Haunted

One bright midday this summer, just before lunchtime, a phalanx of hungry neighborhood kids tromped into our house. There was me and my son, my sister and her three kids, my pal and her son, and a local neighborhood boy. To spare you the trouble, that's twelve for lunch, including my parents. My sister set about making grilled cheese sandwiches like a sergeant in a mess hall but with the finesse and panache of a four star chef. These grilled cheeses had hearty slabs of butter, or as we call it in our house, food of the gods, and ample cheese, browned to perfection. The adult version of said same included a soupcon of honeycup mustard, some mayo (also f.o.t.g.), and thinly sliced ham draped lovingly across the warm bed of cheese like a silk duvet on satin sheets. Ahhhh, yessssss, summertime.

As the sandwiches were placed on the kitchen table the troops were called in to lunch. They descended, swarm-like, on the kid's platter with knuckles knocking. Their allotment was signalled by the two perpendicular cuts quartering the sandwiches into the hors d'hoeuvre-like morsels so popular among the under four feet set. The more mature diagonal cuts halved the grown-ups' fare. The air above the stove top waltzed with the heavenly aroma of toasted bread, cheese and butter. There was a brief moment of calm as everyone savored. Yummmmmmy.

It was then that my mother noticed that the neighbor child wasn't eating, but standing quietly on the fringes of our noontime feast. I thought perhaps he was withholding because he did live down the street, after all. His kitchen was a mere stone's throw away-- if you had a good arm-- and perhaps he was considering zipping home for a quick bite then joining us after. And why not? He may have more refined tastes that we can't cater to. There's no reason we can't eat what our individual desires dictate and still be chums, right? But he didn't leave. He just stood there. My mother pointed to the platter of hallowed Americana and said, "Go ahead, dear, there's enough grilled cheese for everyone."

To which our ten year old guest replied, "Cheese haunts me."

I'll wait while you re-read that last sentence. And keep in mind, I'm not making this up. And he wasn't being funny. His face didn't change. There was no grin to come.

Huh, I thought. Really? Haunts you? Like in Poltergeist? Do you open the fridge and snatching your tender arm back from Satin's grip, announce eerily, "They're heee-re," at the sight of the individually vacuum packed mozzarella sticks in the cheese drawer?

Or is it a more aggressive haunting like in the Exorcist. Will you begin talking like a sinister Lou Rawls? Will we end up strapping you to your bedposts and pelting you with fist fulls of lactose pills? Will your head spin fully around on your delicate shoulders and then will you open your mouth and spew cheeze whiz all over the flocked wallpaper?

Actually, this is starting to sound good. I'm due for a little cheese haunting. It's been a while. The last time a kid in my neighborhood was haunted it was by capers and what's the fun in that? Bring it on, I say. Let 'er rip. Feed that local boy a grilled cheese sandwich and let the games begin.

But, no. My mom offered to make him a different sandwich, one tailor-made to his liking. I cracked, "He is ten, Mom, he could make his own sandwich." But that wasn't very nice of me. I guess I just didn't want my mom to put down her sandwich and go to all the trouble of making a custom ordered sandwich for Beelzebub's nephew when he might just as likely throw that one up as well. I mean, who knows what caprice of haunting he may find himself under next? I was perfectly willing to sponge off the wallpaper if need be. Just as soon as Mom and I finished lunch.