Suburban Stew: A Blood Soaked Satire

By Irving Schwartz

A gripping novel dripping with wit, mockery, and well-manicured lawns, Suburban Stew: A Blood Soaked Satire tells the story of an out of control family whose secrets and killing sprees are only the beginnings of their troubles.

Throughout an idealistic white-picket-fence landscape, the Kramer family finds inventive and shad

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stella Press
• Release date: Sep 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9780692606995

Book preview

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Sam Kramer stepped into his perfectly done kitchen, in his perfectly decorated house, situated on the third lot of a perfect tree-lined block in the best section of the little New Jersey town he lived in for the last decade and a half. Still wearing his dress shirt and the pants from his brown suit, the summer knit Diane insisted he get when they went to the mall on Route 17 for their date-day two years ago, Sam stood for a moment observing the table, a satisfied smile on his face.

Diane and Chelsea were already seated, Diane in the process of dishing out today’s culinary expression of her vibrant imagination, and Chelsea sweetly waiting for her chance to contribute to the family’s daily abundance of happiness.

Heck, Sam thought cheerfully, this is what it’s all about. He slipped into his chair and admired his attractive wife.

Diane’s light brown hair was pulled back in her usual ponytail. She’d washed her makeup off already – it was six-thirty after all – but her green eyes sparkled in the fluorescent glow. Sam noticed that Diane was wearing the blue tracksuit he and Chelsea had bought her for her birthday.

Sam helpfully lifted his plate, already laden with a thick slab of roast beef, so Diane could plop a mound of mashed potatoes onto it.

Old school tonight, he kidded.

"I was watching I Love Lucy on Nick this afternoon," Diane said.

I love who? Chelsea asked.

Nothing, sweetie, Diane answered. Just a joke.

Diane twisted a spoonful of potatoes expectantly at her daughter.

Carbs? Chelsea said in disbelief. No thank you, mommy. Chelsea was a sweet, if not youngish-looking, fifteen-year-old and anytime she opened her mouth, filled with teeth laden with new clear braces, both her parents were reminded of her age.

Cindy Carpowski says carbs are bad and she’s on a no-carb diet and I want to stay trim.

Chelsea, Diane said. You’re too young to be on a diet.

Cindy says carbs go right to the thighs, Chelsea answered. And I’m almost sixteen.

Cindy knows a lot, does she? Sam said, suppressing a smirk.

She’s very mature, Sam. His daughter held her chin up with confidence.

Don’t call your father Sam, Diane said.

Cindy calls her father by his first name, Chelsea said.

But she’s more mature than you, honey.

Chelsea broke into her trademark, loving smile. She stood and came around behind her father. Draping her arms around his neck, she leaned down and kissed him on the cheek.

"I’m sorry, daddy, she planted another kiss on his cheek before straightening up. Mommy, Chelsea continued. I’m really not hungry now and besides, I’m going to Donna’s for a study group later and her mom always orders pizza."

Carbs? Sam said.

I’ll just pick the cheese off and throw the dough away, Chelsea answered.

"Is Cindy and that crowd going to be there?"

God no, Chelsea answered. Could you imagine them studying… so late? I mean most of them have boyfriends and all… They’re all posting that they’re meeting up someplace to – she grimaced. Make out.

Chelsea shuddered then headed up the stairs. Sam watched her go then turned to his wife.

Considering what craziness other parents -- Cindy’s parents -- are dealing with, he said. We really have it made.

Amen to that, Sweetie, Diane said. She took a beat before adding. I really have it made the most, though. I have you.

They leaned across the table and kissed. When they broke the kiss, they both leaned back and started cutting their meat.

You know, Diane said after swallowing a bite. I think this would go well with a dash of horseradish.

If you say so, Sam said. You’re the gourmand.

She flashed him an appreciative smile, stood and crossed the short space to the refrigerator. God, Sam thought, does she look good.

At thirty-seven, Diane still had the same excellent body and young looks as when she was twenty-seven, or for that matter, seventeen. Sam hadn’t known her during her teens. They’d met at Rutgers University at the end of her sophomore year, just before Sam graduated. He’d stuck around Piscataway, pretending to enjoy living in the college atmosphere while commuting into Manhattan for his first post-collegiate job, as she continued with school. When they unexpectedly got pregnant with Chelsea, Diane dropped out and they quickly got married. The time since had been spent building a life together. A project that they both agreed had gone exceedingly well.

Try some of this, Diane said as she dropped a dollop of the spicy white stuff onto his roast beef. She sat back down and put a spoonful on her own plate.

Sam tasted the horseradish. It was too spicy. But Diane was a true culinary genius and if she said the combination worked then who was he do doubt her. He cut a large piece of meat, spread some horseradish on it, popped it into his mouth and began chewing. After a moment, he swallowed hard. The stuff was awful but his wife was looking at him expectantly. He took a long sip of water and started talking as a way to cover the pain of the burn.

Corporate’s really happy with my new system at the Royale, Sam said through chews.

I knew they’d be, Diane said. You, my wonderful husband, are going to revolutionize hotel management in America.

I’d be satisfied just putting in those new hotel accounting systems, Sam said.

Just then Chelsea, with her book-bag slung over her shoulder, jumped down the stairs into the kitchen.

Can I stay till nine-thirty? Chelsea asked.

Of course, honey, Sam answered.

Seeya then, Chelsea said. She blew them a kiss and headed out the side door. Sam turned to Diane.

Did she actually ask to stay out till nine-thirty?

Diane shrugged. What do you think of the roast? she asked.

It’s delicious, he answered. Then he became wary. Of course it is… he continued. Why do you ask?

I sold a few of them to that deli on Third but now I’m thinking of making a couple for the Mission, Diane answered.

Roast beef for the Mission? Sam said. That’s going to cost a fortune!

He tried to run the equation in his head but he had no idea what the cost of high-quality meat was. But if the Mission was still feeding as many greedy mouths as usual, then whatever the price, it’s going to be absurd, he thought.

Your catering profits aren’t enough to cover all this charity, honey. Especially since you bought all that new kitchen equipment…

But they’re destitute, Diane whined. And we have a home and --

Her puppy dog eyes and earnest need to help the less fortunate sliced through Sam. He lay his hand on hers.

You do what you need to do, honey, he said. I support you.

I know you do, Sam. I know. I just feel a little guilty sometimes.

Don’t, he said. You do great work and it’s your good deeds that are going to get us into Heaven.

You don’t mind? Your office…

Don’t sweat it, baby, Sam said. You’re going to get rich with the catering, anyway. So I won’t need to work, which means I won’t need an office. He leaned over and they kissed. He broke the kiss and leaned back. I’m going to the garage, er, to my home office, to get some things done for work tomorrow.

I’ll leave you some jam for dessert.

The strawberry jam?

Yes, that or the cherry, Diane said. Whichever one you prefer.

They’re both excellent, honey. I mean, really very excellent. You’ve gotten so good at making it.

Hey, preserves are my life. She flashed him a smile and waved her hand. I also whipped up a batch of cookies to spread it on, she added in a soft voice.

Jesus, I’ve got it made, Sam said. He got up from the table, gave his wife a high-five and left the kitchen through the back door.

******

The fireflies were hovering above the grass this warm early-September evening. Sam walked across the graveled driveway behind his brick-and-yellow-painted wood French Colonial house to the freestanding garage. Diane’s late-model silver-blue Honda was parked next to the garage. The Honda was covered in droppings from the overhanging old-growth trees that formed a natural barrier between their house and the Wilkinsons’ next door. Sam shook his head, wondering if the sap would come out with a simple five-dollar drive-through car wash or if an expensive detailing was going to be necessary. What’s the point of keeping a space in the garage open for her if she never uses it, he wondered?

Sam entered 1234 on the keypad and the garage door noisily ratcheted up, exposing his ancient white Volvo. He slipped by the side of the car and headed to the back of the garage where a rickety wooden staircase was illuminated by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling on a wire. He headed up the stairs leaving the garage door open.

The office above the garage wasn’t even close to being finished. The walls were 2x4 studs, some with exposed wiring, against the plank and plaster interior of the outer walls. Raw plywood flooring was in desperate need of carpeting and the four light bulbs, hanging from their wires, needed to be secured somewhere in the A-frame ceiling. Sam hadn’t gotten to the ceiling yet.

A couple of large pieces of uncut sheet-rock were propped against a stud wall. Sam was completing one part of the office at a time, buying the materials for the next phase when some more money was saved. He’d get to the first wall soon, he thought. Every time they had a little extra cash, which wasn’t often, he’d go down to The Home Depot on the highway and buy materials for the next stage of construction. Then he’d spend weeks on a learning curve as he slowly built out the room. He’d been at it for more than two years now.

Sam strode over to his desk in front of the makeshift bookcase, which was crammed with accounting manuals. He skirted the piece of plywood on the floor that covered the two-foot wide hole in the ceiling below and sat down hard in his chair. He’d been meaning to shore up the plywood with something stronger as it was a danger the way it was. But since he and Diane were the only ones who ever came up here, and both were well aware of the hole, that project was on the back burner. There’s only so much I can handle at one time, he reasoned.

Firing up his computer, Sam bent over a screen glistening with spreadsheets. If he focused and stayed put without distraction, he figured he could get through the income statements for the Park Hotel before bed tonight. If he stayed focused. But first he had to attend to a very pressing matter.

Sam flicked over to the Regal Hotel Group’s new Starfire salary control program and began scrolling down a long list of names. The names were divided into different departments and the dollar amount of each person’s weekly salary was in a column next to their name. The program was simple and it made life very easy.

Sam had been the one to commission the Starfire

program and he’d been the one overseeing its installation. Bert Fields, his boss in charge of accounting, had told him that even John Baxter, the LA-via-London based trendsetting owner of the group, was aware of him now. Bert had even hinted that John Baxter wanted to put Sam in charge of converting the accounting programs of the Feng Shui Asian Bistro chain he also owned. That would buck Sam up from the hotel group to corporate and open the door for him to advance past anything he’d thought possible just a few years ago. A Vice Presidency could be looming in his future. Sam fantasized about the many 12-year single-malt Scotches he and John Baxter would sip while spending quality buddy-time together on the British tycoon’s yacht. This was very heady stuff and thinking of it made Sam very excited. He knew what he had to do. It was time to pay Carlos.

Sam scrolled down the names of the employees at the Royale, the chain’s flagship hotel. He stopped when he got to a blank spot in the C’s. When Sam hit a series of memorized keys, the name Carlos Candida popped up in what had been the blank space.

Carlos, according to this you haven’t been paid in two weeks? Sam muttered. That’s not right. You have needs. Needs that must be met. You are a man after all.

Sam typed in $400.00 next to Carlos’ name. Then he logged out of Starfire and onto the hotel group’s P&L reports. He had to finish up the accounting for the bedsheets order and the replacement mattress purchases by start of work tomorrow. Two hours later, he was done and powered down the computer.

I’ll see you people tomorrow, he declared to the rapidly blackening screen.

******

Summer mornings always seemed to last a long time. Sam and Diane sat sipping coffee in the kitchen, waiting for their respective days to begin. Diane had already been asleep when Sam came into their room last night. Even though he’d been very much in the mood, he hadn’t woken her. This morning she’d been showered and downstairs by the time he opened his eyes. The rhythms of marriage, he thought. Sometimes they work out, usually they don’t.

So, you should have woken me, Diane said in a low voice, her eyes on the stairs.

You seemed dead, he answered.

"Never that dead, Sweetie."

The screen door opened and in walked Charley with his big belly crammed into his cheap suit.

Morning folks, Charley said. He headed directly to the cabinet and pulled a coffee mug from the shelf. Then he poured himself a cup and turned to the room, planting his butt against the counter.

Hi, Charley, Diane said. She winked at her husband and whispered, Tonight, if you’re lucky.

Sam grinned at her but addressed Charley. Hey, he said.

What a gorgeous day, Charley proclaimed. He took a sip of coffee.

You got that right, Sam said. There were booming sounds from the staircase and Chelsea appeared, her book-bag over her shoulder. Sam noticed she was wearing jeans and a pink t-shirt with a few sparkly things on it. The sparkly things matched the ones on her sneakers. With her hair in double pigtails, Sam thought she looked exactly the same as when she was ten. Although now she had a woman’s body, he realized with a shudder of fatherly protection.

Hi, Mister Matthews, Chelsea said to Charley.

Morning, Chelsea, Charley answered. Chelsea headed over to the table.

Mom, Chelsea said. Donna’s doing another study group. I was going to go straight from school but that means I won’t be home till nine-thirty again tonight. I’ll miss dinner. Is that okay?

Will you eat at Donna’s? Diane asked.

Carbs? Sam interjected.

We’re going to make tuna-melts, Chelsea said to them. Without the bread, of course.

Of course, Sam nodded.

Have fun, Diane said.

Of course I’ll have fun, Chelsea said. It’s a study group.

She blew them both kisses and raced out the screen door. Charley shook his head.

Jesus, Charley said. In this day and age to raise a daughter like that? I mean, you should get a load of my girls. You’d think they were aspiring hookers or biker-chicks.

We try, Diane said.

You succeed, Charley said. And what’s with the cooking every night, Diane? If Carol makes us dinner once a month we think she’s a saint. I’m telling you, this place is a 1950s sitcom.

Speaking of Carol, Diane said. I made her a jar of strawberry preserves last night. She motioned to the counter behind him where a large jar sat. Charley shook his head in disbelief.

God, he said, eyes raised to the ceiling. He took another sip of coffee then looked at Sam. You ready? We can beat the rush if we head in now.

Let’s do it, Sam answered. He leaned over the table and kissed Diane. See you tonight, Harriet.

You got that right, Ozzie, she said.

******

The AC in Charley’s ten-year old Focus was even crappier than the system in Sam’s Volvo, but it was Charley’s day to drive. Sam sat shotgun and watched the highway creep by. They’d not said much for the first fifteen minutes, which was usual, but now Charley began to stir.

How you doing today, buddy? he asked.

Same, Sam answered.

Too bad. You’ve been beating yourself up a lot lately.

I know, Sam said. He wasn’t really in the mood to discuss his state of mind, even with his good friend. There was silence from Charley and Sam realized the man was waiting for more. He took the plunge.

It’s just that Chelsea and Diane… Sam began before pausing. I want to provide them a great life. I just want them to have more. That’s all.

What’re you kidding me? Jesus, Sam, your family’s got the best life around!

Ah, Sam waved him off.

I mean it, man! Okay, so you’re not rich. But you are a loving, diligent husband and father and you’ve provided them with everything they actually need.

Still, Sam said. I can’t help feeling like I should be, like I could be, doing more for them?

Ha! Charley yelped. "All I think about is how much more my lazy-assed wife should be doing for me. And to hell with the kids. Let ‘em fend for themselves at this point. I only got so much blood to give and all. He broke into a quick burst of laughter. Then his mood changed to serious. Ah, who am I kidding trying to talk sense into Super-dad, uber-husband man, anyway?"

I have my faults, Sam answered. He meant it, too.

******

It was a sad and grey office, in a grey building, in a grey part of town. Of course The Regal Hotel Group also had fancy, glamorous offices. They took up the first three floors of the Royale on Forty-Fourth Street. But the back offices, which included accounting, were located in the far West Thirties. Sam had heard that this entire block was scheduled to be torn down in order to make way for some high-priced condos that would abut the ever-so-soon-to-be-built mini-city at the Hudson Yards. Regal would then move the entire back office to New Jersey. That’s the way it would work if Sam got lucky. They might also choose to move it to Long Island if his luck ran out. Whichever happens in the future, this is one depressing and grey office right now, he thought.

From his cubicle, Sam could see Charley’s desk just a few yards away. Charley was leaning back in his chair. iPod headphones in his ear, Charley was tapping his feet to a beat and not working very hard. Sam disapproved of that – the not working hard part – as he, Sam, was working very hard today. But Sam had something to prove to the upstairs guys. Sam was heading out of here and Charley was staying put. So, with that in mind, Sam put his nose to the grindstone and continued to scan the long list of employees and their paychecks.

Deborah Kleinman, a young woman of girth, appeared next to Sam. He looked up and saw she was carrying an armload of envelopes — the next batch of checks.

Just leave them there, Deborah, he said, nodding to where a small area of desktop was just becoming clear as he finished the previous batch. Deborah plopped the checks down. Then she silently waddled off to whatever part of the department she called home.

Sam drew the tower of checks closer. He looked around the room to make sure everyone’s attention was on their workstations. Everyone was working except Charley, of course. But Charley still had his eyes closed and now he was playing air-guitar. Charley wouldn’t be a problem.

Sam quickly fingered through the envelopes, slowing down when he got to the C’s. Glancing over his shoulder first, Sam pulled the envelope from the tower. The envelopes were unsealed at this point in their issuance and he quickly opened the one he’d taken and scanned the check inside. It was made out to Carlos Candida, the amount was for $400 and it was dated for tomorrow. Sam flicked the envelope closed, folded it in half and stuck it in the breast pocket of his jacket hanging from the back of his chair, making sure no part of the envelope was visible above the upper edge of the pocket. Then he got back to work.

There were a lot of checks to be reconciled and even though the Starfire system could do it in a second, Bert Fields wanted it all checked manually as well.

Until the system proves itself for a few months, at least, Bert had said. Bert was a dick but he was the department head and, for now, Sam worked for him. So for now, at least, there was a day’s work worth of checks for Sam to reconcile.

Ten minutes of drudgery later, Sam’s intercom buzzed.

Sam, Bert said. Come in here for a sec.

Sam stood and walked over to the only glass enclosed office on the floor. Bert Fields sat at his desk, his jacket hanging on the back of his chair, his shirtsleeves rolled up. Sam could see sweat stains around the large man’s underarms from outside the office. Bert waved him in and Sam entered the small room.

What’s up? Sam asked.

Do me a favor, please, Bert started. Sam’s sphincter clenched. Whenever Bert spoke politely to one of his minions it meant that minion was about to get a shitload of extra work dumped on him. That or he’d have to run an unpleasant errand for the man.

Take a look at this. Bert pushed over a ledger and Sam picked it up. He quickly scanned the book. It was a report from the kitchen at the Lincoln Center Hotel on Sixty Second Street. Almost immediately, Sam saw discrepancies between produce delivered and produce used. He looked up at Bert.

"The cooks are probably