The Wild Things - By Dave Eggers Page 0,19
handed one to Gary. Gary sat up, smiled his powerless smile, and clinked his glass against hers. It was a disgusting display, and became more so when Gary raised his glass to Max.
“Cheers, little rabbit-dude,” he said.
His mom smiled at Max and then at Gary, thinking it was a wonderfully clever thing that Gary had just said.
“Cheers, Maxie,” she said, then growled playfully at him.
She picked up a dirty plate and hurried back toward the kitchen. “Claire!” she yelled, “I asked you to get your stuff off the table. It’s almost dinner.”
Max entered the kitchen with his arms crossed, marching purposefully, like a general inspecting his troops. He sniffed loudly, assessing the kitchen’s smells and waiting to be noticed.
His mother said nothing, so he brought a chair near the stove and stood on it. Now they were eye to eye.
“What is that? Is that food?” he asked, pointing down to something beige bubbling in a pan.
He got no answer.
“Mom, what is that?” he asked, now grabbing her arm.
“Pâté,” she said finally.
Max rolled his eyes and moved on. Pâté was a regrettable name for an unfortunate food. It seemed to Max a good idea to get up from the chair and to leap onto the counter. Which he presently did.
Standing on the counter, he towered over everything and everyone. He was eleven feet tall.
“Oh god,” Max’s mom said.
Max squatted down to inspect a package of frozen corn. “Frozen corn? What’s wrong with real corn?” he demanded. He dropped the package loudly on the counter, where it made a wonderful clatter.
“Frozen corn is real,” Max’s mom said, barely taking notice. “Now get off the counter. And go tell your sister to get her stuff off the dining room table.”
Max didn’t move. “CLAIRE GET YOUR STUFF OFF THE DINING ROOM TABLE!” he yelled, more or less into his mom’s face.
“Don’t yell in my face!” she hissed. “And get off the counter.”
Instead of getting off the counter, Max howled. The acoustics where he was, so close to the ceiling, were not great.
His mom stared at him like he was crazy. Which he was, because wolves are part crazy. “You know what,” she said, “you’re too old to be on the counter, and you’re too old to be wearing that costume.”
Max crossed his arms and stared down at her. “You’re too old to be so short! And your makeup’s smeared!”
“Get DOWN from there!” she demanded.
The sting of what she had said about him being too old to wear his wolf suit was just hitting him. He felt his anger focusing. There was a weakness in her voice and he decided to seize on it.
“Woman, feed me!” he yelled. He didn’t know where he’d come up with that phrase, but he liked it immediately.
“Get off the counter, Max!”
Max just stared at her. She was so small!
“I’ll eat you up!” he growled, raising his arms.
“MAX! GET DOWN!” she yelled. She could be very loud when she wanted to be. For a second he thought he should get off the counter, take off his suit, and eat his dinner quietly, because the truth was he was very hungry. But then he thought better of it, and howled again.
“Arooooooooo!”
At that, Max’s mom lunged for him, but Max, sidestepping, was able to elude her grasp. He leaped over the sink and then back down onto the chair. She lunged again and missed. Max cackled. He really was fast! She grabbed at him again, but he was already gone. He jumped down, landed on the floor, and executed a perfect shoulder-roll. Then he got up and fled from the kitchen altogether, laughing hysterically.
When he turned around, though, he found that his mom was still chasing him. That was new. She rarely chased him this far. When they raced through the living room, Gary took notice of the escalating volume and urgency. He put down his glass of wine and got ready to intervene.
Then, in the front hall, a surprising and awful thing happened: Max’s mom caught him.
“Max!” she gasped.
She had his arm firmly in her hand. She had long fingers, deceptively strong, and they dug into Max’s bicep. In her hand all his muscle and sinew turned to soup and he didn’t like it.
“What’s wrong with you?” she screamed. “You see what you’re doing to me?” Her voice was shrill, corkscrewed.
“No, you’re doing things!” he countered, sounding meeker than he’d intended. To offset this sign of weakness he thrashed around in her grip. He kicked and squirmed and in the process,