Poison Berries

Cornelia didn't like raspberries. She always got an extra-big slice of the raspberry pie that Aunt Joy bought from the shabby fruit stand on highway 5 but she couldn't stand the taste of raspberries. I think she just liked being the one with the most. The most eye shadow, the most pairs of high heels, the most phone numbers of random guys named Clint met at dirty dive bars, the most raspberry pie. She's not fooling anyone, though. We all know she scribbles the numbers herself and throws them indiscriminately around her room, and her thick application of eye shadow merely makes her look like a three-dollar hooker.

I watch Cornelia sit at the table, eating the crust off her raspberry pie. Cal sits next to her, looking like an ant next to her elephant size. Cal is smaller and paler than everyone in his grade, he doesn't go outside much. I think maybe Cals having the hardest time because he just pokes his food around on his plate, not eating at all. We have all taken a hard blow these past few days. I mean, we all thought dad was in good health but one day it's bam and he's on the floor. He had a heart-attack, I guess he didn't take enough Bayer.

So he we all are, sitting around the table at some restaurant that has menus on the table that show neon colored drinks with umbrellas in them that come in glasses shaped like pineapples. Instead of a funeral where everyone wears black my father wanted to have a party. He didn't tell anyone this, we all just knew. Cornelia wore black just to spite him, he had severely grounded her two days before he died. Cornelia begged mom to let her off since dad was no longer around to enforce the restriction, but mom said dad's death didn't nullify the fact that she got a giant tattoo of a pink snarling Doberman one drunken night in the city. Cornelia tried to claim that the tattoo was enough of a punishment (who wouldn't want a giant tattoo of an atrocious pink dog on their forearm?) but mom wouldn't budge.

Cal looks at me, momentarily making eye contact before forcing his gaze down at his Americanized burrito again. I sometimes wonder if poor Cal will ever hit puberty, if maybe his body is void of any testosterone, and now with dad being gone I worry that us girls will prevent him from ever making that leap into manhood.

"Rudy was always a good man," I hear my Uncle Hank begin a toast, "a kind man, loving father and husband. And he never got mad when I complimented that horrendous style of his. I mean, socks with sandals, come on!" Uncle Hank knows good fashion, it is in his blood. Uncle Hank, in his past, dated beefy men who wore muscle tanks and always looked unwelcomingly greasy. Recently, however, he has settled with a nice accountant named Larry who, though quite beefy himself in an odd way, is dramatically different than anyone we've seen Hank with before.

Larry sat next to Hank, sipping his glass of red wine. He became introduced to the family about a month ago but seemed to melt right in, and I'm not afraid that if I touch him I will have trouble opening lids to jars for the following week.

I realize suddenly that Cornelia is staring at me with eyes slathered in too much eyeliner. "I said, are you going to finish that?" she says, pointing with her fork to my own slice of raspberry pie. I look over at her plate, noticing that while her crust is gone there is a gigantic pile of raspberry ooze covering her plate. "No, it's yours,' I reply and reach for the menu of neon colored drinks.