Grimacing when he noticed the last beer at the back of the refrigerator, Boone grabbed the sweaty bottle by the neck. Standing too fast he hit his head on the freezer door. Kicking the door closed he opened the beer with the church key he wore on a silver chain around his neck like the Medal of Honor.
“Who wants pizza?” he yelled.
The four kids all squealed and howled at once, jumping up and down in the kitchen. Boone headed for the door swigging as he went. He could still hear his son Bowie, 5, cheering when daddy tore out of the gravel driveway in the truck spinning rock against the aluminum back door of the house they rented in Newport, PA.
Boone came home drunk six hours later with a six pack and a wet pizza box stained with grease from the cold pie. The kids had already fallen asleep on the floor for their pajama pizza party. Dropping the box on the kitchen table he opened a bottle of beer and stood by the stove.
Lee Ann had already gone to bed.
Bowie appeared out of nowhere, standing in his little bare feet and pajama bottoms staring at his father.
“Help yourself,” Boone said.
Walking hesitantly to the table, Bowie climbed up on the chair, kneeled as if in prayer and opened the box. Reaching for a limp slice of pepperoni pizza he ducked his head under the flopping hunk of dough and took a bite.
“It’s cold,” he said.
Boone snatched the pizza from his boy’s hand.
“Suit yourself,” he said, eating the slice in about four bites before digging in and eating the whole small pie all by himself.
Bowie went to bed hungry.
The pizza box remained on the kitchen table until Lee Ann cleaned up the kitchen the next afternoon and went on with her life in the country. Bowie and the other kids never mentioned what happened that night. Neither did Boone. They all went on with their lives in the country.
Twenty-five years later, laid up in the hospital with cirrhosis and laid off from his security guard job at the dog food factory Boone knew he was going to die. Weak as he felt, his stomach still growled. He even told the nurse he was hungry. At about six that night the nurse said he could eat some solid food as long as he took his time chewing and somebody helped him. Maybe she could find an aide to feed him. Boone felt so fragile he couldn’t get out of bed to pee. Maybe his appetite was just wishful thinking caused by meds and delirium but, man, he sure wanted to eat.
Half in and out of sleep Boone dreamed about dozens of steamed clams with melted butter he wolfed down at the stock car track, fresh grilled corn on the cob and fat homegrown tomatoes Lee Ann sliced thick with mayonnaise for sandwiches for his lunch pail. Boone missed Lee Ann making his sandwiches for work. But he wasn’t working no more now so what difference did her dying from lung cancer make to him anyway?
Bowie showed up at 7 carrying a small pizza box. He reached up, turned down the volume on Jeopardy and pulled his chair close to the bed. The strong smell of spicy hot pepperoni filled the room
“Hey,” Bowie said, kicking the mattress too hard with his motorcycle boot, startling Boone awake. Then he kicked the mattress again even harder.
Staring at his father, Bowie said, “Who wants pizza?”