Toast

Sept. 9, 1941

8:12 am.

Breakfast took an hour to make and, in Kitty’s high-pitched voice, was proclaimed inedible. Bethany scraped burnt eggs from a pan, trying to ignore the complaints, but that was near impossible with Kitty’s screeching right behind her in the little galley kitchen.

It wasn’t her fault that Rebecca had always been the one to cook breakfast. She had moved out a week ago, finally having found a house close enough to her husband, Ken’s, work. Honestly, Bethany was relieved her too-pregnant older sister was unable to waddle around the house grumbling about tiny rooms and crowded halls, but her presence had always been a relief at mealtimes.

It wasn’t Rebecca’s fault that the breakfast was burnt either; she had just found a way out of the home. No, it was Warner’s fault breakfast was burnt. At least when Rebecca was here he would have put bread in the toaster or flipped the eggs. Now that his (most likely) favorite sister was out of the house, he didn’t wake up until long after breakfast was made, grabbing some left-over toast before he ran out the door for work.

Not today, if Bethany had anything to say about it. And she certainly did. Tuning out the annoying cries of the babies, she stalked out of the kitchen and down the dark hall to Warner’s room. She pounded her fist squarely onto his door, the hand carved sign proclaiming the room ‘Warner’s’ contributing to the din with its own knocking.

Confident that would do it, she pulled away her fist and crossed her hands at her waist like a prim and proper lady. Rustles and groans emitted from under the door and Bethany smiled. Sloth was a sin, and so was not helping your sister as she slaved away at her duties, duties you get to avoid because you have a job and she isn’t allowed one.

The door swings inward with a woosh of air. “The Hell was that supposed to do?” Warner stands in the doorway, brown hair spiked in sleepy peaks. “I could have slept for another half hour!” He gripped the doorway so hard his knuckles turned white, and Bethany was reminded of his mercurial, oft warlike nature. But she was his sister and impervious to such behavior.

“So why do I have to be up so early?” Bethany retorted, her lady’s pose abandoned in favor of a jealous sister’s crossed arms.

Warner sighed and pushed past her. They’d had this argument before and it never ended well. Bethany frowned and followed after him, refusing to give in this time.

“Mother left you in charge, it’s a great honor, blah blah blah,” Warner said as he yanked a plate out of the cupboard. The old oak door slammed shut with a crack and Bethany scowled. His response was a bland remark Father has said the other day, a simple repetition to sooth her hysteria. When Warner said it, the words came out cheap, like dollar candy meant to pacify a baby.

Bethany grabbed the plate of toast before he could take a slice and held it behind her back. “You’re not Father. Don’t try to be him.”

Warner stopped dead, plate gripped in his hands like a shield. “Give me the toast.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“Try me.” Warner took a step closer, reminding Bethany of the two inches he had on her, two inches that put his eyes a bit over hers.

A chair squealed, but neither sibling looked over. “Come on, Ernest,” Kitty said. “They’re fighting again.” The screen door slammed shut behind the two children as Kitty tugged Ernest outside.

“Fine, I will,” Bethany said, pausing a little too long. There was a difference between yelling at Warner and fighting him. They hadn’t wrestled since they were the babies’ age and Warner had had the upper hand more often than not.

Warner snatched for the plate, but Bethany ducked to the right, putting the table between them. “Give it, I’m hungry.”

“Should have thought of that earlier,” Bethany said, dumping the toast in the trash. Warner stared at her, anger written in his furrowed brow. “Maybe when I was making breakfast, but no, you slept in.”’

Warner frowned, watching Bethany scoop up her own plate and the babies’. She stacked them nicely, burnt breakfast remains caked on like grease. With a smile, she dumped the plates in the sink with a loud clatter.

“I paid for that toast.”

“I made it.”

The screen door creaked open and Ernest’s brown curls poked into view. “Can we come in now?” His little voice was pitched high with the fear of his beloved siblings fighting, but Bethany just waved a hand at him. She wasn’t cross at him, just at Warner; she would have to explain that to him later.

Kitty’s blonde ponytail popped in too. “They’re still fighting, come on, Ernest.” Ernest didn’t budge.

Warner grumbled something under his breath and walked to the cupboard by the refrigerator. Opening it, he shoved aside cans of beans and soup, hands scrabbling in near desperation.

Bethany turned her back to him, glancing over her shoulder every other moment as she scraped burnt egg off a pan with a Brillo pad. “Looking for something?” The words were a bit of a low blow, she knew exactly what he was looking for, and he was not going to find it.

“Yes, don’t be an idiot.” He slammed the door shut and Bethany jumped. She froze, hoping he didn’t notice the momentary lapse in bravado, but it was too late. Warner grinned, his once brotherly face now dark, like it was after every football game, like he had done what he had to do and was proud.

“We used the last of the bread, Mother went grocery shopping before you woke up. But, you had no way of knowing that, of course.” Bethany slammed on the faucet, filling the basin with steam as hot water pumped from the tap. Sleepy brother Warner, never at fault, always in the right. Not this time.

“Real mature. Do you want me to starve?” Warner clenched his fists and took a step towards her. It thundered in the little kitchen and it took all of Bethany’s willpower not to run. “You didn’t think about that did you? I have a job and a life but you don’t care. Have you ever thought that’s why Mother left you with the babies?”

Bethany flinched. Of course he’d call her a baby, that’s what villains do. Who do villains antagonize? Heroes, like her, like the United States. She could hit back, hard, blame him for the toast. If she were working, not Warner, she could make twice as much money as him, she’d love work if only she were allowed to leave the house and the babies behind.

“Warner, stop!” Ernest cried, running past Kitty’s outstretched arm to Bethany. She tugged him into her arms, and buried him in her skirt. He twisted the rough white apron in his fists, hiding from his bigger, stronger brother even as he tried to protect Bethany.

That was enough for Bethany to break. Get Ernest involved, or even Kitty, and she’d fight. They’re family; Warner is a bully who wouldn’t hesitate to go after Ernest next, call him a baby and an idiot.

“Ernest, go outside,” Warner said, his voice steel wool, ready to scrape away at the little boy’s naïvety and replace it with war-lust. Everything about Warner screamed battle, from his clenched fists to his broad shoulders tensed with anger. Ernest was everything he wasn’t, a tender boy with dreams beyond war, dreams full of steam-pumping trains and striped-overall conductors.

“Leave him alone,” Bethany said, pushing Ernest behind her and taking a step towards Warner. Ernest clung tighter to her skirt, whimpering. A smile replaced the frown on Warner’s face, and he cracked his knuckles as if enjoying a show.

“You do fight. Little pacifist Bethany has a breaking point.” Warner‘s smile broadened and he jabbed a finger at her with another step forward. “Like a girl, that point is a baby.”

“Our brother. I’m protecting our brother.” Bethany shooed Ernest out the door and slammed the screen door after his fleeing behind. She whirled around and advanced on Warner, poking her own finger at him until it connected with his chest. “Such a shame I have to protect him from his own brother.”

He barked a laugh and stepped back, dodging her finger. “I wouldn’t hurt him, you know that. This wouldn’t even be an issue if you hadn’t thrown away the toast.” With another laugh, he grabbed his hat off the table and headed for the door.

“Why don’t you just eat some Corn Flakes? Ever heard of them?” Bethany turned off the faucet, satisfied with the scoured pan. She started wiping the dishes and laying them on the counter, hoping she had gotten the last word.

Warner didn’t go down so easy.

He came clomping back into the kitchen, boots half-laced and swinging with each step like whips. It’s alright, Bethany told herself, he’s a bully, not a brother evil enough to hurt his sister. It’s alright, she told herself as he came close enough to strangle her.

“Why don’t you just accept that cowards stay behind while the brave go out to provide? I do my duty, do yours,” Warner said with his smirk.

Bethany’s mouth dropped open and she smacked him across his cheek. Warner’s head snapped to the side. “I’m many things, but I’m not a coward.”

He rubbed his cheek and raised a hand. Bethany held her breath, bravado gone.

With a breath, he put his hand down. “Real men don’t hit babies.” He took a step back, then turned and left Bethany standing in the kitchen, staring after him.