Wicked Appetite

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

We got as far as the produce aisle with Carl in the cart, and a guy stacking grapefruits stopped me.

“Is that a monkey?”

“Are you making fun of my child?” I asked him.

“No, ma’am, but he’s kinda hairy.”

“He gets that from his father.”

The produce guy looked at Diesel.

“Not my bad,” Diesel said.

“Well, you gotta have clothes on your kid,” the guy said. “We don’t let naked kids in here, no matter how much hair they got.”

There was a small display of kids’ clothes by the checkout. Mostly T-shirts with Massachusetts written on them and a couple toddler-size shirts with pink elephants. I slipped an elephant shirt over Carl’s head, bought a package of Pampers, and taped Carl into one.

“What do you think?” I asked Carl.

Carl looked at the elephant and gave it the finger.

“It’s the best I could do,” I told him. “They don’t sell Armani here. Anyway, it’s cute.”

“It’s pink,” Diesel said.

“And?”

“Just saying.”

We made our way through produce and into prepared foods. Carl was slouched in the cart, arms folded across his chest, lower lip stuck out in a pout, not happy with the pink elephant. He perked up when we got to the cereal aisle.

“Would you like some cereal?” I asked him.

Carl jumped to his feet, snatched a box of Froot Loops off the shelf, ripped it open, and stuck his face in the box.

“Hey!” I said to him.

He took his face out of the box and looked at me.

“Manners.”

He threw the box over his shoulder, into the basket, and focused on the display of Frosted Flakes. “Eeee?”

“Okay,” I told him, tossing Frosted Flakes into the basket beside the Froot Loops, “but this is the last of the cereal.”

“Look at us,” Diesel said. “We’re the all-American family.”

We rounded the end of the cereal aisle and quickly walked past women’s personal products and men’s sexual necessities. I paused at dental care.

“Does he brush his teeth?” I asked Diesel.

“I don’t know, but he should,” Diesel said. “I’m not looking forward to waking up to monkey breath.”

“Do you brush your teeth?” I asked Carl, showing him a toothbrush.

Carl looked at the toothbrush and shrugged. He didn’t know toothbrush. I tossed the toothbrush and some toothpaste into the cart. We rounded the end of the aisle and pushed into cookies and crackers.

Carl was instantly standing again. Carl liked cookies. “Eep!” he said, pointing to Fig Newtons, Oreos, Nutter Butters. “Eep. Eeeep.” Carl was in a frenzy, jumping up and down, wanting everything. He grabbed at the Mint Milanos.

“Wait,” I said. “I don’t know if monkeys can eat chocolate.” I looked at Diesel. “Can monkeys eat chocolate?”

“Lizzy, I can open locks, sniff out evil, and I can give you the best time of your life, but I don’t know a whole lot about monkeys.”

“Let’s stick to peanut butter and gingerbread,” I said to Carl. “When I get home, I’ll Google chocolate.”

We added a couple bags of cookies to the cart and moved on to dairy. I needed butter, eggs, and milk.

Carl spied rice pudding and frantically pointed to it. “Woo, woo, woo!” he said.

“Sure,” I said, handing him a tub of rice pudding.

Carl opened the tub and looked inside. He swiped some up on his finger and tasted it.

“You’re not supposed to eat it now,” I told him. “You have to wait until we get home.”

Carl looked at me and then looked at Diesel.

“I don’t think he understands,” Diesel said.

“Later,” I told Carl. “Not now.”

Carl stuck his face into the tub and slurped up rice pudding.

“Listen, mister,” I said to him. “That’s unacceptable behavior.” I cut my eyes to Diesel. “You need to do something with your monkey.”

“ My monkey? Sweetie Pie, he is not my monkey.”

“Okay, maybe he’s our monkey.”

Diesel took the tub of rice pudding from Carl. “I’m only admitting to joint possession of the monkey if I get joint possession of the bed.”

“You have that anyway. I can’t get you out of it.”

“Yes, but you have to like it.”

“No way. You can’t make me like it.”

“I could if I had half a chance,” Diesel said.

Carl tried to grab the rice pudding from Diesel, but Diesel moved it out of his reach and put the lid on it.

“Eeeee!” Carl shrieked. “Eeeeeeee.”

“Do something!” I said to Diesel.

“I don’t carry a gun, but I could choke him until his eyes pop out,” Diesel said.

“You need to go outside and take a time-out,” I said to Carl.

“Eee?”

“Yes, you.”

Carl thought about it a beat and gave me the finger.

“That’s it,” I told him. “You’re grounded for life. No television. No dessert. And forget about the Froot Loops.”

Carl reached for the Froot Loops.

“No!” I said.

Carl gave the Froot Loops the finger, climbed out of the cart, and stood next to Diesel, shoulders slumped, knuckles dragging on the ground.

A skinny teen with spiky purple hair and multiple studs and rings stuck in his face stopped to look at Carl.

“Whoa, lady,” he said. “That’s an ugly kid you got here. He looks like a monkey.”

Carl shrugged.

I guess from a monkey’s point of view, it was difficult to tell if that was a compliment or an insult. From my point of view, it was clearly an insult, and I experienced a bizarre rush of maternal outrage.

“I don’t like you trash-talking my monkey,” I said to the spike-faced guy. “And your face looks ridiculous.”

“Not as ridiculous as your hairy mutant in that shirt,” he said.

Carl snapped to attention. “Eep?”

“It’s a girlie baby shirt,” the kid said.

Carl threw his arms in the air in an I-told-you-so-and-I-knew-this-shirt-was-stupid gesture. He ripped the shirt off, turned around, pulled his diaper down, and mooned me.

“That’s my boy,” Diesel said.

Carl pulled his diaper up, grabbed an egg from my carton, and threw it at the spike-faced guy. It missed the guy, smashed against the dairy display case, and slimed down the glass. Carl reached for a second egg and Diesel scooped him up and held him at arm’s length.

“We’re going to have to work on your throw,” Diesel said to Carl.

“Get him out of here now, ” I said to Diesel. “I’ll finish shopping and meet you at the car.”

Diesel tucked Carl under his arm and sauntered off. I looked at the spike-faced jerk, and it was like grade school all over again and I was back to being Buzzard Beak. I marched up to him, smashed an egg on his forehead, and dumped the remaining rice pudding on his purple hair.

“Moron,” I said to him.

And then I turned on my heel and wheeled my cart past him, down the bread aisle. Last I looked, he was tasting the pudding that was slopping into his ears and glopping down the back of his neck. I wasn’t nearly so calm. I’d never smashed an egg on someone or given anyone a pudding shampoo. I was simultaneously horrified and exhilarated. I did deep breathing through English muffins, and by the time I got to the hot dog rolls, I was able to relax my grip on the cart. No one from security was stalking me. Spike-Face wasn’t running after me with retaliatory eggs. And no one was going to tell my mother. I was golden.