Free Dirt by David Vann Page A

just setting the casserole on a hot pad in the center of the small table. The kitchen was tiny, and they were all elbow to elbow.
    You’ve used an entire bag of potato chips, Galen said. Do you have any idea how much salt that is?
    He was already starting to sweat, the cast-iron stove emanating incredible heat. They had the windows and back door open, but that wasn’t enough.
    Maybe it’s time to throw away the white-trash cookbook, Galen said.
    His mother grabbed his upper arm hard, pinching the skin, and yanked him out of his seat.
    Suzie-Q, his grandmother said, and his mother let go. He sat back down.
    Are we white trash? he asked. I’m never going to college, and none of us have jobs, and here we are out in the woods. Next thing you know, I’ll be sleeping with my cousin.
    Stop, Helen said.
    Jennifer narrowed her eyes and then looked down at her plate. Maybe this was how he could have some power over her. Maybe she needed everything kept a secret more than he did.
    This isn’t you, Galen, his grandmother said. Your grandfather designed a bridge in Sacramento. You’re a Schumacher, and you can always be proud of that.
    Sorry, Grandma.
    A pile of mush on everyone’s plate, the wilted potato chips golden and oily.
    Men are the problem, Helen said. First Dad and now you.
    You won’t talk to my son that way, Galen’s mother said.
    Weren’t you just trying to rip his arm off?
    He’s not like Dad.
    But I thought Dad was perfect. I thought he drank lemonade and had lovely lunches under the fig tree. Isn’t it good to be like Dad? What happened to that whole story?
    Your father was a good man, Galen’s grandmother said. He worked hard all his life.
    Yeah, we know, Helen said.
    No you don’t. You don’t seem to understand. He provided for all of us.
    I would rather not have been born, Helen said. Seriously. I would rather have skipped the entire miserable fuck-job of a life this has been.
    Helen.
    I’m serious. And I’m not putting up with your lies anymore. Why are you giving everything to Suzie? Why are you giving nothing to me, and nothing to Jennifer? I want to know, Mom.
    Wow, Galen said. You can kick some ass when you get on a roll.
    Galen’s aunt punched him in the shoulder, hard. She punched him again, looking him right in the eyes, pure hatred, and punched him again. He tried to block, but she was fast, and she hit hard.
    And then the strangest thing happened. Everyone looked away. No one said or did anything in response to the fact that his aunt had just punched him. His grandmother was humming to herself, looking down at her lap, and his mother was eating. Jennifer had crossed her arms and was looking down also. His aunt had gone back to eating. And what Galen realized was that this was the first time he’d been punched, but everyone else in this room must have been punched many times before. Or in his mother’s case, maybe she had only been a witness to it, but a witness many times.
    Galen’s shoulder was throbbing, but he served himself some tuna casserole and tried to eat a couple bites. The sound of the fire in the stove, popping of coals. The sounds of chewing and swallowing, wet and amplified. The taste of salt.
    Well, he said. I guess this is who we are.
    Would you like some more casserole, Mom? his mother asked.
    Thank you, yes. This is very good.
    Galen’s mother made a show of serving the casserole, raising the spoon high. Tomorrow we’ll have your chicken and dumplings, Mom. That will be such a treat.
    Galen could see his mother was the reconstructor of worlds. That was her role. When all fell apart, she stepped in and made time move again.
    Tomorrow we can take a walk down at Camp Sacramento, she said.
    Oh, that will be nice, his grandmother said.
    I’m still waiting for an answer, Mom, Helen said.
    Would you like some wine, Mom? Galen’s mother asked.
    Yes please.
    Galen’s mother stood and turned to