Ham and Cheese

It was going to be ham and cheese. In 10 years, it hadn't been anything else. He could picture it in his mind's eye--the Day-Glo orange Kraft single, the thoroughly processed slices of ham, and the disgustingly bland Holsum white bread. Then there would be the mayonnaise. That damned mayonnaise. Lurking under the surface of the bread like some sort of creamy, partially hydrogenated U-boat.
She must have known he hated the sandwiches. He never mentioned their flavor, never thanked her for the time she spent preparing them. He suspected she knew he threw them away, but for 10 years, she'd kept making them. He had no clue where she'd gotten the notion he liked them. To the best of his recollection, he'd never expressed any fondness for the things. But she kept making them just the same. Every morning he'd wake up to find her already in the kitchen, peeling the cellophane off the foul cheese and slathering the mayonnaise on the anemic slices of bread.
It was her idea to come out here to the park today. He wasn't in the mood for a picnic, but she thought that Junior needed some exercise, some time outdoors. She said he'd been looking a little pallid lately. That was an understatement. For a child of 6, he bore a striking resemblance to the Pillsbury Dough-boy. He was a whiny little guy, always running to his mother whenever he got a scrape or a bruise. Maybe if she didn't coddle him so much, the kid would be in better shape.
He'd tried to talk to her about it, of course. She was cutting vegetable in the kitchen in her apron, the knife making a neat knock as it slid through the crisp cellulose down onto the cutting board. She hummed quietly to herself as she stared, with listless eyes, at her task. He had tried to talk to her, tried to talk about Junior and his inability to communicate and interact with his father. But she didn't want to hear it. She kept her eyes down while she reproached him, saying he was being "too hard on him" and "all he needs is a little time."
It was always like that. Every time he tried to talk to her, she sidestepped him. He couldn't remember the last time they'd had a real conversation. There were always the same dinnertime formalities, which inevitably began with her asking in her saccharine, condescending voice: "How was school today, dear?" This was typically met with Junior continuing to look sullenly down into his meal, but on some rare occasions, he'd let out some sort of affirmative grunt. Then she'd try to elicit further responses, using trivial leading questions. "What did you do today?" and "What did you learn in school today?" seemed to be favorites. Junior never took it upon himself to employ anything other than a monosyllabic response. She was never fazed by this, and always maintained that sweet June Cleaver facade. The 'conversation' would inevitably end with Junior mumbling something to her about being excused, and he'd shuffle off to the garbage with his half-eaten plate of dinner in tow.
The only thing that made his family life seem palatable by contrast was his job. Accounts payable had never been a big thrill ride--he hadn't expected it to be, when he majored in accounting. He'd figured it would be fairly easy, and it would provide enough money to live comfortably, and he had been correct; paying invoices to vendors was easy enough, and it paid reasonably well for the little amount of responsibility it required of him. What he hadn't counted on was the tedium. After a few years and thousands of invoice filings, he was just getting tired of it. Worse than the monotony, though, was the lack of recognition. Not once had he been up for a promotion. The head of accounting had never nominated him for employee of the month. He'd been there for seven years, and not gotten any sort of credit for it. He was a cog, another drone in the corporate hive, and he knew it.
But maybe she was right. Maybe a day like this was exactly what Junior needed. Hell, maybe it was exactly what he needed. It was a nice day in the park. A day to relax under an oak tree while the birds twittered and the sun shined. The grass was lush and green, and the crisp scent of its freshly trimmed ends filled the summer air. It was a day so nice, he was almost expecting cute little woodland creatures to leap out of hiding to hold an extemporaneous musical jamboree, complete with dancing flowers.
But then, none of that mattered. He knew, when he opened up that brown paper lunch sack, that it was going to be ham and cheese.