“Should I order a pizza?” Joseph asked.

The “yeahs” of youth were forceful, though I dared not join in. I looked down at the pebble-stone floor, which even in the worst of circumstances reminded me of some sticky treat.

“Such beaut’ful crab an’ we are goin’ to eat ar’ficial, manmade pizza!” “Man-made”, was the worst insult my mother could verbalize. With it, I received a series of pinches on my neck, face, stomach and thighs, hard enough to make me scream. There was no flotilla of crabs around to defend me. That’s when Lucy sought refuge in her father’s frail, fair arms and begged to be taken back home.

Cecilia’s chin dimpled, which it always did when she tried not to cry.

“No!” protested Rosa, “If we go, she’ll kill her!”

Her father apparently agreed, for he proposed to take all of us out to the Red Lobster, where my mother could taste the “Loving Couple”, a thick, juicy filet mignon snuggling up to a lobster tail. His description was persuasive. To my relief, my mother accepted the invitation. I knew I would not be allowed to go, yet sensed that standing by Sharon and Joseph Minsky’s van before my mother ordered me into the pantry closet would reduce my sentence, especially if I wailed audibly on my way in.

Really, I didn’t care as much as they thought. I wasn’t hungry, for I’d swallowed enough of my snot and tears. Pantry closet time in my mother’s absence was based on the honour system, as though she had given us the right example in valuing such things. I went to the pantry closet for a stepladder, and brought Stag Head down from the wall. I placed him on the glass table, balancing him on his wooden plaque.

At first, Stag Head was unused to a vertical position, and even nauseous, which I suppose after so many years of looking only straight ahead across our dining room, should be expected, though this did strike me as odd for he no longer had a stomach. I put his plaque against my face and gave him a run across the house, imagining my father was chasing us with a gun. It was great fun.

Out of breath, I squatted down and held Stag Head’s neck between my knobbly knees. I stroked the hairs on his head and neck, at least down to where it had been severed. I cupped my hands over the plastic bulbs someone had exchanged for his eyes, lifting them as though they were his own eyelids. The spirit of life regained him, as did his affection for me.

When Stag Head recovered his place on the unchanging wall, I entered the closet and closed the door. Only in the darkness, can one hear one’s own breathing. Only in darkness, does one strain the eyes for light. I did, until the darkness moved, like a thousand flies. Closing my lids and opening them made no difference. Blackness lives, dances, too, like anyone knows who has long observed it.