Masks
by Troy Hornsby
Golden light bursts from the chandelier above the table, dimming on a competition trophy and a framed college degree. They were hung beside the front door, right where all eyes could see them.
“My goodness,” the lady in the pink dress yelled from across the table, powder covering every atom of her face, “Jenna, this sauce is amazing, what’s the recipe?”
Mom laughed and brushed back her thinning brown hair. “Grandmother’s recipe—a secret from Naples.”
The bitter marinara did nothing but assault Henry’s tongue with prejudice. He kept his smile as he forced the slimy spaghetti down his throat. Natalie was, seemingly, having the same struggles; she smiled and nodded as she listened to the lady in the pink dress.
“My goodness, darling, I saw your trophies, and I am so impressed. You’re so young, so beautiful, and a cheer captain, with good grades. How do you do it?”
Eyes were on her, and she did not back down. “Parents taught me well,” her words, though sprouting with joy, remained in a monotonous tone. “They’ve always pushed me to strive for greatness, so that’s what I’ve tried to do.”
The lady in the pink dress and the man in the blue suit both smiled approvingly. “Well, well,” the man’s voice bellowed, “it seems you two are on a golden road to success,” he smirked, a plastic grin, Henry realized. “In the future, you’ll both end up like your father, possibly the salesman of the damn century.” He raised his glass of golden liquid.
The family smiled. Dad raised his own glass. “Well, I wouldn’t say that.”
The man stood and laughed. “Oh, Dennis, you’re too damn humble—way too humble. Drop the act for a little bit.”
Dad let out another laugh. “Okay then, okay. It was one hell of a sale, and it wouldn’t have been possible without these three. Thank you, my family, who have stayed by me and supported me through some of the worst turbulence a salesman can have, I owe you all the world, thank you.”
Henry’s muscles contracted into a smile, following Mom and Natalie. They raised their glasses—Natalie’s was apple cider—and they tapped them together with a satisfying ring. Warmth spread through the dinner table, making Henry uncomfortable in his leather coat. He sighed, wiped his mouth, and drank the bubbling champagne that still did not rid the terrible sauce from his tongue.
“My goodness,” the lady in the pink dress yelled from across the table, powder covering every atom of her face, “Jenna, this sauce is amazing, what’s the recipe?”
Mom laughed and brushed back her thinning brown hair. “Grandmother’s recipe—a secret from Naples.”
The bitter marinara did nothing but assault Henry’s tongue with prejudice. He kept his smile as he forced the slimy spaghetti down his throat. Natalie was, seemingly, having the same struggles; she smiled and nodded as she listened to the lady in the pink dress.
“My goodness, darling, I saw your trophies, and I am so impressed. You’re so young, so beautiful, and a cheer captain, with good grades. How do you do it?”
Eyes were on her, and she did not back down. “Parents taught me well,” her words, though sprouting with joy, remained in a monotonous tone. “They’ve always pushed me to strive for greatness, so that’s what I’ve tried to do.”
The lady in the pink dress and the man in the blue suit both smiled approvingly. “Well, well,” the man’s voice bellowed, “it seems you two are on a golden road to success,” he smirked, a plastic grin, Henry realized. “In the future, you’ll both end up like your father, possibly the salesman of the damn century.” He raised his glass of golden liquid.
The family smiled. Dad raised his own glass. “Well, I wouldn’t say that.”
The man stood and laughed. “Oh, Dennis, you’re too damn humble—way too humble. Drop the act for a little bit.”
Dad let out another laugh. “Okay then, okay. It was one hell of a sale, and it wouldn’t have been possible without these three. Thank you, my family, who have stayed by me and supported me through some of the worst turbulence a salesman can have, I owe you all the world, thank you.”
Henry’s muscles contracted into a smile, following Mom and Natalie. They raised their glasses—Natalie’s was apple cider—and they tapped them together with a satisfying ring. Warmth spread through the dinner table, making Henry uncomfortable in his leather coat. He sighed, wiped his mouth, and drank the bubbling champagne that still did not rid the terrible sauce from his tongue.
Everyone had left the dinner table, leaving Henry alone, washing dishes. The cold water rushed aimlessly from the creaking faucet, splattering across the granite countertops and spotless white cabinets. Silence echoed through the house; every bump and squeak of life could have been heard—if any true life existed in the haunting walls.
There was no evidence to suggest there were ever beating hearts in the soundless home.
A slam came from above Henry. Dust sprinkled into the sink, swirling and finally disappearing into the waterlogged drain.
Finally, evidence.
Muffled voices rose like the beginning of a symphony. He took a sharp breath and attempted to focus on the swirling water, the scratchy half of the sponge, the gurgling drain, but nothing worked.
“Why didn’t you tell him you lost the deal?” Mom’s voice screeched.
“I didn’t have time to, okay? Get off my back.” Another slam.
“Get off your back? Absolutely not! I had to cook up a whole dinner at the last minute and spew nonsense because you decided to be a coward.”
“A coward!” Glass shattered. “I’m sorry that I’ve tried to support a selfish and ungrateful family, even at the expense of my health.”
“Always your health, it’s always your health. I know you’re lying, Dennis. I read your medical papers, and they don’t say a single word about your heart, so just shut it.”
Stomping took Henry away from the argument. It was not as bad as their previous screaming matches before he left for school, though he assumed this duel was a prelude to something worse. Natalie came down the stairs dressed in short shorts, a crop top, and her blonde hair tied in a bun. She was entranced with her phone until her eyes shot to him, still washing dishes with his head tilted upwards.
“Ew, what are you still doing here? Shouldn’t you be driving back to school?”
“Shouldn’t you be doing cocaine off your boyfriend’s fat stomach?” He never took his head from the ceiling.
“Wow, fuck you.”
“No thanks, but I heard there’s a frat house nearby, and you might be their type.”
Her red lips shook. “Still an asshole, I see. Why don’t you just leave? You’ve always been good at doing that.” She stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind her.
The last plate rested in his hand; it was barely dirty with a smear of chocolate lingering at its edge. Henry ran it under the freezing water and slowly scrubbed it; the muffled screaming was clearer now.
“I know what you say about me to your little ditsy friends,” Dad screamed, “calling me ‘a failure,’ ‘a loser,’ ‘a good-for-nothing salesman who should’ve just pulled the trigger twenty-one years ago.’”
It was quiet again, with only the running water showing proof of life. The black smear still wasn’t out. Henry picked at it with his finger, and it would not budge. He tried again with the sponge, and the smear persevered. Finally, he shut off the water, walked to the lidless trash can, and let the plate fall in the small pile of junk below.
His blue suitcase resided by the door, sitting on the same wall as a framed picture of the four of them. Henry had been thirteen, Natalie was nine. They were smiling and hugging each other in front of the entrance of the aquarium, where a bronze orca curled in the air with sparkling copper water underneath. Mom and Dad were smiling too, her hand resting on his chest, and his arm hugged her tightly around her ribs. He ran his fingers along the gold words embedded in the frame: FAMILY. If the picture were gone, no one in the house would know, he figured.
But if it ever did disappear from the hollow walls, Henry would notice its absence.
He opened the door to the cold of the night. Snow was falling gently through the neighborhood and on top of his red car. He grabbed his suitcase that rumbled out the door and onto the patio. He tilted his head one more time to the stairs, where nothing escaped. Sighing, he stepped out into the snow that landed on his face. Henry closed the door and walked along the concrete trail back to his car.
Snow melted on his cheeks, leaving cold trails of water falling from his face. He would never come back; he told himself as he stepped into his car. It started with a jolt but still ran all the same. He turned on the heat, but he was still cold. Henry put the car in Drive and drove away, not looking back at the dark house with pure white snow falling along its face.
There was no evidence to suggest there were ever beating hearts in the soundless home.
A slam came from above Henry. Dust sprinkled into the sink, swirling and finally disappearing into the waterlogged drain.
Finally, evidence.
Muffled voices rose like the beginning of a symphony. He took a sharp breath and attempted to focus on the swirling water, the scratchy half of the sponge, the gurgling drain, but nothing worked.
“Why didn’t you tell him you lost the deal?” Mom’s voice screeched.
“I didn’t have time to, okay? Get off my back.” Another slam.
“Get off your back? Absolutely not! I had to cook up a whole dinner at the last minute and spew nonsense because you decided to be a coward.”
“A coward!” Glass shattered. “I’m sorry that I’ve tried to support a selfish and ungrateful family, even at the expense of my health.”
“Always your health, it’s always your health. I know you’re lying, Dennis. I read your medical papers, and they don’t say a single word about your heart, so just shut it.”
Stomping took Henry away from the argument. It was not as bad as their previous screaming matches before he left for school, though he assumed this duel was a prelude to something worse. Natalie came down the stairs dressed in short shorts, a crop top, and her blonde hair tied in a bun. She was entranced with her phone until her eyes shot to him, still washing dishes with his head tilted upwards.
“Ew, what are you still doing here? Shouldn’t you be driving back to school?”
“Shouldn’t you be doing cocaine off your boyfriend’s fat stomach?” He never took his head from the ceiling.
“Wow, fuck you.”
“No thanks, but I heard there’s a frat house nearby, and you might be their type.”
Her red lips shook. “Still an asshole, I see. Why don’t you just leave? You’ve always been good at doing that.” She stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind her.
The last plate rested in his hand; it was barely dirty with a smear of chocolate lingering at its edge. Henry ran it under the freezing water and slowly scrubbed it; the muffled screaming was clearer now.
“I know what you say about me to your little ditsy friends,” Dad screamed, “calling me ‘a failure,’ ‘a loser,’ ‘a good-for-nothing salesman who should’ve just pulled the trigger twenty-one years ago.’”
It was quiet again, with only the running water showing proof of life. The black smear still wasn’t out. Henry picked at it with his finger, and it would not budge. He tried again with the sponge, and the smear persevered. Finally, he shut off the water, walked to the lidless trash can, and let the plate fall in the small pile of junk below.
His blue suitcase resided by the door, sitting on the same wall as a framed picture of the four of them. Henry had been thirteen, Natalie was nine. They were smiling and hugging each other in front of the entrance of the aquarium, where a bronze orca curled in the air with sparkling copper water underneath. Mom and Dad were smiling too, her hand resting on his chest, and his arm hugged her tightly around her ribs. He ran his fingers along the gold words embedded in the frame: FAMILY. If the picture were gone, no one in the house would know, he figured.
But if it ever did disappear from the hollow walls, Henry would notice its absence.
He opened the door to the cold of the night. Snow was falling gently through the neighborhood and on top of his red car. He grabbed his suitcase that rumbled out the door and onto the patio. He tilted his head one more time to the stairs, where nothing escaped. Sighing, he stepped out into the snow that landed on his face. Henry closed the door and walked along the concrete trail back to his car.
Snow melted on his cheeks, leaving cold trails of water falling from his face. He would never come back; he told himself as he stepped into his car. It started with a jolt but still ran all the same. He turned on the heat, but he was still cold. Henry put the car in Drive and drove away, not looking back at the dark house with pure white snow falling along its face.
Troy Hornsby is an African-American author of three self-published books and a short story writer with works published in Pulp Lit Magazine, Borderline Tales, and Dominique Lit Magazine. As he writes, he is also attempting to get a degree in English and creative writing to spread his love and knowledge of the written art.