Poison Mushrooms

by J. Bea Wilson

Inspired by the photography

of Sandy Blackburn

To make matters worse, she should’ve been used to their “new” old ranch house after two months but forgot about the unlevel floor. When she let go of the door, it bumped against the kitchen wall, setting glass jars of pickles, mayo, and grape jelly jangling like an alarm. She stared at the pushed-to door of the main bedroom across the hall and counted to ten. When no sound came through it, she let out a held breath with a weak wish.

“Just let them sleep.”

Her intentions were good. Gnaw on a couple baby carrots, maybe a stalk of celery, then head straight to dreamland. Propping the fridge door open with her hip, she wound her dark hair into a wraparound ponytail and found herself arguing with the half pumpkin pie smiling at her from the middle shelf. As usual, Yaya had made three too many pies for Thanksgiving, which more accurately amounted to two and a half extra. Being the middle grandchild—not the golden firstborn or the spoiled baby—Nita had ended up with the incomplete pie, already carved into four neat slices. 

“Just right for you,” Yaya said, “since it’s only you and the boys now.” Wincing at Yaya’s you-poor-thing sigh, Nita bit her tongue to avoid asking who was supposed to eat the fourth piece.

“You may as well start with me, Baby,” the pie said. “Even if you kick off with crudités, this nosh is bound to end with us.”

“You’re really not my favorite,” Nita responded. When it came to pie, she’d rather have pecan or cherry, warm, with a generous scoop or two of vanilla ice cream. That whipped topping in a can could help even rubber filling go down, but no cream had come with the pie, and the war for her last five-dollar bill until payday had been won by the gallon of gas that would get her to work the next morning.

The pie regarded her silently, as if having said all that was necessary. She glanced down at her threadbare bathrobe and at every curve of her that had grown since the departure of he who shall not be named. She’d been feeding the grief monster well, so why did she feel so hollow?

“C’mon, I’ll make you feel full,” the pie said. Nita gave in.

Rattling around the kitchen for a plate and fork would push luck with her light-sleeping boys, and there was no need. Even at a day old, Yaya’s pie crust, thick as a pinky finger, was firm enough for Nita to lift one piece out of the pan whole. She took a less-than-ladylike bite, chewed, and watched the digital clock on the stove turn from PM to AM.

Her inner little girl cringed for Cinderella at the stroke of midnight. Seemingly with the blink of an eye, Nita had turned into a frazzled single mom wearing a ratty robe and eating pie she didn’t even like. It’s what happens when a prince attracted to feminine mystery finds an intriguing puzzle to solve one kingdom over.

So now this kingdom would be ruled by a queen. Nita preferred that title over “princess” anyway. “Run with it,” she said aloud, then glanced again at the boys’ bedroom door. All the challenges her little family faced danced into her head like sugarplum fairies, and she imagined herself wielding a scepter, yelling “Off with their heads!”

Maybe she’d seen Dryton Elementary’s production of Alice in Wonderland one too many times, as if missing a single performance of the Mad Hatter by Jeremy was even an option. Repeating her impossible vow to be present for everything her boys did, she tackled the next bite of pie like Alice taking a desperate nibble of red-capped mushroom.

“I am strong,” Nita told herself, “full of sweet stuff.” Absorbing custard into her bloodstream, she felt herself growing taller and taller until she crunched the last bite of crust. “Now what?”

“Another round?” the pie asked. She couldn’t remember moving it to the yellowed 1960s countertop? Maybe the pie had magically dissolved from the fridge and reappeared there like the Cheshire cat. In the moonlight shining through the kitchen window, it seemed dull not to keep the party going. There was an extra piece, and more is better, right? Except now she felt smaller and smaller with each illicit taste of magic mushroom.

One big bite remained in the crime scene. Too late to reverse her decision to consume all the evidence, she heard the hinges of the door to the big bedroom creak. Turning toward Jeremy, she swallowed what she could and tried to smile through a mouthful of pie, sending chunks of filling and crust cascading to the linoleum floor.

His half-closed eyes widened into chocolate-brown saucers. “Gosh, Mom! Why are you eating pie at midnight?”

She heard “Why are you eating poison mushrooms?” Sometimes he sounded just like his dad.

Worry lines creased Jeremy’s forehead. With a congested cough, Mikey stumbled out of the room behind him, and both boys stared at her like she’d grown two heads. There was only one way out of this.

She grinned and flipped on the light in the interrogation room. “Want some pie?”

There was instant camaraderie in the ranks. Nita commanded pie in little pieces, like the tiny pancakes she made from the last drop of batter on Sunday mornings because every drop counts. If the pieces were little enough, she bargained, the boys wouldn’t have to brush their teeth again before they went back to bed.

Bless their hearts, they took the deal and chatted over little splinters of pie about the remaining, bigger slivers they’d have tomorrow. Nita tried to breathe in their thankful energy. Why, oh why, couldn’t she release the negativity that rode through her days like a dark horse? If only someone would save this embittered Queen of Hearts from herself.

With a sigh directed toward the bathroom and her dental hygienist’s advice, Nita herded the boys straight back to bed, tucked them in, and took Mikey’s enthusiastic “You’re the best mom” with a grain of salt. As her hand left the worn knob of their bedroom door, shame began to form a hard ball in her stomach. It was intercepted by squeals from Clifford, their “big” reddish dog.

Nita had wanted to name the chihuahua Butterscotch, call him Scotch, and dress him in tiny kilts. But maybe the boys chose a fit name after all, since he sounded like a giant balloon squealing air at a hitherto unknown decibel, threatening to wake everyone else in Nevada. The dog of her dreams was a far cry from the smelly one that had needed a bath for more days than she dared count and now pawed at the front door, even though she’d just taken him out before they went to bed, and had pie, and—

“Oh, alright,” she said, grumbling over the fact that their yard had no fence. She didn’t know how to build one or have time to learn. Maybe her boys would install white pickets when they were grown and Clifford was geriatric. He had to pee every two hours already, so then she’d be an old lady living outside in a circus tent topped by a banner proclaiming “Amazing Dog Who Never Stops Peeing.”

“May as well start practicing our act now,” she told Cliff. Except once outside, he didn’t make water but stood looking at her as if they were the warm-up in front of a crowd disappointed by delays in the really big show.

“Aargh!” Nita rolled her eyes up at the sky, because that’s what she did when she reached the end of her rope—looked up and wondered if it was possible that someone could be holding the other end, like her Sunday School teachers used to claim back when she went to church, before she and the prince went k-i-s-s-i-n-g. Then came two baby carriages and, eventually, too much pumpkin—

When Nita actually took in the scene above, her diatribe of self-pity dissolved like sugar in a saucepan of hot water, the syrup she prepared for hummingbirds in summer. Her mouth fell open and her eyes darted as if following tiny birds in flight. More stars than she had ever seen at once sparkled against the sky’s black velvet curtain.

“Wow!” She reeled and spun until her head swam, then fell onto her back on the cold hard ground, knocking the wind of ingratitude out of herself. Catching her breath, she laughed, got up, and spun again, until Clifford’s leash wrapped round and tugged at her as he finally peed.

“Yes!” she shouted at the stars. She imagined all their eyes on her, a queen standing in the center of a glimmering dance floor. The stars shouted back.

Hallelujah! No matter what was happening in her ground war, she was seen from above. Hallelujah! Like the song at her wedding, only with an unbreakable promise. Hallelujah! There’s someone—there's got to be someone amazing—at the other end of her rope.

Opening her arms, Nita embraced the starlight into her soul. It shone into empty places no pie—even cherry with melting ice cream—could fill. Places carved perfectly to fit only the heart of the Maker of the universe, who said to her, “Taste and see that I am good. Let me fill you with what you need.”

“Okay, then,” she whispered, awed.

“Mom?” The sad voice Mikey flung from the porch swung a lasso around her heart. “I can’t sleep.” She turned her open arms his way, and he ran into them, squealing when she lifted him above her head.

Jeremy stepped onto the dance floor with them and two-stepped with Clifford, while Nita waltzed with Mikey and wiped his dripping nose with a soft sleeve of her robe. For the duration of a long, sweet song that the stars sang over them, they danced at the center of the universe ballroom, and Nita was grateful for her life—threadbare ballgown, snot bubbles, and all.

Mikey’s cheeks pinked in the night air, reminding her of cherries. She took a bite at the right one, and he giggled. She bit at the left. He crowed. With each bite, she didn’t feel bigger, but her heart did.

Gazing at the curtain of stars, she knew she should feel smaller. But only her problems seemed shrunken. She hugged her boys and decided to believe in a future bigger than she could imagine.

The stars sang. Hallelujah! Nita was full.

Enjoy this Inspired story's sequel, "Ask the Stars," published by The Company in the online magazine The Pearl!

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