Spaghetti Trees: A Short Story

 

It is common knowledge that any polite and well-mannered boy must eat that which is in front of him. Harold disagreed. He believed that these were expectations for boys that had mothers who knew how to cook. Most boys would sit down at the table, their hands placed quietly in their lap, and in front of them would be placed a plate of scrambled eggs piled high like snow, sausages caramelized and brown, and fluffy white scones with dollops of yellow butter. This was not the case with Harold’s mother. She only cooked one meal. Harold sighed, spaghetti again. 

Boys ought to enjoy eating spaghetti. They ought to wrap the noodles around their forks like snakes in the jungle books and noisily slurp impolitely until that characteristic red stain appeared on their lips. Harold sighed again. His mother did not make spaghetti-like that. His spaghetti had potatoes in it, green vegetables, and no red sauce. It was disgusting. Harold felt sorry for his mother, for he loved her dearly and knew that she did the best that she could for him. Nonetheless, it did not change his dislike.

Harold gazed around him, the intolerable smell rose to his nostrils from his bowl and fiddled with his gag reflexes. He cocked his head to look in the direction of the kitchen. The clatter of pots and pans and the occasional squeak as something crashed to the floor alerted him that his mother had no intention of entering the dining room just yet. He made a for dash it.

The back door closed silently behind him as Harold gripped the small garden shovel and headed for the backyard. Choosing a spot out of sight of the kitchen window, Harold began to dig.

Father had spoken to him about mounds of dirt before. He believed they were mole holes. Harold offered no contradiction. Harold shoveled the warm, moist earth into a tidy pile until he had dug down one foot. Peeking around, Harold ensured the coast was still clear. He held his breath and gently tipped the contents of his dinner bowl into the dip.

Harold was generally a good boy. He did his chores when asked, he finished his schoolwork on time, and he always kissed his mother before bedtime. His father thought himself the luckiest man alive to have such a son. He believed that he had the greatest son imaginable, one who always ate his meals completely and provided very little trouble. He never said these things out loud, but he thought them. 

~ 

A week later, on April Fool Day, Harold sat in front of the TV. It was the news. Harold disliked watching the daily news because he thought it was boring, but his mother insisted it was important for a growing boy’s intellect.

The speaker was rather middle-aged and slightly balding, with a tendency towards monotony and undesired sarcasm. He wore a yellow suit the color of old mustard with an oatmeal striped tie of the vintage variety. He never looked straight at the camera, but with a slight tilt of the head, making one unsure as to whether he was speaking at them or to some invisible person off in the corner. Harold had not been paying particular attention to what the speaker was saying. He focused instead on the assortment of colored sweets in front of him. However, just as he had decided to eat the green one first, he noticed a change of topic which piqued his interest.
    

    “Lately, a concern has arisen regarding the increasing growth of spaghetti trees this spring,” the newsman droned. “Take special care toward the prevention of these monsters as they are extremely invasive.”

Harold froze. His blood ran cold, his heart pumped wildly, his ears turned beet red, and he gave a squeak of fright. Harold could envision it immediately, his secret spaghetti holes, hidden until now, sprouting wings of leaves and bursting through the soil into large, wooden giants with strings of noodles dangling from the branches. Horrified, Harold panicked. He jumped from the sofa, scattering his sweets all over the carpet. He tore open the door and ran, partly tumbled, outside to the little green shed at the back of the house. Frantically, Harold searched for a small green bottle with the skull and crossbones on the front. The one he had seen Father use on dozens of occasions. Upon contact with this desired artifact, he darted towards the back yard like a startled rabbit. He did not care where he sprayed it. Harold could not remember where every hole was. He just aimed at the spots that seemed most likely and generously poured.

~ 

Many years after, when Harold was old with grey streaks in his hair and owned a small restaurant, the Columbus Italian, which sat comfortably on the corner of 5th Street, he told the local children about that April Fools. The sun poured through the window onto the red and white checkered table cloths and the air smelled of garlic, autumn leaves, and warmth from the pizza ovens. Harold sat in a tattered wicker chair with the three children sitting across from him. They were looking up at him eagerly, with red-stained smiles and handkerchiefs tucked into their shirt tops. He smiled and concluded his story.

    “It’s laughable now that I think about it. My father was always quite puzzled at why his yard never grew in spots.”

Harold chuckled to himself, “It’s funny what people will believe.”

The End

~