Dinnertime
“Pass the peas, please,” he said.
The girl picked up the brimming bowl of peas and held it out to him. Her hand was trembling, and the silver serving spoon chattered softly against the ceramic.
“Try saying that five times fast. ‘Pass the peas, please.’”
She didn’t respond. He snatched the bowl from her hand. Brown juice pattered onto the tablecloth.
“See there,” he said. “See what you made me do.”
He spooned peas onto his plate, and set the bowl in front of him.
“Look,” he said. “I’m sorry about earlier. My outburst. Let’s not let it ruin our dinner.”
No one said anything.
“Fine,” he said. He picked up his fork and took a bite of peas. Looked around the table.
“Anyone do anything interesting today?” he asked.
No one said a word.
He chewed slowly, thoughtfully, looking at each of them as he did so. The boy and girl looked down at the table when his gaze fell on them.
He swallowed, and said, “When I ask questions, I expect responses. I have apologized for my earlier behavior. I would like to have a pleasant meal with my family.”
“We’re not your family,” the boy said. The girl looked at him with wide, fearful eyes.
He smiled, and took a bite of mashed potatoes. “We’ve been through this before,” he said. “Like it or not, we are family now. And we are going to start acting like it. Isn’t that right, dear?”
He looked at their mother. She wasn’t speaking to him, either.
“Why can’t you back me up?” he said. “Are you trying to upset me again?”
She said nothing.
“See, that’s what I’ve come to expect from you,” he said. He slammed his fist down on the table. Utensils jittered. Ice clinked in glasses, and drinks sloshed over the rims. Stains bloomed on the tablecloth.
The girl gasped, and put her hand over her mouth.
“There,” he said. “A response. Were you about to say something?”
She shook her head.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Consider this a safe place. Please, speak your mind. I insist.”
Again, she shook her head.
“I insist,” he said.
“Why don’t you leave her alone?” her brother shouted.
He fixed the boy with a stare that was all ice and daggers. The boy held his gaze for a few second before staring down at his plate once again.
“Pass the gravy,” he said.
The girl handed him the gravy boat. He spooned some onto his mashed potatoes. Then he turned, suddenly, savagely, and slammed the heavy silver dish into the boy’s face.
The boy’s chair tipped backwards. His feet rose as his body descended, crashing violently into the underside of the table. There was a brief symphony of rattling dishes and silverware. Then the boy hit the floor, and the man fell upon him. He brought the elegant, scrolled spout of the gravy boat down, again and again and again, until the only sound was his ragged breathing punctuated by wet thud after wet thud.
The girl sobbed quietly into her hands.
When he was done he rose to his feet. His shirt, a crisp, white button-down, had become a painter’s smock, streaked with glistening stripes of red and brown. He looked at the girl crying at the end of the table. He looked at her mother, sitting with her head bowed, as she had the entire meal.
This was all her fault. She’d not greeted him warmly when he came through the door. She’d not had one single kind word for him. She hadn’t even been able to muster a smile.
So he’d carved one for her, right below her chin.
He looked at the girl. She’d at least tried to be nice. Had tried to get her brother to stop talking back to him.
He wondered if she’d be nice now.
She looked like she could be very nice, indeed.
“Dinner’s over,” he said. “Let’s get you upstairs.
“It’s time for your bath.”