Dinner means waiting for Dad.
It means setting the table with placemats and napkins, and neatly set silver, pitchers of water and plates for your salad; and waiting and waiting, as smells from the kitchen, from sizzling pans and simmering pots, waft through the house like an intoxicating fog.
Making it hard to concentrate on anything other than the clock, and the driveway, where we turn our attentions every few minutes, hoping to see our tormentor’s headlights.
Dad finally showing and ever so slowly, shedding his suit. Un-harried. Unhurried to get the meal going. Even though his children are moaning. Haven’t eaten in minutes. But dinner begins when Dad’s ready to sit.
And no sooner.
With full plates and mouths full, we vie for a spot, for a moment of Dad’s attention. Except for Mark, the youngest, who remains wordless, playing with his food. Making subtle, reactive faces to the different conversations.
Having barely touched his plate, Mark asks to be excused. It’s a radical move.
So was Dad saying yes.
Staring at the untouched stuffed, green pepper on my plate, I curse myself, wishing I’d thought of it first.
An unusual amount of commotion can soon be heard coming from the boys’ room directly above us. Strange, everyone agrees, Mark usually goes straight from table to T.V.
Then all eyes are drawn through the dining room window, overlooking the lawn, the bluff and the lake. To the darkening sky, where an airplane is crossing. Which wouldn’t be much, if the thing wasn’t smoldering.
Hearts jump. Mom lets out a shriek.
Until the tiny model plane on fire, stops in mid-air. Hung up on the wire Mark strung from his window to a large, old oak on the lawn.
In a tiny flash, the tiny, fighter jet (stuffed with pop-its and tissue paper) becomes a well-timed, wee inferno, and all those hours he spent building it, admiring it and high-wiring it, goes up in flames.
By the time my startled attention is back at the table, Mark has quietly returned to his seat and all eyes have turned to Dad, who seems, at first, not to know how to react.
But then we see it.
An almost imperceptible grin.
Mark’s scrunched shoulders soften.
“Nice job,” laughs Jim, as we file outside to examine the smoldering wreckage. “Twisted, but effective.”
I can see Mark is pleased. He’s impressed a tough crowd. Dare I say it? Made us proud.
Except for Mom, who’s still holding her heart.