Short People by Joshua Furst Page A

what he’s saying—it sounds like a twelve-step program to us—but it doesn’t matter. We sense how important this stuff is to him and his words are like silk; we tangle ourselves up in them, writhing ecstatically. He finally says something we all understand: he says if he could make all his mistakes over again, he would. We know he means us. He means that he loves us. We can’t remember him ever trying to say it out loud before. He says he’s going to try to make sure he sees us more often from now on.
    Timmy, I’m going to punch you if you don’t watch out.
    We’re all wistful now. Tammy is pale; her body sways like she’s about to pass out or run and hide, something she does often when she’s very happy or very hungry. Stevie smiles smugly, convinced that our father was looking at him alone. Lisa rubs her welt and giggles with every wince; she’s already fond of the memory. Little Petey jumps into our father’s arms, where he’s bounced benevolently on the same hip we each felt safe against when we were younger.
    Before we can sink into deeper realizations about how soon he’ll be gone again, our father raises his fist in the air and yells “Charge!” sending us off like a handful of marbles to ricochet through the restaurant doors.
    It takes the staff a good fifteen minutes too long to pull enough tables together for us to be seated. We’re impatient. Our fun’s too important to be slowed down like this. Stevie, unable to get a freebie, rattles and almost breaks the gumball machine between the outside doors and the inside doors as the rest of us squirm, some on the floor and some on the bench by the hostess stand. It’s a good thing that our father is already lecturing the manager—calmly but sternly—about how to run his restaurant, because we could easily cause a real scene.
    Despite the manager’s many yes-sir-right-away-sirs, by the time we’re all seated and bibbed our father’s face is flushed with anger. He has a right to be upset; he made reservations and they should’ve been expecting us. Even though most of us will be ordering off the kiddie menu, the bill for this meal is going to be huge. They better go out of their way for us from here on out if they expect to get a tip.
    Our father silently mulls over the menu. We can’t tell if he’s really reading it. Afraid he is sinking, we no longer squirm. We sit up straight, flush against our hard-backed chairs. The worst thing that could happen would be for our father to begin to suspect that we’re disappointed. We know how much time he’s spent thinking about all the fun we’ll have tonight. He’s imagined every second and if anything goes wrong we’re sure he’ll dwell on it until he’s convinced the night’s a fiasco. Instead of trying to make us laugh, he’ll snap at us and at everyone else. We’ll all feel responsible. It’s already started to happen.
    We wish we could think of a joke that would bring him back, but we know that we can’t. If any of us tries to talk him out of holding a grudge, he’ll only clutch it tighter. There is nothing we can do for him. We are his tiny yes-men and we can’t disagree with his moods; they’re too delicate for us to carry anywhere he hasn’t already carefully placed them. The youngest among us instinctually knows that all we can do is sit up straight, avert our eyes and wait for him to pull himself out of it.
    “Okay, gang,” he says with a forced, fun-loving tone that strains to keep up with his words. “You can order anything you want, but you have to clean your plates. If you don’t, you’re gonna have to pay for your meal yourself. I don’t make enough money for us to be wasting it . . . I’d give you everything I have in the world but if you throw it away, it won’t come back. I’m not a money tree. I don’t want you to feel like there’s anything off-limits, though. I love you guys—and girls . . . so order anything you want.” He smiles wanly.
    We breathe a