Read Online Of Mice and Nutcrackers: A Peeler Christmas by Richard Scrimger - Free Book Online Page B

oven door, stares over at him. “You wouldn’t believe me.”
    “I’ll play with you, Bernie,” I say.
    He smiles, fans the playing cards in his two hands. “Pick a card,” he says.
    I take a card. Bernie gets off the chair and walks away. “Hey, Bernie!” He keeps walking. I’m left holding the card. Bernie goes upstairs.
    I thought the deck in his hands looked kind of thin.
    “So, how’s it going?” I ask Grandma. “Do you like my new earrings?” Two of them, high up on my left ear. Plain rings. I got them in time for Halloween. Dad didn’t like the idea. Actually, “didn’t like” puts it mildly.
    Grandma shrugs at my earrings. “How’s it going? I’ll tell you how it’s going. I’m living in a room with teddy bears on the wall,” she says.
    “Aren’t they cute?”
    “No.”
    “What’s for dinner?” I ask.
    There’s smoke coming out of the oven now. Grandma whirls around. “Son of a ditch!” she yells, throwing open the oven door. She takes a pan out of the oven. In it is a smoking mass – or should I say, a smoking mess. I have no idea what she’s cooking. Rounded, flatish, black things. Sandwiches? English muffins? Mini pizzas? Frisbees? Wagon wheels?
    Grandma holds the pan over the sink, and starts scraping the black off the … things.
    “What are
those?”
I ask.
    “Pork chops,” she says.
    I don’t say anything.
    “Shut up,” she growls, scraping. As the top black layer flakes off, I start to recognize them. It’s like archaeology, I suppose. The trick is to see the meat underneath the coating of … of what?
    “What’s the stuff on top?”
    “Marshmallow,” she says.
    Of course.
    “Pork goes with sweet things,” she says. “Applesauce, honey …”
    “And marshmallow,” I say.
    Grandma puts down the pan, and stirs something cooking on the stove. I don’t ask what it is.
    “Beans,” she says, without looking around. “And brown sugar. You’ve had it before.”
    The front door opens. “Hello?” calls Mom. Her voice sounds tentative. She doesn’t know what to expect. I run to the front hall.
    “Mom!” cries Bernie from upstairs.
    Mom has a funny expression on her face. “What’s for dinner?” she says.
    “You won’t believe it,” I whisper, peeking back over my shoulder. “Grandma is cooking pork chops with –”
    “Marshmallow. That’s it.” Mom nods her head. “I recognize the smell.”
    “She’s done this before?”
    “Dinner!” calls Grandma.

    Grandma finishes first, pushes her chair back, and opens her pack of cigarettes. Empty. She frowns at it, crumples it up, and tosses it onto her empty plate.
    I swallow a small mouthful of dry burnt leather – that’s what dinner tastes like.
    “There’s another pack of cigarettes in the bathroom,” I say.
    “I know,” says Grandma. She doesn’t move. Grandma has always smoked. Her apartment on the other side of the city has ashtrays and lighters on all the tables. One lighter is shaped like a gun. Last time we visited. Bill almost set Bernie’s hair on fire.
    “What’s everyone staring at?” she says. “I don’t
need
a cigarette. I’ll wait.”
    “Good for you!” says Mom.
    Grandma doesn’t say anything.
    “Smoking is bad for you,” says Bill. He’s not eating the pork chops, I notice. He’s trying manfully – boy-fully, anyway – with the beans.
    “Why is smoking bad for you?” asks Bernie. He doesn’t go to school yet, so he hasn’t seen all the anti-smoking videos.
    “Smoking turns your lungs all black,” says Bill, “so that you can’t breathe. You pant and fall down. And then your arteries get all hard, and you have a heart attack. And –”
    “Boys,” says Mom, “can we talk about something else, please?”
    “No, no,” says Grandma. “Keep going. Tell me more about how my body’s falling apart. I love it.” She coughs.
    Mom’s cell phone rings from inside her purse in the hall. She stands up. “Please excuse me, Mother, but I’m expecting an