The Elephant is a Zombie

The Elephant is a Zombie

"That was delicious, Temperance!"
   
This is Albert, my next door neighbor. He teaches remedial English at the community college. He's always saying things are delicious. I hear him over the fence in his backyard, playing catch with his eight-year-old. "Delicious toss, son!" On quiet nights, I imagine I can hear him on top of his wife: "Delicious, dear. Delicious." 

Without even having to be asked, Rickshaw clears the first course. No one else seconds Albert's comment on the gazpacho. His wife, Nancy, gives a little half-cough, half-sneeze when Rickshaw reaches around her for the bowl. She's a yoga instructor at the Y. I bought this entire dinnerware set at Sears just yesterday, but no one's commented on it either.

Besides myself and Rickshaw, and Albert and Nancy, there is one other couple at my party. Horace and Regina. She cleans my house on Tuesdays and Fridays, but only for a year, then the coupon expires. Horace used to work with my husband at the brewery until the accident. We all used to be friends.
   
There's a weighty silence while we all wait for the second course. I've never prepared a three-course meal in my life, and I had trouble deciding what should be second. I chose quail, which is a tiny-ass bird that I'm surprised the guy at the meat counter at Food Lion even knew people could eat, let alone where to get some. I had to drive to the next town over, about fifteen miles both ways. For the main course, I made baked macaroni, which I know is a little middle class, but I'm serving it in these cute little ramicans with a special cheese. It was on sale.
   
Horace clears his throat and swiftly looks around at the others. I'm not sure I am meant to see him do this, but he is sitting directly across from me, in my husband's usual place, so it's difficult not to see him. "Temperance," he says, clearing his throat a second time. "I appreciate the thought behind all this, but...."
   
Rickshaw comes back into the dining room, expertly balancing the five plates of quail, and Horace closes his big mouth. I can smell the bird before the plate is set before me; it smells like hot glue and maybe fish, somehow. But fowl is supposed to smell weird, I think. The stinkier, the better.
   
Once the plates have been set, everyone sort of picks up their forks and pokes at the thing on their plate, unsure where to start. "I know, it's an odd dish," I laugh through the awkwardness. Regina seems to be having trouble cutting into hers. "Rickshaw, help her."
   
Regina yelps, and Horace leans over to her before Rickshaw has even taken a step. He picks up the bird by what one assumes must have been its leg and shoves it into his wife's gaping mouth. She chews reticently.
   
"We've got it, Temperance, we've got it," Horace says, smiling and nodding as he goes back to his own bird. He should be smiling. After the accident at the brewery, they only waited about month to hire him back on. Even though my husband turned out to be perfectly all right, they refused to hire him back. I've been living off the life insurance, which is strange.
   
Albert holds his quail to his face and gives it a tentative lick. Nancy looks at him and twitters like she's witnessed this move before. She catches me looking at her and drops her eyes to her own untouched bird. I bet they all wish I had a dog right now so they could quietly dispose of their meals.
   
I can't contain myself any longer. "All right, Jesus Christ, listen. I know I'm not the greatest cook, okay? You don't have to be shy about it. Come on, tell me, I can take it. The gazpacho was crap. Everything doesn't have to be delicious all the time, Al. It was under-spiced and over-cooked, and the quail is - well, okay, I burnt the fucking quail. Just say it!"
   
In the corner of the room, Rickshaw burps wetly and his lower jaw falls into his hands. He looks at it like everyone else has been looking at their second course, then he puts it in his pocket, so as not to be rude.

Albert gulps next to me, and someone's leg shakes so hard the table rumbles.

"Jesus, Tempe," Horace says, stealing glances at my husband. "That's not it at all."