The Camemberts' Kitchen

Short Fiction (with audio) - Written Spring 2022

Audio (read by Charlotte Gray):

1.

The Camembert family’s kitchen isn’t messy. Cluttered, maybe. But before passing judgement, one should probably consider the four nearly grown children who each, for the most part, still live in the Camembert house, their mother, Julie’s continued commitment to culinary miscellany, and their father, Brett’s lack of commitment to nearly anything, including and especially the practice of tidying up.

The six Camemberts, liable to tug around various items and leave them all over the place in any setting, are cursed with a house layout that seems to funnel all things and people to one expansive marble island (as they call it, “the bar”) in the center of their kitchen. The bar serves as a natural unloading zone for things carried in the front door or down a staircase or brought into the kitchen as a stopover before being brought out. At any given time, all manner of clutter might be stationed on the bar: mail brought in but not yet sorted; keys or spare keys to one of the six-person family’s five cars; wallets, phones, headphones, pocket artifacts; wrapped gifts specifically placed so as not to be forgotten on the way out the door; carrot tops, onion skin, apple cores; spare change and dirty dishes; fly swatters; flowers and homemade apple cider vinegar fly traps, both probably past any reasonable expiration date; jackets on the back of the bar-stool height chairs; half-empty cups of water and other assorted beverages.

The countertops, more organized but no less cluttered than the bar, retain knife racks and utensil holders; a 6-burner stove; minor appliances such as a toaster, microwave, food-processor, popcorn-popper, label-maker, knife-sharpener, and vacuum-sealer; the inlaid sink; drying rack with spillover abounding; spice racks and condiment shelves; cleaning supplies; and the almighty espresso machine, which costs more than the two cheapest of the Camembert cars, and rightfully so.

The breakfast nook, of all places, might be the most consistently uncluttered area in the vicinity. To be sure, a few usual suspects feature prominently here. Coffee cups and newspapers, to name the two hallmarks of Julie and Brett’s morning routine. Plus board games, piled treacherously. Cranford Camembert can also be found, pretty often, in this corner of the extended kitchen, as, now, he is, browsing the newspapers for incomplete crosswords and waiting for some sort of action to take place. Shortly, of course, his wish comes true.

2.

Julie walks in the door, sings, “I’m hoooome!”, and drops her purse onto the bar. Cranford pokes his head out from the breakfast nook. Julie doesn’t have much to say to her second-born, so she slips into the bathroom instead of allowing a moment of awkward silence to commence. Like a dog at a bell, Willa comes bounding down the stairs and hollers, “Julia!” Playfully, but with a demanding undertone.

In the bathroom, Julie wonders whether the impartial observer would a) take pity on her for not being home long enough to use the restroom before being bombarded or b) judge her harshly for the lengths she takes to avoid the company of her children. Not that she doesn’t enjoy them as people or love them as fruit of her womb. But she can only take so much.

“Juli-UH!” Willa persists, practically screaming under the bathroom door, it seems to Julie.

“Okay, okay! Jeez louise, Will-ow,” she says as she snaps on her mom-face and abandons her hideout.

“Not funny,” says her daughter. “There’s a couple things I need to talk to you about, one being suing this Korean Barbecue place.”

The garage door mechanism begins its whir and distractible Julie heads for the dirty dishes in the sink.

“Hello! Mother?”

“Ok fine, what are the other things?”

“Well I mean, besides that, honestly the biggest one is what you said to Miss Mason about me.”

“What?” Julie, suddenly interested, turns from the still running sink. She has said a lot of things to Miss Mason, about a lot of different people. 

Moses, the oldest, comes in from the garage carrying just as many grocery bags as are humanly possible to carry, full of unauthorized groceries.

“Were you the one who had the Tesla?” Willa asks him, in no pleased tone of voice.

“Yeah, Brett said I could take it.”

“Willa, sweetie, what do you mean what I said to Miss Mason about you?” Julie, trying to convey a healthy dose of ‘I-would-never.’

“Where’d you get groceries, Mo?” Cranford chimes in from the peanut gallery.

“Have you guys been to that new place by iDive? So much dank shit. Their baked good section alone is, like, bigger than the whole Whole Foods on 280.”

“Willa, seriously, what are you referring to?”

“Chill out, mom. I said that like 10 minutes ago. Why are you getting so defensive?”

“Defensive? You were the one yelling at me while I was peeing!”

“What could a Korean Barbecue place possibly have done to deserve getting sued by an eighteen year old girl?” Cranford ponders out-loud from his special place.

“Cranford, this literally has nothing to do with you. Will you shut the fuck up? For one moment? Please?”

“Oh my god Willa, that is not ok,” her mother says, and she has a point.

From upstairs, Brett, husband or father to those gathered below, can be heard telling someone on the phone, “Business ideas are a dime a dozen. It’s all about execution.”

“No but seriously guys, check out how dank this stuff is,” Moses says as he debags dairy milk alternatives and microwavable Tikka Masalas.

“You didn’t use my credit card to buy all that junk did you, Moses?” his mother asks, disappointed in how sure she already is of the answer.

Moses slo-mo turns with a mock sheepish grin to his brother and mouths, “Oops…”

“Aren’t they so disrespectful, Julia?” Willa says, sashaying over to the sink to deposit a dish into the pile Julie’s working through.

From upstairs: “Hey, will you guys keep it down for like fifteen minutes? I’m on a phone call.”

“Probably with the president,” Cranford quips.

Somewhere nearby, someone rolls two trash bins down a long, bumpy driveway.

Maddie comes down the stairs and says, “I’m walking out the door and don’t have time to engage with this, but you’re literally all sociopaths.”

“Literally?”

“Does she mean sociopath or psychopath?”

“What did I do?” says Cranford, wounded.

“Oh you do not get to act like Mr. Innocent over there, Cranford,” Willa declares, punctuating her sister’s argument; Maddie being out the garage door now with no way to back up her blanket accusation.

“Has she been up there listening this whole time or does she just mean in general?” raises Moses.

“I bet she’s going to hang out with Jeremy,” Julie speculates, perhaps unwisely. 

“Fuck. You, Mom!” Maddie, popping in the front door to get a couple more words in. “I told you you’re not allowed to talk about him. How is that supposed to make me feel, hearing my own mother gossip about me like that?” And she slams the door behind her so hard it bounces back open.

A general feeling of “yikes” hangs in the air of the Camembert’s kitchen for a moment.

“I mean,” Willa finally cuts in, “you honestly should’ve known she was still listening.”

“Why do you let her bully you?” asks Cranford the Innocent.

“I just don’t know where you four pick up this language,” says Julie.

“Oh I don’t know,” wonders Willa, “maybe from you? And your now infamous quote about me?”

“How can it be infamous if you won’t even tell us what she supposedly said?” asks one of the boys.

“Maybe Miss Mason’s planting false quotes to sow discord in this family and destroy us from within,” postulates the other.

“Seems to be working so far,” Julie observes.

3.

Two blocks away and already rounding sidewalkless neighborhood curves at nearly 50, Maddie’s got the Subaru humming along in peak form. It’s striking how much better she feels now: away from those people, away from that house, behind the wheel of a capable vehicle. Backing out of the garage and peeling out of sight, she imagines her whole family running to the window to watch her maneuver impressively out and away.

But no, of course they wouldn’t care to see her out. The moment she exits stage left, it’s as if she ceases to exist. What do they know about her and Jeremy? Why do they assume that how she acts in that toxic family machine is anything like the woman she is on her own and surrounded by anyone but them? Could those simple, ungrateful jerks appreciate the sensation of crisp acceleration on shaded residential streets?

In fact, she hasn’t been planning on going to Jeremy’s. Actually, she doesn’t have anywhere specific in mind. She just needs a drive. To get out. So she takes the route with the fewest stop signs, enters the highway southbound towards downtown, and cuts far left.

No one knows directions in this town like she does. Most people drive to get from one place to another. Not Maddie. She’s made friends with the city. Driving through it is their way of spending time together. Other people who consider themselves good with directions usually take pride in knowing their way around a number of different cities, or being able to read new streets they come upon. But for Maddie, it’s only here. She doesn’t have any mental maps of other cities to confuse her sense of place; her expertise is specific and precise.

In the years since she got her license, traffic has gotten considerably worse. Maddie regards all these new drivers as the ultimate scourge of her streets. When she feels especially clear-headed, she’s able to see traffic as something like a challenging game mode. New streets and shortcuts have been unlocked by the necessity of avoiding these idiots who hardly even know how to drive. Sometimes, by accident, she finds roads that end up working their way into her primary repertoire. Old Highway 84 is one, and she notices herself subconsciously angling towards it now.

4.

Back at home, a debate has flared up regarding who is closest, emotionally speaking, with Charlie, the catchall name for the squirrel(s) who eat(s) from the birdfeeder in the backyard. Cranford is a notorious miszoothrope (Moses’s word), so he has removed his name from the running and returned to a silent irrelevancy. Julie has no interest in the proceedings, so she leaves her kids to their endless and contentious discourse.

Upstairs, she heads towards her office, but pauses a moment at the door, backs up, and pushes her way into her husband’s instead, without knocking. The blackout curtains are closed; stepping in provokes a strong reaction in her retinas.

Brett is leaning forward on the edge of his seat with his hands clasped in his lap and his nose about one inch from the computer screen on his desk, reading an article about developments in the culinary arts discovered in the nineteenth century but only beginning to be implemented today. 

“Honey,” Julie begins, as if she’s still deciding if she really has anything to say.

Brett executes an impressive maneuver in which he sl0wly swivels his body nearly 180 degrees towards his speaking wife behind him, while keeping his head aimed at the computer and eyes fixed on the captivating article.

“Honey.” Julie repeats, more firmly.

Brett slowly raises his index finger as if to say, “I will be with you in one...” He could really use a secretary.

“Brett!” Julie says, literally putting her foot down as she does. This, it seems, is enough to snap him out of it. The final parts of his body catch up with his pre-swiveled lower half and, at last, he is fully at her service.

“How can I help you?”

Spoken by anyone else in this context, those words might have come across as patronizing or sarcastic. But Brett means them for what they are: he’d like to be helpful. If Julie was being honest, he’d probably be able to help her most by walking down those stairs and yelling at their kids until they all grew up and moved out. Or, at least, holding her while she cried. 

Instead, she says, “Why are you sitting in this dark room?”

“Well, now that you mention it, I guess I didn’t realize--”

Too slow. She interrupts. 

“Who were you speaking to a moment ago that was so important?”

Brett is caught off guard. 

“Did you just come in here to nag me?” he asks.

Uh-oh.

“Nag you?” She asks, increasing her pitch about half an octave over the course of the word “nag” to show incredulity. “Seriously Brett?” She thinks but doesn’t add, What are you gonna say next, that I’m bitching at you?

They used to be able to have calm conversations about the psychology of their kids for hours. Not that they were always spot on in their analysis, but talking made them both feel the family was in good, thoughtful hands: theirs.

Not anymore. Each time she tries to access the dynamic they used to have, it ends up all wrong. She knows she came in too hot. But if he had just been paying attention, he’d know why she was there. He might have even started the conversation himself, if he hadn’t been absorbed in his phone calls and articles.

Julie is not quite crying, but it’s all a bit much. She walks over to the window, yanks the curtains apart, and walks out. She does not slam the door behind her, but her footsteps (stomps, rather) are pretty loud. Loud enough, at least, to alert the children that something is up.

“Are you two having a row up there?”

5.

There is no thrill in driving 30 in a 30 mile per hour zone. Not that Maddie would argue all driving must be thrilling; no, sometimes there’s merit in sustaining a mellow cruise. But those times are the exception. No one’s ever written a song called “Slow Car.” If you google that phrase the top results are all something along the lines of “how to drive your slow car fast” or “how to deal with slow cars on the road.” People watch car races. No one tunes in to watch cars putter along (parades notwithstanding; there’s enough auxiliary excitement to distract from the stagnation). Most of the time, even if they’ve got no place to be, drivers want to go.

Once she escapes the backlog and misery of the freeways and mainstreets, Maddie kicks it up a notch, out of relief. Old 84 has been her primary getaway for a couple months now. Like a favorite song, it’s possible to overplay a street. Knowing this, Maddie’s made an effort to ration her access to this one so she won’t wear it out too soon. But still, she’s over the hump in the bell curve of how much pleasure she’s able to derive out of this drive. To get to those levels now that she’s driven it 30, 40 times, she’s gotta take it pretty quick. So she guns it into the first turn of the forest road and emerges into the straightaway with a slight skid.

Plus, her family’s been pissing her off. Her parents were too sheltered growing up. As far as they know, trying coke once makes you an addict. Or, if they’re being generous (which is usually worse than when they’re being judgmental), they’ll tell themselves it means you’re “calling out for help” or “using drugs as a coping mechanism.” Do they think she’s out there partying by herself? As a means of masking some sort of deep depression? If Julie and Brett are right about her, all her friends should be in rehab, too.

Cranford’s an idiot. If she really was struggling, he’d be the last to know it. And if he somehow did find out, he’d probably keep plodding through life completely unaffected. Moses is way more of a problem child than she is, but somehow her parents don’t realize it. Unconscious sexism? Probably just good old irrational favoritism. And then Willa, who thinks she’s such a huge ally, is too much of a kiss-up to ever be taken seriously by anyone else in the family. In any case, the three of them are self-absorbed brats, so who needs their support?

Honestly, to hell with all five of them, as a collective and in their own right. Maddie’s out here specifically to get away from that noise.

So she kicks it up another notch.

6.
In the kitchen, Willa gets a text.

“Julie! Uhhhhh… do you know where your daughter is?” 

Julie is upstairs in her bathroom, hiding her face from the world. 

“Julie! Seriously.”

Good god, why does she care?

“Why do you care, Willa?” Cranford asks, downstairs.

“Thank you,” Julie mouths, one floor up.

“Jason says he saw her driving like 90 on Old 84. That’s why, Cranford.”

“There’s no way. She’d be in a ditch by now,” says Moses, without paying attention to anything but the contents of the cupboards. 

Willa starts to tremble. It’s unclear whether out of fear or fury.

“Oh my god, he’s typing.”

“Is he sure it was her?”

“He says she was driving the Subaru like a maniac. ‘She was crying and swerving and she almost ran into me head-on. I got tf out of there but maybe y’all should check on her.’”

“She did leave here pretty pissed off...” Cranford says.

“Yeah, Cranford,” Moses says, milking all possible sarcasm out of each syllable. “I guess she did, huh?”

Julie summons some strength. Either her daughter is dead or her other three kids are about to start a full on brawl. Or both. Either way, it is no time to sulk.

“Mom, really! I’m scared for her.”

“I’m coming,” Julie says, “I’m coming.”

7.

Three hours later, no sign of Maddie and no answer to any texts or calls. She’s not showing up on Find My Friends or Life360, so either she’s turned her location off or her phone is dead (e.g. broken due to a catastrophic car crash). But then again, she rarely shares her location with her siblings and never with her parents, so this could mean anything. 

Willa and Brett scouted Old 84. No sign of her or the car in any of the roadside ditches or wrapped around a tree. Moses and Julie took two separate cars, browsing what they believe are her regular haunts: Jeremy’s parents’ house, her friend Kelsey’s apartment, the AMC on Lakeway. No luck. But then, it is a big city. 

Everyone has been out and back a couple of times. They keep grouping up and making new gameplans, in increasingly dire frames of mind and tones of voice. Julie is feeling at a loss. Brett is giving it until a certain time before he gets the police involved.  Moses seems humbled. Willa’s texting away; no more intel from Jason. If only he’d followed her insteading of avoiding conflict like a coward.

It’s unlike Maddie to not check her phone for three hours at a time, even while she’s driving. And there’s a charger in the car so her phone couldn’t have run out of charge. So, either she’s blatantly ignoring them or… it’s bad. And from the types of things they’ve all been texting her and the number of times they’ve called (it goes to voicemail after 2 rings), she probably isn’t ignoring them.

If she’s not alone, there are roughly two types of people she could be with: her high school friends, who all claim not to know where she is, or… the other crowd. No one in the family has their contact info. And if she’s with them, Julie can think of a whole new set of possibilities. At this point in the search process, nothing is off the table.

Then, she pulls the Subaru into the garage and walks in the door. Willa and Moses are out on the hunt when it happens, and their parents are in the backyard having a bit of a moment. So Cranford comprises a one-man welcome committee.

“Maddie,” he observes.

He sounds… not surprised, just glad to see her. Like it’s been years since the two of them have talked. And maybe it has.

“Hey, Cranford,” she says. There’s something kind of nice about the way he noticed her arrival; something that suggests maybe one person in this family isn’t all that bad. Or maybe she’s just gone soft from her drive.

“Have you eaten?” he asks. “Let’s cook something.”

“I’m down.”

“Moses just got a bunch of groceries. Everyone should be home pretty soon.”