He grabs my hand and leads me into the kitchen. I’ll give him this much, breakfast does smell really good.
Sleep smells better.
“Look,” he says. “There’s been a chipmunk going up and down that tree all morning. I’ve never seen it before.”
“That’s because only chipmunks and the elderly are awake this early,” I tell him.
“It’s nine o’clock,” he says. “Most people are at work by now.”
“Whatever,” I tell him. “The chipmunk’s great and everything, and I’m sure the two of you are going to have a blast, but I’m going back to bed and I need to know that you’re not going to bother me again until I awake naturally, fresh and healthy, ready to start my day on my own terms. Failure to abide by this very reasonable request absolves me of any responsibility of what I may do in retaliation.”
“All right,” he laughs, putting his hands up. “Go back to bed. I just thought you might want to taste my first attempt at breakfast-stuffed mushrooms.”
“What the hell is that?” I blurt.
“I remember you said you liked portabella mushrooms, so I picked some up from the store,” he says.
“You’ve already been to the store this morning?” I ask. “When did you get up?”
“Ah,” he says. “This close to a fight, my natural schedule changes a little bit. I probably should have told you that.”
“Are you sure that’s all this is?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “Why? What else would it be?”
“First off,” I tell him, “I’ve seen you before a couple of fights now, and I’ve never seen you go manic like this. Therefore, I’m going to really take a chance and guess that the fight doesn’t really have anything to do with it.”
“Oh,” he says. “You think I’m up early because—” he laughs. “No, I just got up early,” he says. “That’s all.”
I’m no less tired than I was a few minutes ago, but that short amount of time spent standing in this kitchen has awakened some of my finer senses.
“What’s in the mushrooms?” I ask.
“Bacon,” he starts.
“Sold,” I answer. “I’ll have some and then I’m going back to bed. You are a foul temptress. I guess it wouldn’t be temptress, though, would it? That’d be the feminine version. Would it be tempter? Now I’m starting to do it.”
“You’re waking up,” he says. “Want some coffee?”
“No,” I snap. “I’m delirious because it’s my day off and I’m not used to waking up before noon on my days off and you’re in denial because you’re upset about your brother getting arrested, but you’re so pissed at him for it that you won’t let yourself admit to yourself,” I repeat, “to yourself, mind you, that Chris getting arrested bothers you. There. I’ve done my good deed for the day, now point me to my mushroom and I’ll be on my way.”
“I’m not in denial,” he says. “I’ve just been expecting it for so long that it really just doesn’t bother me that much.”
“I’m sure that’s part of it,” I tell him, “but you’re acting like it doesn’t bother you at all. That’s your brother. I don’t know if you’re pissed or depressed or disappointed or scared or what, but it’s not the guy making stuffed breakfast mushrooms which, if I could just get a plate—” he hands me a plate “—thank you,” I say. “It’s not the guy making stuffed breakfast mushrooms and chipmunk-watching.”
“I thought you said you were going back to bed,” he says. “Why are we still talking about Chris?”
“Fork?” I ask.
He hands me a fork, at which point I cut off a piece of the stuffed mushroom and watch as cheese oozes out of it.
“Yeah, it’s not just bacon,” he says, “although that was a bigger part of the process than you’d think. You have to cook it to just the right level of crispiness: Too little and it won’t break apart in pieces small enough to stuff a mushroom, too much and crumble it all you want, it’s burnt bacon.”
“Are you not hearing that?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” he says.
I gather my piece of stuffed mushroom with my fork and blow on it a little before putting it in my mouth.