like a large branch had crashed onto it. I went to the back door and looked out the window, but I couldn’t see anything or anyone.
“Dwayne, are you scared?” I asked as I resumed my seat.
“Not worth being scared, Violet. What’s gonna happen is gonna happen. I plan to drink the rest of this beer and be sound asleep when that old comet hits. You remember how my daddy died in his sleep. It’s the best way to go.”
Yes, I supposed it would be.
Dwayne lifted up another bite of pie, brought it toward his mouth, then started looking peaked. He dropped the fork and ran to the bathroom. Soon I heard him losing his meal. A small smile crept across my face as I kept eating mine.
“You sure you’re all right?” I asked when he finally returned to the kitchen. He was pale and clutching his stomach. He tumbled into his chair, grimaced at his remaining pie, and pushed the plate away.
“Jesus, Violet. My last meal and you gave me food poisoning.” He began moaning and put his head down on the table.
“Nope. There is no bacteria in this food. You know how careful I am with my cooking.” I finished the last of my steak. Delicious.
Dwayne ran back to the bathroom. He was in there a while, losing more of his meal from both ends, apparently, as I cleared the dishes. When he finally came back to the table, sweating and breathing hard, he looked like death. Of course, death was a few hours off. I didn’t know if he’d die from the comet or those special mushrooms or the little something extra I’d added to the pie. Either way, before his end came, Dwayne would spend his last hours suffering.
As he should.
He slumped back in his chair and started moaning again.
“Maybe you caught a bug, Dwayne. My meal tasted just right.” I took my seat at the table and looked at the wildflowers I’d gathered that morning, sitting in a vase on the counter. They were so much nicer than Dwayne’s scrunched-up face. “Or maybe it was those mushrooms you ate.” I looked him square on now. “I picked them just for you.”
He stared at me, eyes wide. “What did you do?”
Dwayne lurched at me. I clenched my jaw and scooted my chair back, but before Dwayne could reach me he groaned loudly and fell to the floor, grabbing at his stomach.
“Cramps?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. Just kept lying there, moaning and writhing and gasping for breath, while the wind howled outside and the back porch began to creak.
Suddenly the back door screeched opened. A man with long, messy brown hair walked in. His face was lined and craggy, and his nose was off center, but his eyes were as sharp as ever. Larry.
I jumped up, ran around the table (stepping on Dwayne’s hand—oops), and hugged my brother. Oh, how I’d missed him. And how grateful I was to that warden who’d let him out.
When I pulled back, Larry rubbed my cheek, then looked over my shoulder and began shaking his head and laughing.
“Dwayne’s dinner didn’t quite agree with him.” I smiled. “Would you please carry him out on the porch? All his moaning is getting on my nerves.”
Larry scooped Dwayne up as if he weighed nothing. When Larry came back inside, I was slicing up the second blueberry pie I’d made that morning. Larry looked at the peach pie I’d thrown in the trash.
“Oh, you don’t want that. I made it special for Dwayne. It has some Comet and other cleansers in it, in honor of our impending doom.”
“Nice touch.” Larry chuckled. “But why’d you do it? I told you when I called that I’d get here by tonight and would take care of him for you.”
I paused and let out a deep sigh. “I appreciate that. But after everything Dwayne put me through, I decided I was going to stand up for myself, once and for all.”
“Good for you, Sis. I always knew you had it in you.”
I nearly laughed at his wording. “Thanks, Larry. I just wish I’d known it sooner.”
We sat at the table with our pie and old photo albums. The wind howled again, but I didn’t mind anymore. I finally had my big brother back, if only for a few hours.
\
“Bon Appétit” first appeared in Nightfalls: Notes From the End of the World, published by Dark Valentine Press in 2012.
This story was a bit of a challenge. The editor of Nightfalls, Katherine Tomlinson, asked me to submit to the anthology. Every story in the book would be set on the night before the world was going to end. Katherine wanted to see how people would spend that night, knowing their time was definitely limited. That set-up might prove easier to authors of romance, I thought. I write crime. If the world were ending, certain crimes would become obsolete. Money wouldn’t matter anymore, so that ruled out stories about burglaries and robberies. Terrorism would probably be out, too, since the world already was doomed. I thought and thought, and ultimately I realized that in the end, all you have is love and self-respect. Oh yeah, and revenge. Definitely revenge. And “Bon Appétit” was born.
THE WORST NOEL
Okay, Gwen. Get ready to fake it.
It was nearly my turn to share what I was thankful for. Then we’d eat some pie, Thanksgiving dinner would mercifully end, and I could escape for home.
But first I had to pay my annual homage to Mom, saying how thankful I am for my family. Every year I contemplate only mentioning my friends and work, but I always chicken out. Mom would make me pay if I didn’t smile and mention her.
My sister, Becca, finally stopped blathering about her husband and baby, and Mom slipped into the kitchen, clearly satisfied, as always, with Becca.
Becca’s husband, Joe, started sharing his thanks. I reached for another roll, slathered some butter on it, and swallowed it down in two bites. Joe finished talking. I steeled myself. My turn had come. I smiled and—
“Happy birthday to you,” Mom sang, emerging from the kitchen with a large pumpkin pie, a candle in the middle. Everyone joined in, Becca’s in-laws looking uncomfortable, while Mom set the pie before me.
“We would have wished you happy birthday earlier,” Joe said, glancing at his parents when the song ended. “But we thought your birthday was tomorrow.”
“Oh, it is,” Mom piped in. “But Becca and I will be busy shopping, so it only makes sense to celebrate Gwen’s birthday now.”
I wished I had a different family and blew out my candle.
“Pumpkin pie as birthday cake,” Joe said. “How unusual.”
He knew my preference for chocolate. As did Mom.
“Well, it is Thanksgiving. Besides”—Mom poked me with her elbow—“it’s not like Gwen needs any more cake.” She smiled as if she hadn’t just been incredibly rude to me. “Becca, would you please slice the pie? I’m going to get Gwen’s gift.”
A couple minutes later,
