Chapter One
For at least a year before Sasha’s older brother Max died, Bertrand and I secretly referred to her as our own little Heart of Darkness. This could refer to her skin, of course, which is the exact creamy color of the inside of a Snickers bar. My chocolate-covered-raisin of a husband isn’t a fan of my describing skin color in food terms, but skin is just one of a million things that propels me into what my family has come to call FoodWorld:
yellow rain slicker = lemon curd tart
squirming worms = black licorice whips
the chicken on our roof = baked, fried or barbecued
Alas, darkness in this case refers to Sasha’s emerging personality. Adolescence and Apocalypse form an unfortunate convergence.
Sash heads back to the hall, plops down on the rug and nuzzles her pathetic, mange-ridden kitten. “About the cat…” I start, trying hard not to mention eating or skinning it. I hope it will be dead by morning so we don’t have to have a showdown.
Sash just leaves her face buried in what’s left of the kitten’s non-fur. “My little Anna Caterina,” she murmurs. Naturally she would name a pet Anna Caterina. She’s a born scholar, sadly in a world with no use for scholars. Me, on the other hand, I’m very useful in this world: I’m a drug dealer, thanks to my brother Mitchell’s genius. I sell our very own Mitchell Laboratories drugs—antibiotics and mild painkillers, which we have brand named Mitches. They’re more than aspirin, less than Vicodin. My daughter isn’t much interested in pharmaceuticals, taking or selling. She’s talked about training for a number of growth careers: blacksmith, beekeeper, undertaker. (The person who finds a male and female ox will be the next Bill Gates.)