The God of Meat
It was the plastic palm trees that did it. Augie pictured his neighbors, whispering obscenities behind the drapes at the sight of them; Tricia ticking her manicured nails, Ted scowling in imitation of a dashing actor.
Initially, they had only hinted at their displeasure; Oh, a golf course, on your front lawn, isn't that different! My, it does draw attention to your house. And, finally, after the traps were in and flags secured; Really, Augie, it doesn't fit the décor of the neighborhood.
Tricia had sent Ted over with the first official complaint, likely hoping his smooth talk would do the job. But Augie would rather have faced Tricia, for as perfect her appearance—tight bun, tighter clothes, constant heels no matter her task—she could not hide what was beneath it. To Augie, the simplicity of Tricia's anger was easier to understand than Ted's veneer.
“Our neighborhood doesn't have a décor, as far as I can see,” Augie had responded pleasantly.
“You got me there,” Ted said, “But I think there are certain standards we should try to live up to.”
“Like?” Cutting fringe from the turf, Augie did not raise his head.
“Neatness. A unity.”
“I plan to keep my green very neat. That's part of the whole process.”
“Right, right,” Ted chuckled. “I understand you probably need some projects now that your wife is gone. But maybe you could take up an indoor hobby.”
Augie looked up. “This isn't a hobby.”
Ted understood his dismissal and Augie saw briefly a flash of Tricia, that interchangeability that occurs in longtime couples. With a stiff wave, Ted walked back across the street. In one of the upstairs windows, Augie saw the bottom of the drapery cut out quickly, as if sucked by a breeze; a valiant attempt at escape only to be drawn back by something equally powerful within.
~
It had happened one day at work. Staring down at the meat under his hands, Augie saw something unforgivable. The blood that had never bothered him coalesced into something spiritual. It wasn't as if he suddenly thought of himself as a killer, only that he couldn't lay his hands on flesh again. Giving up his lifelong career had been easy, not a choice; how it instantly changed his back story, how suddenly God, whoever that was, showed up on a severed lamb leg, was not.
He went home to Miranda and told her he was retiring. His wife had not questioned it, nor how the meat disappeared from their diet. Augie knew it was only because he no longer brought it home and it wouldn't occur to Miranda to buy it. In any case, Augie was grateful to her. It took weeks for the meat to leave his system, and it was only then he got the idea for the putting green. The strength of his desire, which arose swiftly and clearly, felt strange after years of routine.
They had moved into their new house after Miranda casually presented a fund from her parents; as if the amount weren't large and startling, as if Augie had known about it all along. Aside from the money, what Augie found most disturbing was Miranda's desire to live in the neighborhood where everything was so strictly aligned.
Once inside their new house, Augie had to admit to a lightening, which may have been purely aesthetic, but felt like something more. It was only stepping outside that he missed the variety of their old neighborhood.
By the time they moved in, Miranda had already started to change. It began with the furs, then the outlining of her lips and eyes with dark thick makeup. The fishnet stockings and rhinestone glasses were so unlike her muted style it seemed she was trying to fit in another personality before she died.
He had seen the neighbors stare as she walked down the street, and then talk, when she began frequenting the Kwik-mart on North Street. Augie had followed her once, seen her chatting amiably and randomly at people getting their morning coffee as they listened with eye averted, as if her eccentricity were contagious.
It didn't matter to Augie, their talking. It was still Miranda. And what did he know about makeup and beauty? You either loved someone or you didn't. There wasn't much in between to him.
Even when Miranda colored her hair an alarming blonde, the only part that bothered Augie was how the line that defined her face had vanished. And he had developed some odd habits himself since retiring. The dunking of his teabag twenty-four times, the nighttime apologies (sorry sorry sorry) to some being (who? The God of Meat?). The worry, equal to his skepticism, was that if he didn't do these things, something would happen.
Other choices more subtle, such as morning coffee in white mugs and afternoon tea in black, made sense to Augie. Tea, after all, stained the white ceramic, which then had to be scrubbed with bleach. In any case, it came easy to him to chalk these new rituals up to old age and the regression that tagged along with it.
But then Miranda had the stroke. Taking care of his wife— spooning, wiping, trying not to look at the questions in her eyes during moments of lucidity—Augie only had time to plan the green in his mind. In there, the course grew to spectacular proportions. Their front lawn, he believed, lent enough space for five holes, a gazebo, a stream. The décor was pieced in as Miranda became less responsive; Chinese lanterns in the gazebo, a checkerboard table flanked by two chairs, azaleas in window boxes, a sand trap that could double as a sunning area.
It never occurred to Augie that he would offend anyone. If he had known, his vision might have remained that. Augie was not a confrontational man, not someone who enjoyed hurting people, no matter the trivial nature of the wound.
~
Augie heard the clack of Tricia's heels against the walk as he was working on the hole for the sand. The sandbags were piled in the back of his pickup in the driveway. Augie unfolded as Tricia neared, leaning against the shovel.
Tricia didn't bother with a greeting.
“What's this?” She pointed to the ground and then his truck. Augie noted the color of her nails, how they almost matched her skin.
“Sand trap.”
Tricia's sigh was a hiss.
“We're going to have to take action if you insist on continuing with this.”
Augie wanted to ask her why his lawn was bothering her so intensely; why she wrapped herself into a view he doesn't believe she looks at.
“There's no association here, is there?” He asked instead. “Like a neighborhood association, with formal rules?”
Tricia rolled her eyes. “Maybe it's time to form one.”
Augie picked up his shovel and continued digging. The handle beneath his fingers reminded him of the bones he would encounter at work. On occasion he would bring one home to Miranda, who acted like he had waltzed in with a new diamond. She would make stock with them, freezing portions in Tupperware for future use.
After she passed away, Augie had found fourteen unused containers with dates and cryptic initials. Upon the discovery he wished he had paid attention to her method. He had not been able to throw them away, afraid he would miss something important in doing so.
As Tricia walked angrily away, Augie turned to watch. He was about to say something—Let me know if the association needs a president. I'd be happy to help—when he noticed the run in her stocking. Beginning behind her knee, it traveled thinly down to her ankle. On anyone else, it would simply be a damaged piece of clothing. On Tricia, Augie found it inexplicably sad. Without comment, he proceeded with his work, mindful of how each jab of the shovel changed the shape of the earth before him.
~
He had woken up in the middle of the night to find Miranda gone. Augie could not tell how long it had been, if they had crossed paths in their journey—him toward waking, hers away. Closing his eyes again, he had breathed in.
Tomorrow, was his thought.
Tomorrow I can start.
~
Tricia and Ted's boy was only seen in glimpses from a distance, ferried from door to car, attached to soccer balls and backpacks, often disappearing for large chunks of time. The first time Augie saw him up close was after Miranda died. Augie answered the door to find the boy standing on their stoop. He was dressed neatly, formal in a button down and pressed pants. A combination of Tricia and Ted's genetics in coloring and features, his eyes seemed to be his own.
“I'm sorry about your wife.” His sincerity took Augie off guard.
“I'm Marc.”
“I thought it was Marco,” Augie said, admitting to overhearing.
“That's what they call me. I think the ‘o’ is a little much.”
There was a pause where Augie didn't know how to respond. When he did, it was a surprise.
“She was like a mom.”
Augie didn't really know what he meant. They never had kids. It wasn't something they had discussed, why it never happened, why they never even talked about it. If Miranda was bothered by their lack of offspring, she never showed it, unfailing in her steadiness.
Before her stroke, they had taken turns cooking and although Augie never truly enjoyed her food—too bland, too uniform in color— he missed the act of it. The jolt of gratitude, of luck, to have something prepared and hot placed before you.
“If you need anything, let me know,” Marc said. “I'm home now.”
As the boy turned, Augie addressed his back.
“Where were you before?”
“School.”
He looked young to Augie.
“You're done?”
In the flash of Marc's grin, Augie saw something likeable.
“No, I got kicked out. Prep.”
As if the word explained it all.
“Remember,” Marc called back from his driveway. “If you need anything.”
But Augie didn't need anything. Standing in his door, the world looked the same, which disappointed him. He was alone. What could he possibly need?
~
In the afternoon, Augie headed for the freezer. There were old friends; thighs and ribs and breasts. The plastic that held them was slick and clean, not hinting at what came before this resting place. Pushing them aside, he sorted through Miranda's containers, finally settling on one that felt right beneath his fingers.
He opened it carefully, the lid smooth against his skin. Dumping it into the largest pot he could find, Augie turned the burner on low. Sprinkling garlic salt and white pepper Augie let it simmer until dinnertime.
The first spoonful was deceiving. At first, he couldn't taste her, only the ingredients, one by one as they passed his throat. But by the time it reached his stomach, there she was. Augie ate three bowls, watched a bit of television and then went to bed.
It was early morning when he woke to find her gone again. In the bathroom Augie silently vomited as the sun made its way up the horizon.
~
After Augie put the finishing touches on the turf and placed the chipping mats, he started on the gazebo. The sawing, which he confined to the garage, perked Tricia and Ted's horns up even farther. Marc appeared one afternoon on his front yard without Augie noticing his approach.
“Have you hit any yet?”
Augie looked up from his tape measure.
“Balls. On the course.” Marc gestured toward the green.
Augie shook his head.
“Why don't we? I can go get my putters.”
“You're a golfer?”
“Not really. I have clubs only because my parents make it a prerequisite.”
“For what?”
“Being their son,” Marc laughed.
Augie wondered where Marc obtained this lightness, which appeared to be lacking in his parents, at least in full view. Augie was smart enough to know that what people showed at any given moment was only a layer of who they were. At the same time—and he was unsure if this was a conflicting thought—he was a firm believer of first impressions.
“Your parents don't approve of this.” Augie nodded toward his construction.
“All the more reason to play.”
“Ah, the rebel.”
Marc turned serious. “No, that's not what I'm about.”
“Getting kicked out of prep?”
“That was about balance.”
Augie placed his tape measure on the wood and thought about his clubs. Where were they? In all of his plans, he never pictured himself actually playing on the green.
“What do you mean?” He asked Marc.
“I left to provide more balance to the school. With me there, it was off kilter. I don't actually enjoy breaking the rules, but had to do it to restore the evenness.”
Augie pondered the boy's mannerisms, still mentally searching for his golf bag. Miranda would not have minded him golfing, but he had preferred spending time with her.
“It's the same way with my parents. I have to do certain things to balance out what they do.” Marc paused. “Maybe that's why I'm here.”
Augie thought his clubs must be in the attic, nestled in pink insulation, mice droppings sprinkled like confetti along the leather.
“Why don't you run over and get those putters,” Augie said and felt a brief flutter of what he would label excitement if it weren't so small and fleeting.
~
Augie was in the kitchen having afternoon tea when the doorbell chimed. The sound confused him at first, not having heard it for a while. Wandering into the living room, he saw Ted through the side window and sighed. When he opened the door, Tricia was there next to him.
“How can I help you?”
Ted held out his hand as if they were just meeting.
“Nice to see you.” He boomed.
Augie waited. He could tell Tricia was holding her tongue, although she made no attempt to rearrange the displeasure on her face.
“So, we see you met our son.”
Augie nodded again.
“Good boy, our son.”
Tricia elbowed her husband.
“Ah, yes,” Ted coughed. “We, um, would appreciate it if you could refrain from giving him any ideas.”
“Ideas?”
“He's very impressionable.”
Augie experienced a sudden thrill at this imagined power they think he has.
“Your son is a smart boy.”
His compliment seemed to throw Ted off but not Tricia.
“Leave him alone.” She shrilled. “He doesn't need any more influences.”
At her outburst, Ted turned his attention away from Augie toward his wife. As he touched her forearm gently, Augie saw the shine fall away. Free from it, the two of them were temporarily outlined by their ordinariness. Augie saw that they were not, in fact, attractive, only packaged in details that made them appear so.
Tricia's flash was back quickly, her eyes on Augie.
“Just because he came over, doesn't mean he doesn't agree with us. It doesn't mean he doesn't care.”
Ted took her arm, this time less gently, and steered her down the front stairs. It was only after they were gone that Augie realized that not once had any of them mentioned Marc by name, including himself.
~
It soon became their Thursday ritual, Marc bringing over his clubs, tapping a few balls, and then helping Augie build. He never interfered with Augie's plans or questioned where they were headed. Occasionally they talked, Marc asking questions, Augie answering sparely. One day after they completed the straw roof of the gazebo and were starting on the flower boxes, Marc brought up Miranda.
“I saw her down at the Kwik-mart.”
Augie kept sorting nails.
“People really liked her.”
Augie looked up to see if he could read the question in Marc's statement.
“I don't know why that happens.” Augie finally answered. “Why people start doing different things before they go.”
“Did it bother you?”
Augie shrugged. “I knew who she was.”
“People really did like her,” Marc picked up a hammer. “I think she was a bright spot in their morning. You never knew what she was going to say, but it was always nice, always surprising. No matter how much someone denies it, everyone likes to be surprised.”
“Most of all your parents,” Augie joked. “Boy, are they going to be surprised at what we have planned next.”
Although he was slightly ashamed at his mocking—Augie was not someone who typically liked poking fun—he found in Marc's laugh a satisfaction he had not expected.
~
The stream was the most challenging in terms of engineering. Marc, it turned out, was talented in that area, and worked on logistics of design and water flow that Augie would have had difficulties with. It was when they got the water moving that Marc brought up the idea of the palm trees.
“They would never survive in this climate,” Augie commented, although he incorporated them instantly into his vision.
“I mean plastic, of course.”
There was a glint in Marc's eyes.
“Of course,” Augie answered.
The rest of the afternoon they transferred rocks from Augie's pickup to the stream. When they were done, they sat in the gazebo, lemonade on the table between them.
“My parents are trying to find a way to sue you,” Marc said after gulping his glass down.
Augie was startled back into reality. He had been lulled into believing that Marc's presence had diffused them.
“For what?”
“Disturbing the peace.”
Augie laughed and then realized Marc was serious.
“Do you think the neighbors all dislike me for this?”
“Only my parents.”
Augie was unexpectedly hurt, which must have showed on his face.
“Tricia and Ted have a hard time separating action from person,” Marc said. “I think that's their biggest weakness.”
“You're a smart kid,” Augie commented, slightly embarrassed, not used to head-on compliments. “What are you going to do with yourself?”
Marc shrugged. “What did you do? Before this, I mean?”
“I was a butcher.”
“Did you like it?”
Augie had never given it much thought, at least not until the God of Meat showed up. He was a working man; chopping and slicing was simply what he did. He never considered anything else. The day he handed his soiled apron to his manager, there was no fanfare in giving it up. Augie had just said, I won't be in tomorrow. Since that day he had not missed it.
“Does anyone like what they do?” He finally asked.
“My parents,” Marc said. “They like it more than they like me. That's another of their weaknesses.”
After a long pause, Marc spoke again.
“I think they're sending me out again.”
“Where?”
“Some other prep school. I can sense it coming. It's pretty predictable at this point. Ted and Tricia's waves, where they originate, how they crest. I'm betting that the sight of the plastic palm trees will do it,” Marc laughed.
After a moment he spoke again. “I love my parents, you know. Despite anything I say or how it may look to other people. Maybe more than they love me, which they do. I know they miss me when I'm gone.”
Augie wanted to tell Marc that he too will miss him if he goes, but did not know how. Instead, he filled Marc's glass with more lemonade and when they were done, they set to work again. In the fading day, the bright hum of cicadas accompanied them as they traveled the path from truck to water and back.
~
Augie was thrown off when Marc didn't show up on Thursday and then felt a brush of anger at Ted and Tricia. It was easy, he found, to place the blame on them, almost enjoyable to allow the emotion to slither somewhere close to the surface.
Augie found himself down at the Kwik-mart. Inside it was cool and cleaner than he remembered. The light made him nervous, how it seemed to expose things that weren't meant to be seen. At the coffee counter, he debated between decaf or regular. It was afternoon and he knew the caffeine would keep him awake, or worse, throw him in that uncomfortable place between dreams and sleep. Yet he wanted it, feeling a need to fill himself with activity.
There was no one but the teenage girl at the register, the hum of the refrigerator mirroring her tedium. After he stirred in a creamer, Augie took his cup up to the counter.
“Afternoon.”
The girl grunted at him as he counted out change.
“Slow day?”
Taking his coins, she looked at him like he was crazy. Augie wondered if she worked there when Miranda came in.
“Have a good day.”
Again she grunted and then fell back into her pose of boredom. As Augie walked across the linoleum, he felt the urge to spill his coffee, just to see the pattern it would make, how far the liquid could spread and where it would finally settle in its journey. Instead he opened the door and as the bell above it jangled, he felt the sound as a cry of something wounded.
~
The second week Marc didn't show up, Augie pondered where he might have been sent this time. He didn't dare ask Tricia and Ted and didn't know what he would do with the information anyway. Instead he focused on what to add to his front yard, which at that point resembled a park. He had seen people slowing to take second glances, on the sidewalk and the road. It had been active lately, an unusual number of people arriving at Ted and Tricia's. He imagined their comments as a form of entertainment for guests; look at that, they might say, can you imagine? The gaudiness, the eyesore!
Although he wanted to go to the Kwik-mart, Augie stopped himself, wary of a force that gripped Miranda and was possibly waiting for him by the Ramen noodles. He busied himself with the new umbrellas, which he positioned around the sand trap. Marc, he thought, would appreciate the setup, how it mimicked a beach and how maybe, upon his return, they could lay back in recliners with some lemonade.
By the third week Augie gave in and went back to the Kwik-mart. Today it was not empty. Grace Morrow was by the ice cream freezer, her nose pressed to it in eagerness or indecisiveness, he could not tell. Augie never liked her, in her gossipy way, but Miranda had been friendly with her. When she spotted Augie, he tried not to let his dismay show.
“Did you hear??” Grace didn't bother with frivolities.
“Hello, Grace.”
“How horrible, how awful.”
Augie wondered how many conversations she began this way. If she ever actually meant the words.
“What is it, Grace?”
She eyed him cautiously.
“The Cavanaugh boy.”
“Marc?”
“Marco, not Marc.”
Augie shook off her reprimand, annoyed. “What about him?”
“You didn't hear, did you?”
“Apparently not.”
He saw Grace hesitate, back off, and in the gesture, Augie was suddenly frightened. His annoyance dropped into the depth of him, turning to something harder.
“What is it, Grace?”
“There was an accident.” She stopped. “A car accident.”
“What happened to him?” But he already knew. Augie could see it in her face, no longer eager with news. Right now, the only thing Augie did not want was for her to answer. He held up his hand and Grace, thankfully, understood.
Augie walked past her and out the door. At home, he found himself in the kitchen. Around him the light changed and for a moment he did not recognize where he was. When it was completely dark, Augie rose and headed outside. He walked across the green toward the palm trees and pulled one over. One at a time he dismantled and dragged them into the garage. On a graveyard of plastic trunks Augie sat with his garage door open, watching Ted and Tricia's. Although there was no physical change, the house was altered.
Augie waited until the last light across the street was gone and then stood and went back inside.
~
That night, Augie dreamt of the Kwik-mart. There was Miranda in a white fur and black fishnets. Her nails and lips were fire in the fluorescent light, hair the color of the moon. Seeing her, Augie was overwhelmed with the missing…Miranda! He wanted to reach out but could only watch as she teetered down the aisle. She was trying to make her way to the coffee counter, where everyone was gathered. Augie knew she had things to say, but something was wrong.
The people at the counter didn't turn around. They were dressed for work, ready for the routines of their day, loading up on caffeine. Augie wanted to yell, listen to her, listen to her, she will tell you something that will make your day more, make it matter! As he watched, Miranda was now hitting the sides of the aisle, falling this way and that. It was then that he realized it was the floor, not her, that was tilting. Augie's helplessness was unrelenting. He wanted Miranda to see him as something to grab onto.
But before he could reach her, the door to the Kwik-mart opened and there was Marc. Upon his first step in, the floor leveled and Miranda gained her balance. Although Augie could not see her face from where he stood, he knew she was smiling. No one looked at Marc or Miranda, unaffected by the change, but it didn't matter, because Augie could see that they were looking at each other.
Rachel S. Thomas-Medwid's fiction has been published in 10,000 Tons of Black Ink, Freight Train Magazine, Farmhouse Magazine, In Posse, Literal Latte, and A & U Magazine. A few of her writing honors include placing in the Lorian Hemingway short story contest, Literal Latte contest, Writer's Digest Competition, and the National John Steinbeck Competition. The God of Meat was performed as part of the Open Theater Festival in Boston last September. Recently venturing into screenplays, she has been encouraged by placing as a finalist in nine screenplay competitions. Although she has yet to claim that coveted top prize, she's having fun trying. Professionally, Rachel is the news editor of the American Meteorological Society's monthly magazine and blog, The Front Page, in which she edits and writes about the hot topic of global warming.