The Top of the Stairs

It all started over carrots.

Of all the vegetables that ended up on the family supper table, carrots were the worst of the lot. I could be persuaded to try almost anything once - parsnips, turnips, even brussel sprouts - but carrots, with their soggy texture and wretched orange hue, were nickel sized bits of noxiousness. I pushed my plate away in disgust.

You don't leave the table until you finish, my mother warned and pushed it back.
Just one or two bites, my daddy pleaded, then you can be excused.
I crossed my arms defiantly and settled in for the duration.

Aside from my place, the table was cleared and my brothers sent to do homework. I sat through the dishes being washed and put away and my parents left for the living room for the nightly ritual of television. The carrots began to congeal and grow cold. Minutes turned into hours and still I sat, glaring at them, resenting their very existence and refusing to compromise with even a single bite. Change your mind? my mother asked with a self satisfied smirk, We've got all night. My daddy came and sat with me, speaking softly, coaxing me with kindness to not antagonize her any further, One small bite, he implored, One small bite and it'll be enough to get around her. I shook my head and dug in with a vengeance. I think we both knew by then that it wasn't about carrots anymore.

Eventually the music of "The Tonight Show" came on. My mother swept away the plate of misbegotten vegetables and furiously sent me to bed. I knew the carrots would re-appear as surely as I knew a violent argument was about to break out and I climbed the stairs slowly, regretting that my stubborness was going to be the cause of it but still feeling a perverse kind of joy at a small if temporary victory. The yelling began before I reached the top, my mother accusing my daddy of blatant favoritism, of lack of backbone, of undermining her parental authority and being defeated by a child. This rapidly led to the familiar lyrics of his not loving her, of marrying her for who knew what reason, of how she hated him and wished to God she'd never had kids, of how she'd get even if it took her the rest of her life. I won't stand for another second of this! she screamed and there was a crash - an ashtray, I speculated, probably the big ceramic one on the coffee table - and then she began to cry in loud, out of control sobs with an undertone of hysteria. I couldn't hear my daddy's words, only the soft murmurs of reassurance, followed by another crash, more delicate and high pitched - a coffee cup, I thought, one of her prized collectibles - and then my daddy's footsteps, slow and heavy hearted, and the quiet closing of the front door. I left my place at the top of the stairs and crept to my room, making sure to lock the door behind me before crawling into bed and under the covers. I heard the old station wagon's engine rev up and my mother cursing as she stumbled blindly up the stairs, slamming her fists into the walls with every step. I dreaded her coming to my room but she only stopped long enough to stage whisper at the door, You'll eat those damn carrots if it takes all week, you little spoiled brat, you'll see.

By morning, when my daddy still wasn't home, she was peaked and hungover and had lost the will to fight. The carrots sat on their plate, haphazardly wrapped in saran wrap, yellowish and nasty looking. She scraped them into the garbage in between gulps of sherry laced coffee and smashed the plate into the sink with one brutal, futile gesture.

It could have been about anything, but this night it had all begun with carrots.