Unwholesome Things - Part 12

Beta by LP (who gets extra thanks for helping me work past a bit of writer's block). All remaining mistakes are mine.

When Oren returned to the table his mother had baited Rezo into a discussion about the ethics of psychological testing. Or else there was another reason why they were discussing prisoners, starvation, and hallucinogenic drugs.

Oren distributed the charms. His mother smiled at the miniature sitar and gave him a brief thank you before returning to the conversation. His father accepted his without looking at it, setting it beside his water glass. Oren knew better than to expect him to use it.

Last was Rezo. Oren hesitated before giving him the charm. The pumpkin had seemed a lot funnier in the kitchen.

Oren sat down without offering it to him. He would pretend he forgot it.

“Don’t I get one?” Rezo asked, when a break in conversation allowed him to do so politely.

“Um, yeah.” Oren cringed at the words leaving his mouth. So much for his attempt at deception. “But you probably don’t want it. I mean, everyone else has them so you don’t really need one.”

Rezo quirked an eyebrow.

Oren didn’t blame him; he knew he sounded impaired.

“I’ll take it anyway,” Rezo said, holding out his hand.

With a repressed sigh Oren handed it over. In Rezo’s palm the soft, harvest orange was illuminated to neon proportions.

“A pumpkin, huh?” Rezo’s voice was teasing, but not cruel.

Dammit, all the fanfare he’d created by not just handing it over made him feel like he was offering a promise ring instead of a wine charm. He snatched up his glass to take a long sip, hoping the coolness of the water would somehow migrate to the warmth in his cheeks. He would never recover if his parents realized his crush. 

He jumped when a hand patted him on the shoulder, spilling droplets of water on his shirt. Rezo’s look was sympathetic, which was not the reaction Oren had been going for.

Why, just once, couldn’t he think something through before he acted on it?

His thoughts were interrupted by a series of coughs. He looked up to see Rezo with his hand over his mouth, reaching in vain for his empty glass.

Norman hastily moved to refill Rezo’s glass, as if anyone running out of water reflected badly on his performance.

Despite the coughing, Rezo managed to hold out his glass to make it easier for Norman to refill. He even choked out a raspy thank you before taking a sip of the much needed water.

Instead of pouring water for Oren next—even though he was standing right beside him—Norman moved in the opposite direction toward Oren’s father.  

This was the chance Oren needed. It was time to get his mind off of Rezo and back onto his plan.

“Norman,” Oren said, holding up his half-full glass. “Forgetting something?”

Norman hesitated, whatever response he wanted to make stilled by the presence of his employers.

When Norman was within range, Oren sat his was water back down at the top of his plate so Norman would have to lean over him to refill it.

A slight tensing of his jaw was the only sign of Norman’s irritation.  

And while Oren liked aggravating Norman, that wasn’t why he’d chosen to set his glass where he had. It was because he needed to get him closer.

Oren waited until Norman was engrossed in his task before hastily pinning the charm onto his jacket lapel.

He leaned back just as Norman straightened to a stand. Adrenaline flooded his system, and he glanced around to see if he had been noticed.

Rezo was looking at him, his expression puzzled. Oren’s heart jolted before fluttering to a stop. He was doomed.

“Oren always hates it when I tell that story,” his mother said.

What story? Oren had been too preoccupied executing his revenge to keep up with the conversation.

Rezo’s look of confusion faded into one of sympathy. He patted Oren’s hand.

“Really spicy food makes me sick sometimes as well. You should be grateful that unlike me, you outgrew it.”

This time Oren was grateful that Rezo had misattributed the source of his trepidation.

He was the king of stealth.

Norman added a drop of water to Oren’s father’s glass, even though it was obviously untouched. Conversely his alcoholic beverage had been sucked dry.

“Would you like another, sir?” Norman asked.

He was answered with a slight nod.

The last glass Norman filled was Oren’s mother’s. As always, Norman gave as wide a berth as possible to Hector.

Only this time, it didn’t work. Hector began bobbing his head up and down, his attention focused on Norman. Norman’s hand shook as he attempted to hold the pitcher as steady as possible. He jumped a little as Hector squawked, barely managing not to create a mess.

This was going to be good.

Hector gathered himself for the hybrid of a leap and a glide that was all his clipped wings would allow. Norman knew it coming. He jerked to a stand. His eyes widened in alarm as he took a step back.

But it wasn’t far enough.

Hector landed on Norman’s shoulder, battering his wings against Norman’s face as he fought to get the charm in his beak.

Norman gasped. His hands released the pitcher as they rose to shield his face. The sound of the crash echoed above the music, glass shards and ice scattered to rest indeterminable on the marble floor.

“Hector, no!” Oren’s mother stretched her arm futilely toward her pet. The sound of wood clattered against stone where her chair fell unnoticed.

Oren’s father continued to lift forkfuls of curry from plate to mouth as if nothing was happening—or at least nothing that didn’t happen with some frequency.

Rezo stood, reaching toward Norman and the bird before he let his hand drop. He looked across the table and back to Norman. His brow drew together into a deep frown.  Parrot attacks were apparently outside of his expertise.

Clipped wings had never stopped Hector completely from flying, although they did significantly limit his ability to steer. When it became apparent the charm wasn’t going to come loose before he was captured he aborted the attempt and flew back to his perch.

At least he tried to. Three pounds of macaw crashed onto the center of the table. Oren’s mother’s favorite Om table cloth slid under the impact, sending a plate of chana saag into his father’s lap. His hands rose up from his sides, as if he was about to take flight himself.

Oren couldn’t help it, he laughed. He’d only planned to get back at Norman, but this was turning out so much better. He ignored the dirty look Rezo gave him.

“Oh, Hector, no.” His mother’s voice morphed into a wail. “You know better than to get on the table.”

Hector was flapping his wings and stamping his feet through the dishes. Oren couldn’t tell if he was having a good time or was upset by the food sticking to his feet. Whatever his motivation the result was messy and loud. His mother flitted around the table, trying to grab at him as he evaded any attempt at capture.

Rezo snatched up glasses and plates out of the path of parrot-onslaught.

Oren didn’t get up to help; he couldn’t have even if he’d wanted to. It was all he could do not to fall out of his chair as he sniggered and snorted and made sounds unattractively close to a cackle. The racket he was making seemed to agitate Hector all the more.

Norman twisted his jacket around to see what Hector had gone after. He unclipped the safety pin to get a closer look at what was dangling from it. He frowned, eyes fixated on the hypnotic sway of the sparkling charm.

His gaze slowly shifted to Oren, like a basilisk turning its victim to stone.

Never before had Norman looked at Oren the way he did in that moment. Oren took a sip of his water as an excuse to hide. He was suddenly very grateful that there were witnesses present.

Hector knocked over a candle just as Oren’s mother wrapped her hands around him. She blew out the flame before it managed to do more than scorch the table cloth; a splatter of wax adding to the wreckage in his wake. Hector beat his wings as she worked to subdue him, feathers smearing curry wherever they brushed her clothes.

Norman hesitated, uncertain which mess to attend to first. Finally he moved toward Oren’s father to assist with the removal of rice and saag from his lap.

“This is exactly why it’s a bad idea to let Hector eat with us,” Oren said. Finally everyone would understand his point.

His mother, however, ignored him, turning her attention to Rezo.

“I apologize, Rezo, for how this evening went. I hope you were able to enjoy at least some of your dinner. We will have to make it up to you sometime.” Oren was surprised by how uneven her tone was.

Hector flapped his wings, greatly increasing the range of the splatter of sauces and spice.

“It’s fine, really. These things happen,” Rezo said.

Did they?

“Excuse me, I need to give Hector a bath. I don’t want the spices to irritate his skin.” She left quickly, her eyes bright.

Oren’s father nodded in Rezo’s direction before leaving the room. Instead of following him, Norman headed in the opposite direction, presumably toward the utility closet and a mop.

The mood was starting to get to Oren, to gnaw at his conscience—which was ridiculous. It was just a prank. It wasn’t his fault Hector was out of control.

Maybe some humor would lighten things up. Oren turned to Rezo, preparing a joke comparing his mother to an evil overlord and Hector as her minion, but the words died on his lips.

Rezo’s expression was anything but encouraging.

“That was cruel,” Rezo said.

“What was?” Oren picked up his napkin to dab at the mess on the table closest to him.

“Doing everything in your power to sabotage your mother’s dinner party.”

“I didn’t…” Oren rubbed the cloth of the napkin between his fingers.

“You pinned something on Norman, didn’t you? Something you knew the bird would go after?” Rezo began to clean up the area in front of him with his own napkin, his motions curt and jerky. “That’s why your mom asked about earrings and things that sparkled.”

“I didn’t pin anything on him, but maybe a wine charm got on him by accident.” It was apparent Rezo wasn’t falling for it, but Oren continued to speak as if by adding more words he would somehow increase the possibility of success. “Maybe one was stuck to my clothes and then it somehow got on Norman. Maybe when he poured my water?”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

“I was hoping you would.” Oren forced a smile.

Rezo narrowed his eyes. “Then there was the cologne and your comments about not wanting the bird at the table.”

“I told you the cologne was an accident.”

“You never wear cologne.”

“Ever think maybe I wanted to impress you?”

Rezo rolled his eyes. “You know better than to try that.”

“Why?” Oren narrowed his own eyes. “Because it’s impossible for me to impress you?”

“Oren.” Rezo closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if it took all of his focus to keep it slow and steady. “Don’t evade the issue.”

“And what issue is that?” Oren crossed his arms in defiance.  

“That you were really cruel to your mother.”

“I wasn’t trying to upset her.”

“Well, you did.”

“It’s her own fault.” Oren knew his voice was far too loud now but he didn’t care. “If she acted like a normal mom, the kind who doesn’t dress in theme, or babble about commercials and conspiracy theories this never would have happened. She doesn’t care at all about how much she embarrasses me, she only thinks about herself. Then there’s my dad and the music, it’s so pretentious. And because he plays the same things over and over I’ve learned to associate songs with food. Do you know I can’t hear Carmina Burana without becoming hungry? I’m like Pavlov’s damn dog.”

“Parents are supposed to be embarrassing. It’s payback for what we put them through when we were kids.”

“She brought a parrot to dinner.”

“A lot of people have annoying dogs or cats that beg at the table. It’s the same thing.”

“It’s not—”

“She didn’t deserve to have her evening ruined like that.”

“I wasn’t trying to ruin anything. I just didn’t want Hector there. He throws seeds and he’s loud and then Norman practically forced me to retaliate—you saw what he did to me.”

Rezo raised an eyebrow at that, as if he hadn’t witnessed the gauntlet Norman had thrown down in the form of a moist towel.

“And somehow that justified ruining dinner for everyone?” Rezo said.

Oren glared at him. “Because everything is always my fault?”

“Oren.” Rezo raised his hands in front of him as if he wanted to wrap them around some cylindrical object and squeeze. “Do you know what you need?”

“Your undying affection?”

Rezo’s mouth opened for an instant before he snapped it shut. “Oh, you’re going to get something from me all right.”

Oren started to ask Rezo what he meant but he was cut off before he had the chance.

“We’re going to your room.” Rezo placed his napkin over his plate with an air of finality.

“What?”

“You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to drag you up there ever since I saw you walk into the bar the other night.”

Oren’s circulation began to distribute heat to one very specific part of his anatomy. Rezo had no idea how incredibly hot he looked when he said things like that. Of course, that didn’t mean Oren actually wanted the consequences of that threat, especially not when Rezo was this angry.

Rezo stood and slid his chair back under the table.

It took Oren a moment before he could get his jumbled thoughts down to his mouth.

“But I thought you said…?”

“I was wrong.”

Rezo reached for him, presumably to pull him from his seat. Oren stood up, preferring to move under his own volition while he still had the chance.

Before Oren could decide what to do next, he was interrupted by Norman’s return.

“Sir, Mr. Diaz.” Norman nodded at each of them in turn. “I apologize for not returning this to you sooner, but I wanted to make sure it was adequately sanitized.”

Oren frowned. Norman was holding whatever it was in such a way that made it difficult to see, but it definitely wasn’t the mop.

“It somehow managed to fall into the trash compressor a few months ago. I believe it was the night Mr. Diaz first came to visit.”

The contents of Oren’s stomach were suddenly comprised of icicles and snowflakes instead of Kofta and Chutney.

“Why don’t you give it to me later?” Oren glanced at Rezo and was relieved to see he hadn’t realized what the object they were talking about was. “I’m busy right now.”

“I apologize for the interruption.” Norman turned his wrist to reveal the object, brandishing the heavy wooden hair brush like a wand, magically transforming the next moment into one considerably more awkward. “I can leave it elsewhere if you don’t want to take it now.”

“I threw it away on purpose, it’s old. Please,” Oren hoped the word would have an impact on Norman due to its scarcity, “throw it away for me.”

“I could give it to charity,” Norman said, looking at it with speculation that, due to the circumstances, seemed not only calculating but cruel. “It still has plenty of use left in it.” 

“I’ll take it,” Rezo said.

No, no, no. “Your hair is too short,” Oren said. “Let Norman donate it to someone that will actually use it.”

“Oh, it’s going to be used.” Rezo gave Oren a look that made all the hairs on his body rise.

The look in Norman’s eyes during the exchange made Oren want to punch him.  Next time he would sick something worse than a parrot on him.

Oren watched as Norman handed the brush to Rezo, sealing his fate.

“Call me if you need anything else, sir. I am always happy to make sure you get what you need.”

The emphasis Norman placed on the last word was entirely unnecessary.

Oren felt Rezo’s hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

“Let’s not.” Oren knew he was whining, but he couldn’t help it.

Rezo ignored him, his fingers gripping him tight as he hauled Oren toward his bedroom.

Chapter Thirteen

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