They will be coming, today, in droves. They will be men, women, children; grandfathers, grandmothers, aunts, uncles, mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, nieces, nephews, cousins, brothers, sisters. They will be loud and obnoxious, tramping around outside in the yard, and then tracking the dirt inside, to sully my freshly cleaned floors.
They will be coming at noon, and it is already quarter past eleven. My husband walked into the kitchen, and looked at me:
"Nat, you're not dressed."
I looked down at my body; Cody was right- I hadn't dressed. I was still wearing a pair of old grey sweatpants that were originally light blue and a ratty t-shirt from the high school. I had been so absorbed with cooking I had forgotten to change into clothing.
Setting down the frosting knife I was using to ice my famous peanut butter-chocolate cake, I turned left into the hall, then right, and right again into my bedroom. It was immaculately clean; I made sure of it. If there was anything I really despised, it was a mess. I had made sure the room was vacuumed, the toiletries on the dresser were tidy, and the bed was made. And I must've remembered I needed to dress when I had woken at six because I had laid an outfit out for myself on the smooth peach comforter.

It was a simple outfit, just a pair of jean shorts and a t-shirt proclaiming the words "Timothy Lake" on it. I dressed quickly, efficiently, neatly folding my pajamas and placing them on my pillow. The last thing I did was add a pair of white ankle socks and khaki sandals.
The doorbell rang.
I stood frozen in place, motionless, hoping Cody would open the door. But then I realized he was probably out back, with Jay and Rodney, readying to cook. Cody would be hovering over the grill, coaxing the coals to glowing life. Jay would be preparing the meat: barbecue sauce on the chicken, cheese on the burgers, and Cody's special seasoning on the ribs. Rodney, who hated the textures of uncooked meat, would be dealing with the vegetables. He would be stripping the corn, so only its yellow naked flesh was seared; chopping squash into more manageable pieces; skewing potatoes and zucchini with mini wooden spears.
My voice let out a tiny moan that was half distress, half resignation. I found myself walking down the hall, through the dining room, the living room, and standing before the front door. My hand reached for the knob and twisted. The door flew open. Mutineers, I thought to my limbs, as I felt a smile bend my lips upward.
"Natalie!" the first intruder was Chrissy, my sister-in-law. She was a small woman, elfin, and to make up for it she was constantly shouting. And interfering.
She grasped my hand in hers and shook it, hard. Then she turned to her children: Sati and Miwa, who she had adopted from India and Japan, respectively. Chrissy was infertile, or, more likely, her skulking husband Dan was. They had to adopt.
Chrissy hustled Sati and Miwa inside, and directed them out the backdoor. I heard her in the kitchen, fussing over things.
Looking out the screen door I saw Dan walking up the driveway. He knew the drill: leave the inside work to the women.
I unconsciously took myself to the computer desk, and removed a piece of paper from the printer tray. My right hand took a marker and wrote in large impersonal letters "GO AROUND BACK." Then I taped it to the front door. I slammed it with a resounding and very satisfying thump.
"Are you alright, Nat?" came from the kitchen.
I didn't answer directly, but I walked sedately into the kitchen. Chrissy had decided it was her divine duty to finish my cake.
"It was just sitting there, all unfinished, so I just had to," she explained as she slapped at my cake. "Ah, there, done."
"No," I said a little bit too quickly. Chrissy looked at my sharply, suspiciously. "I made a special topping."
It was true; I had made a special topping for the cake everyone loved so much. In fact, I had added something special to all my desserts.
I went into my fridge, and from the way back of the bottom shelf withdrew a small foil covered bowl. I uncovered it, and Chrissy stuck her face into it.
"Ooooh, what are they?" she reached to grab one, but I slapped her hand away. She snatched it back, insulted.
"They're peanut butter balls. No snacking."
Chrissy laughed. "Alright, I know how you like to 'unveil' your little baking creations."
I almost slapped her, but caught myself just in time, "Yeah, you've got my number." I joined in her laughter, but the real humor was inside me, as I thought just how easy it was to manipulate.
I went back to the fridge, and removed a large bowl of potato salad. "Why don't you take this outside? And then send some of the kids inside for the rest."
Chrissy took the bowl, "Sure." She went out the backdoor. I drew in a deep breath of relief.
Some of the children came in, but I ignored them. All they wanted was the food. I concentrated on the cake, sprinkling it with the tiny hardened balls of peanut butter and cyanide.

*

The main course went off perfectly. Cody was a real expert with the grill, cooking everything to perfection. The meats were savory and juicy, the vegetables crisp and seared to perfection. My salads and side dishes were praised in the best possible way: they were gobbled down until they were only smears of mayonnaise on large plastic bowls, warm-smelling brown sauces in pots, and sticky smudges of oil on all the picnic tables.
I cleaned the dishes, with the help of Chrissy, and Cody's brother's wife, Tira. Chrissy and Tira chattered while they worked, sounding like bright, stupid squirrels. I didn't join in.
And then it was time for dessert. I had hidden them on the porch underneath a sheet. I sent Chrissy and Tira outside with beer for the men, and then set about the task of retrieving the desserts.
I arranged them neatly on the kitchen table, as artistically as I could. There were four Jell-O molds, cherry, lemon-lime, strawberry, and berry blue, all laced with cyanide, and they sat in each corner. Between them were six pies, two apple, two cherry, one blueberry, and one peach. I had mixed the poison in with the fruit insides. In the middle of the table were assorted cakes and cupcakes, their toppings and frostings chockfull of the cyanide.
In the middle of the table was my peanut butter-chocolate cake. It was the pinnacle of my achievements. It was the favorite of everyone.
I opened the backdoor, and yelled, as loud as I could, "Time for dessert!"

I backed up against the cabinet, and waited. All the children came first: Sati, Miwa, Rory, and Roe, and they were served by their parents and older siblings. The older teenagers came strolling in last, but they only hid their eagerness under a veil of haughty aloofness.
Soon, everyone was eating; everyone was praising my baking, especially my peanut butter-chocolate cake. I answered with polite thank yous, and then excused myself.
I slipped into the back hall and opened the attic door. I started up the stairs, stopping five stairs up. I turned around and reached for the top of the molding over the door. There, on the dusty little ledge, was a thick iron skeleton key. I went back down a couple stairs, and then, leaning over, locked the door behind me.
The attic had been renovated years ago into one large room, which my daughter used when she was home. I rounded the wardrobe and the tall dresser, and stood in the light infused stillness.
Clare was one of those people whose surroundings didn't much affect their world, and her room showed it. It was the epitome of the word mess, clothes and personal items scattered around the floor and dresser tops, books and papers in clumpy piles in the corners and underneath the television.
Someone screamed downstairs. I climbed on top of Clare's bed and stood there, staring out her window. If I regretted anything, it was that she couldn't be here. There was another scream, and a frantic banging on the attic door.
I knew they would try to call someone, so earlier I had cut the phone lines, and cell phones were useless in our country; there were no towers.
Outside it was green, and pink, and white. The little dirt road that led to the driveway sent up small drifts of heat and dust. There was more screaming, and crying now.
I turned on the radio.
I turned on a CD.
Muse.

"It's bugging me,
Grating me
And twisting me around
Yeah I'm endlessly caving
IN
And turning inside out."

More banging.

"'Cause I want it
NOW
I want it now
Give me your heart
And
Your
Soul And I'm breaking
OUT
I'm breaking out
Last chance to lose control"

Quieting down.

"It's holding me,
Morphing me
And forcing me to strive
To be endlessly cold with
IN
And dreaming I'm alive."

I heard voices, and I didn't want them. I planted my hands over my ears and screamed, as loud as I can. The sound that reverberated through my flesh was a distorted inhuman screech. It was a wail of banshee proportion.

"I'll feel my heart implode
And
I'm
Breaking
OUT
Escaping
NOW
Feeling my faith erode."

All quiet downstairs. I stood at the top of the stairs and closed my eyes. I went down them like that, blind and deaf, mute and senseless.
The bodies were everywhere.
Small bodies, large bodies, they covered the floor like a carpet. I stepped over them, and looked at them. Their faces were distorted, a bent contortion of life; in death, a masque of terror.
I smiled.