
This story was a bit of a challenge. The editor of Nightfalls, Katherine Tomlinson, asked me to submit to the anthology. Every story in the book would be set on the night before the world was going to end. Katherine wanted to see how people would spend that night, knowing their time was definitely limited. That set-up might prove easier to authors of romance, I thought. I write crime. If the world were ending, certain crimes would become obsolete. Money wouldn’t matter anymore, so that ruled out stories about burglaries and robberies. Terrorism would probably be out, too, since the world already was doomed. I thought and thought, and ultimately I realized that in the end, all you have is love and self-respect. Oh yeah, and revenge. Definitely revenge. And “Bon Appétit” was born.
THE WORST NOEL
Okay, Gwen. Get ready to fake it.
It was nearly my turn to share what I was thankful for. Then we’d eat some pie, Thanksgiving dinner would mercifully end, and I could escape for home.
But first I had to pay my annual homage to Mom, saying how thankful I am for my family. Every year I contemplate only mentioning my friends and work, but I always chicken out. Mom would make me pay if I didn’t smile and mention her.
My sister, Becca, finally stopped blathering about her husband and baby, and Mom slipped into the kitchen, clearly satisfied, as always, with Becca.
Becca’s husband, Joe, started sharing his thanks. I reached for another roll, slathered some butter on it, and swallowed it down in two bites. Joe finished talking. I steeled myself. My turn had come. I smiled and—
“Happy birthday to you,” Mom sang, emerging from the kitchen with a large pumpkin pie, a candle in the middle. Everyone joined in, Becca’s in-laws looking uncomfortable, while Mom set the pie before me.
“We would have wished you happy birthday earlier,” Joe said, glancing at his parents when the song ended. “But we thought your birthday was tomorrow.”
“Oh, it is,” Mom piped in. “But Becca and I will be busy shopping, so it only makes sense to celebrate Gwen’s birthday now.”
I wished I had a different family and blew out my candle.
“Pumpkin pie as birthday cake,” Joe said. “How unusual.”
He knew my preference for chocolate. As did Mom.
“Well, it is Thanksgiving. Besides”—Mom poked me with her elbow—“it’s not like Gwen needs any more cake.” She smiled as if she hadn’t just been incredibly rude to me. “Becca, would you please slice the pie? I’m going to get Gwen’s gift.”
A couple minutes later, as plates of pie made the rounds and I considered dropping mine, face down, on Mom’s Berber carpet, Mom handed me a gold-wrapped box. I opened the envelope first, and a small gift card fell out. I turned it over and cringed. Not a gift card. A membership card. For a gym.
This was a new low, even for Mom.
“Read the greeting card,” she said.
Lord save me. “To our darling daughter on her birthday,” I read aloud. Not that Mom or Dad had penned that sentiment. It came straight from Hallmark. At the bottom, Mom had written, “We got you this gym membership and a personal trainer for the next six months. Happy Birthday.”
Oh, yeah. There’s nothing like being reminded that you’re fat to make your birthday a humdinger!
“What a wonderful gift,” Becca said in that tone she’d used since we were kids—the one grown-ups always thought sounded sweet and sincere but I knew was chockfull of sarcasm.
“There’s more!” Mom said, pointing at the box, looking proud.
I shuddered to imagine what might be in it. I gingerly opened the gold wrapping paper, not because I cared about ripping it, but because I wanted to delay every second I could before the inevitable torture.
Paper off, the box’s lid caught my eye. Bloomingdale’s. Really? Excited, I lifted off the cover, pulled back the crinkly, white tissue paper, and…mentally kicked myself for thinking Mom might have gotten me something nice.
“Hold it up,” Mom said. “Let everyone see.”
I pulled out my gift. A red sweat suit. Size medium.
“You can use it at the gym! With the trainer!” she said.
I watched Becca try not to laugh while her in-laws and Joe sat there, mouths open.
“Thank you, Mom. Dad. How very…thoughtful.”
“Go try it on,” Mom said.
“Oh, no, not right now.”
“C’mon, Gwen,” Becca chimed in. “Don’t be shy. Let’s see how it looks.”
I glared at her. She knew damn well how it would look.
Mom gave me her don’t-embarrass-me frown. So I shuffled off to my old bedroom, sweat suit in hand. As an elementary school principal, I’m used to standing up to people and holding my own. But you wouldn’t know it seeing me around my family. While I took off my clothes, I wondered for the millionth time why Mom and Dad favored Becca so much. Growing up, they had always given her great presents. First the hottest toys, then trendy teenage clothes, and then expensive jewelry from Cartier in Boston. Oh, how she’d always loved to laud her gifts over me.
Especially since my presents always sucked. When I turned eight, Cabbage Patch dolls were all the rage. I got a Skipper doll. Mom wouldn’t even spring for Barbie. At fourteen, I begged for bohemian clothes from Annie Dakota, a funky store that used to be downtown. I got a science tutor instead. “A far better use of the money,” Mom had said, looking me up and down. “We can’t