The Joy of Vicarious Living
an excerpt

I can’t believe she’s making me do this. I don’t want to, but she leaves me no choice. I pick up the knife, I raise it to shoulder level and stare down my target. Amy must see a gleam in my eye, because for a moment, she actually looks worried. I slowly bring the nine-inch serrated blade closer to the flesh, take a deep breath, and plunge the tip several inches into the delicate, warm breast. Hot juices immediately flow from the puncture wound as I exhale. A smell pours forth that reminds me of boyhood, and how simple things used to be before I had any responsibility. I glance around, nervously, wondering if everyone is really staring at me or if it is just my imagination. I furrow my brow and focus on the task at hand. I push the serrated edge in slow, languid motions back and forth until I extract the precise amount of meat. The smell is incredible, and I’m not sure if I can wait until I’m finished before my appetite must be sated.

Somewhere, maybe it’s in my head, maybe it’s not, I hear a child shriek, and I cannot tell if it is with glee or with terror. Then my mother’s voice: “If you can’t hurry up, the children may starve, you know.” I shake my head furiously to clear my thoughts. I can feel the sweat beading on my broad forehead. It’s too goddamn hot in here. My vision wavers, and I remember that my therapist told me that I am in control of what I think, and of how I react. His words do me absolutely no good.

I can’t stand all of these eyes on me. She knows I hate to be the center of attention, but she makes me do it anyway. Why she has me do these things, I’ll never know. Maybe she feels a sense of empowerment when she bends me to her will. Regardless, I must regain my control and finish this hateful job. I’m halfway done now, as the breast is just so much bone. My wife Amy asks if I think that’s enough to start with, and I almost collapse under the incredible sense of relief that I feel. “Yes, I do. That’s quite enough,” I tell her.

I sit down hard in my chair at the head of the table and swallow down my nervousness with wine that is warmer than I normally prefer. I slowly open my eyes, hoping that this is just another bad dream, but I am instantly disappointed. I see my wife, passing down the freshly-carved turkey breast to the rest of the family, and I remember what Thanksgiving is really about: letting your relatives criticize you until you want to swallow a bottle of drain cleaner. I’m still gripping the large carving knife in my right hand. My father asks me if I’m alright; he always could sense when I was nearing panic. “I’m ok, Dad.” And I was.

All of us gathered around the table in my house. It should have been a Kodak moment. My wife, her parents, her sister on my right side. My Mom and Dad, my brother, his wife on my left. There’s a children’s table at the far end of the dining room where my daughter Hannah sits with my brother’s twin boys. They’re still shrieking with unidentified emotions. My daughter is four, and she’s much feistier than I’ve ever been. As I’m thinking about how proud of her I am, she throws a hot, freshly buttered roll at her cousin Kevin, the bigger of the twins, while Thomas, the smaller, smarter one, quickly ducks under the table.

My wife brings me back to reality by telling me that I must have forgotten to serve the cider, even though we normally don’t have it until dessert.

This is home.