Zelda's Chicken

Sunlight sparkles on the glittering glasses of ice tea. Silence echoes through the clanking of ice cubes on glass walls. Southern heat suppresses the lavishly dressed Fitzgeralds, exhausting them like heavy armor. Zelda sits at the end of the long mahogany table. The bay window behind her, afternoon sunlight glows around her golden hair. The dining room is grand.

Seated next to Zelda is an old woman who wears a white bonnet. She chews her food slowly, contemplatively like cud. Scott sits next to the old woman. His eyes dart up and down at her as if he is creating a story about her which is entirely created by his own imagination.

A large, round black woman enters the room holding a shiny silver plate above her shoulders. She looks to be well into her 50’s. She plops a scoop of mashed potatoes onto Scott’s plate in a heavy handed silent form of defiance. Scott doesn’t miss a thing so he is amused with her zestful honesty which feels like fresh air to him. He leans back in his chair and looks at her derriere. Unconsciously, he chews louder and his lips smack his tongue. He sucks his teeth, creating a soft kissing squeal which awakens him from his forbidden musings. Wiping his mouth with a freshly pressed white linen napkin, his mischievous pale blue eyes twinkle in his own amusement. Zelda’s leer becomes more intense, causing him to feel the pull of her stare. He acknowledges her and smiles politely.

Zelda imagines that her husband would have been the type of man who would have enjoyed being a master. He would have seduced the female slaves rather than coerce them into doing something against their nature. How he could sleep with those women and not love them, she could not understand, not even in her own imaginings. It was power which he craved most. That she knew. His greatest satisfaction came from his belief that he was needed, longed for, and sexually desirable. He felt most alive when he felt useful and he wasn’t beyond role playing to meet this fetish of his, not even when he knew it was all a farce. Power was not only an aphrodisiac for him; it fueled his self-worth, and distilled his nervousness.

Scott broke away from his wife’s accusatory eyes. His smirk no less faded. The twinkle in his eye shone crisply. The old lady continues to eat her mashed potatoes, oblivious to all the drama which took place in some imaginary land. She is too good to recognize such filth that exists amongst such fine things. With an air of refinement, she lifts up her head, searches for the clock on the wall, and squeezes out a hot fart which smells like a can of cat food just opened. It was silent though so she hoped no one would notice. While she pretends to be innocent, Scott and Zelda immediately recognize the gentle leanings of her buttocks in the seat. Scott grimaces at Zelda but she does not reciprocate his abhorrence at her mother’s flatulence. This fart was more real than any of their imaginings so she earnestly went about picking at her food as if nothing had happened.
“Sigmund”, the large hairball of a cat springs across the table. Scott whips his balled-up napkin at the cat. Sigmund yowls and leaps across the room then hides under the table. He rubs against the old woman’s leg searching for the source of food. Zelda lifts the white table cloth and smiles at the big fur ball. She removes her high heel and leans toward the cat with her sole outstretched. Sigmund accepts the offer to be petted. With open arms and legs, he lies back on his back. Zelda strums his bushy belly while he licks her toes with his coarse tongue.

Scott finds her rhythmic movements under the table disturbing. She delights in seeing his weaknesses emerging. His judgments and refinement fills her with disgust. Weakness was disgusting to her. He snarls down the rest of his martini. Zelda put down her fork and knife. Plodding him with her eyes, he becomes mesmerized with her mouth. What is she going to say? He wonders.

He wants to look up at her to see what she says, but he cannot and he cannot look away. So he watches her hands as they pick up the chicken breast, she peels the flesh from the bones, breaks the breast plate and scoops out the marrow with her finger nails. He watches her dissect the meat of the chicken, pulling out a long bluish vein, and dangling it like a worm between her dainty fingers. She scoops her head down like a bird, swoops her fiendish tongue around the vein and slurps it up like a child that playfully sucks in a long piece of spaghetti.

The old woman lines up her peas and carrots. She scoops them up with her silver spoon and gently drops them into her mouth with her head up high. Her mind is far away. Her mouth silently mulls the vegetables. The women seem to be getting enormous satisfaction from their own thoughts. Scott, feeling defiled, gets up in a hurry and leaves the room in contempt. Zelda smiles mischievously at her mother. Her mother acknowledges this and nods her head.