the last supper

by Jayson Carcione

He slices the eggplant into such beautiful half-moons that they are a work of art – and he says so to his wife. “You know, it’s something the surrealists would dream up. They look just like the marzipan in the sweet shops of Taormina. Do you remember how we thought they were pieces of fruit? So beautiful, better than the real thing.”

His wife nods and drowns him out with another sip of Chablis. She prefers the eggplant cut into meaty rounds, but she isn’t going to quibble about his mother’s recipe. Not tonight of all nights. Their daughter is coming home. “Beautiful, Sal, just beautiful. I’m sure Mia will love it.” She stands at the window glass in hand, smartphone pressed between her shoulder and ear. She is waiting to speak with reception. She grinds her teeth as the hold music starts its insipid loop once again.

Sal is stirring the sauce and salting the beautiful half-moon slices of eggplant. He takes a swig of IPA and twists his lips. It has gone warm. He looks at his wife. Her back is turned to him, her face to the window, but he sees the tension rise in her stiffening shoulders, the crook of her head. He wants to kiss the back of her swan-like neck, but he knows she will wince at the intrusion. He sees through her, through the window. He sees what she sees. Outside, the snow falls. Soon the Manhattan skyline will be invisible behind a veil of white and they’ll be lucky to see the East River and Hellgate bridge. His wife places her open palm against the glass of the window. She thinks everything is beautiful in the snow.

He stirs the sauce and brings it to his lips. He tosses in a teaspoon of sugar, another dash of salt. “You know, Gina. If it was something serious, you wouldn’t be on hold.”

Gina puts down her glass on the cushioned windowsill. She would lose herself in the snow if she could, like when she was little and there seemed to be snow every day of winter. She swipes the smartphone, drops it next to the empty glass, and presses her forehead against the window. Her hair is as white as the falling snow. Sal is ignoring her now, he’s too busy grating a hefty slab of Parmigiano-Reggiano. Soon, he will turn his attention to the slab of pecorino next to it. That was always one of his mother’s tricks, some light shavings of pecorino mixed in with the parm. He stops and shakes out the pins and needles from his hands. When did grating cheese become a younger man’s job?

Now Gina is watching him. Sometimes she can’t bear the sight of him, but she likes when he is busy in the kitchen. He is cheerful and content, the master of all. When he is in the kitchen, his confidence is overwhelming, just like when he was her lecturer, and she was a fresher girl all those years ago. She looks back at the abandoned phone on the windowsill. The empty wine glass calls her. She walks to the kitchen counter, ignoring the pain in her left knee, and grabs the bottle of Chablis by the neck. Sal is squeezing a fat clove of garlic through the press, but he leans in and kisses her cheek. She doesn’t mind.

Gina wipes her burning cheek. The phone is about to ring. Gina knows this before it happens. “Hello?” Dead air on the other end. “Hello?” Gina hears the echo of her own shallow breath. The snow is so thick now, she hears it thud against the window.

“Was that Mia? Is she on her way?” Sal bellows across the kitchen as he buries a knife in a beefsteak tomato. Gina shrugs and puts down the phone. She cannot pry her eyes from the window, the falling snow. She shrugs, shakes her head. A strand of silver-white hair hangs perfectly out of place. Sal wants to say she is beautiful, but the tomatoes won’t slice themselves. He throws the tomatoes in a large ceramic bowl they bought from a street vendor in Catania. They are not as beautiful as the eggplant slices. Sal wipes his crooked hands across the “Kiss the Cook” apron tied around his expanding waist. A funny Father’s Day gift given to him a lifetime ago. It is one of his most treasured possessions. He is chopping red onions now. “You know, those damn prepays they give out at the clinic never work…”

“We should have picked her up, Sal.”

“… I mean she does her stint in rehab, they should give her a proper phone. For Christ’s sake, they should give her a chauffeur and a limo to take her home.” Sal’s face is the colour of the tomatoes in the bowl, the red onion on the chopping board.

“We should have picked her up.” Gina laces her words with ice and steel. She pulls a stool over to the kitchen counter, keeps an eye on the snow-filled window. She is sipping another glass of wine.

“She wanted to make her own way here, Gina. You know how she is.”

“That’s what worries me. The detours she could make. A city full of temptations.”

“Temptations? What’s more tempting than her old man’s eggplant parm?” As soon as he makes the joke, Sal wishes he could drag it back into his mouth and bury it deep in his gut. Gina says nothing, pours another glass. Sal hopes it won’t be another one of those nights. He shakes out his hands and resumes chopping. His eyes are full of onion sting. Sal does not feel the knife cut through his finger until the blade scrapes the bone and the cutting board turns red. Gina cries out. Sal holds out his finger, he does not want to get blood on the apron. He feels no pain, but the cut is deep and clean. Blood blooms across the top of the kitchen counter.

“It’s ok. Worse than it looks, Gina. It’s the warfarin, thins the damn blood. It’s like water.”

Gina grabs a towel from the counter and wraps the finger. She cannot hide her annoyance. She does not want this night to be about him. Sal turns around and turns on the kitchen tap. The towel is red, soaked through, and he drops it in the sink. He places his finger under the running water. Blood circles the drain and disappears. Gina appears with the first aid kit from the cupboard and drenches his finger with antiseptic. She hopes he feels the burn. If he does, he doesn’t show it. He kisses her full on the lips and she cleans and dresses the wound. Sal carefully arranges the layers of sauce, eggplant, and cheese in a deep oven dish. His finger is wet under the tightly wrapped bandage. He makes sure no blood drips into the dish. He opens the oven door and rubs his lower back when he stands upright.

Gina is sitting in the velvet chair she has dragged to the window. She pries the phone from her ear. Another recording. The doctor’s office has closed early because of the snowstorm. She drops the phone and hears the crack of the screen glass on the wooden floor. Like someone stepping on a beetle.

Sal is fussing in the kitchen. He wipes down the counter, takes out three plates and their best silverware. Sal walks over to her. His footfall is heavy, but silent. Droplets of blood trail behind him. He hands her another full glass and kisses the top of her head. Her hair tickles his nose. It is a wonderful smell. He picks up the phone, holds it like a porcelain doll. He swipes the screen. It still works, plenty of battery juice. He places the phone in her lap, stands in front of the window. The fire escape is piled high with snow. Now it is his turn to press his hand against the window. Sal does not marvel at the snow like Gina. His eyes hold no child-like wonder. Gina tells him to open the window. He flips the latch and realizes he is still wearing the apron. The open window fills with snow. They do not mind the cold. He leans out the window, breathes deeply. He cannot see the world beyond his frost-covered eyes, but he knows Mia is out there. Sal turns to Gina. She is smiling. He likes to see her smile.

Sal closes the window. He leaves behind streaks of blood on the deepening snow drifts of the fire escape. The red is beautiful against the blinding white…

Sal sleeps in the chair, his hand snugly wrapped in a fresh bandage. Dawn beckons through the window. It has stopped snowing, but the sky is white, impenetrable. Gina sits at the kitchen counter, nursing a cup of cold coffee instead of wine. She stares at the eggplant parmigiana in the oven dish, Sal’s empty plate smeared with sauce, shavings of cheese. Sal is right, it really is quite beautiful, Gina says to herself, dragging a fork across her own plate. It is almost too beautiful to eat. She carves out a small square and slides it onto the plate. She does not heat it in the microwave. She prefers it lukewarm, cold even. Gina takes a swig of coffee and stabs a silky piece of eggplant, nearly kisses it before she chews and swallows. She washes it down with more coffee. Sal is right though. There is too much salt and not enough garlic. It doesn’t matter. She hasn’t truly tasted anything in years.

*Originally published by Loft Books (UK)

Photo of Jayson Carcione

BIO: Born in New Jersey and raised in New York, Jayson Carcione now lives in Cork, Ireland. His short fiction has appeared in The London Magazine, The Forge, Lunate, Époque Press, Fictive Dream, and elsewhere. He was a Best of the Net 2024 finalist and his fiction highly commended in the 2020 Sean O'Faoláin International Short Story Competition.