collective sigh of relief. If we show him we’re happy, he might snap out of it. Our eyes scamper over the menu as we do our best to find the dishes that taste good but are also expensive. Most of us settle for compromise: the little kids give in to their honest urges for hot dogs or spaghetti; we who are older go for tuna and salmon, shrimp cocktails all around; Stevie, just over the cusp of the kiddie menu, his new adult status still struggling to control the child inside him, settles on a chicken breast sandwich with a side of potato chips and a Shirley Temple—dry. Only Timmy takes Dad’s game at face value; grinning with pride, he asks for the most expensive item on the menu—the one that goes by the pound at “market price”—a fresh lobster. He gets to choose it himself from the tank.
That’s the way to do it, Timmy. Pick the biggest one.
Our father’s eyes twinkle mischievously as, at his bidding, we catch him up on our lives. He listens with an ear to the punny opening, sometimes interrupting the first sentence of our heartfelt explanations of the confusion we feel at sixteen (or six) to twist fart jokes or pull double entendres out of the few words we’ve managed to say. Except for Timmy, who protests by pretending that his life is perfect, none of us is too disappointed by our father’s lack of interest in our, we admit, trite struggles. He picks up a lot despite himself. Last year, when Tammy admitted to sticking her finger down her throat after every box of Corn Flakes she ate, he may have had a joke for every orifice and a lot of funny anecdotes about women and weight gain, but he also, over the course of that long weekend, went out of his way to force-feed her well-balanced meals and whisper in her ear how beautiful she was, all of which helped her try to kick the habit; she’s failing, but she’s added raisins to her diet and she openly credits him for this. We like him this way; when he laughs at us, he forces us to laugh at ourselves. It doesn’t take us long to tell Dad our sagas. They are pretty uneventful; nobody’s going through any major turmoil right now. Two months ago, he would have had his hands full with Stevie’s suspension from school for the throwing stars and hit list that were found in his locker and Little Petey’s escapade through his mom’s underwear drawer, but these things have already been cleared up; spring is coming soon and, even if we did have problems, we couldn’t be happier than we are this weekend.
Our father launches into stories about his life, which is much more interesting to everyone. His job—somehow related to business or science or medicine or something; we’re not sure; each time he explains it, it seems to be different—has taken him all over East Africa. From what he tells us, the people there do very funny things. He says he once saw a car full of government bigwigs in Kenya drive a full mile in reverse before they bothered to turn around, and then they were still on the wrong side of the road! He teaches us the Swahili words for fart, asshole, whore and fuck you, which are all the Swahili words he knows, he says, but he’s going to learn more when he goes back next month.
Enraptured, we almost forget to eat. He never runs out of stories, and without the bits of reminder that periodically fall to his plate, we’d be forced to snarf down cold fish when he decided it was time to go. Our baked potatoes would be waxy with recongealed butter. Instead, we chomp along with him, and by the time he’s run out of safari tales, all our plates are empty. Lisa, who ordered spaghetti, has even licked hers clean.
Thinking our father might take us to a movie or have a surprise adventure planned for after dinner, we’re antsy to leave now. For some reason, he’s dawdling. He asks for a refill of coffee. With the tip of his knife, he absently stirs designs in the rosemary-sprinkled grease that’s left on his plate. The way he puts off asking for the
That’s the way to do it, Timmy. Pick the biggest one.
Our father’s eyes twinkle mischievously as, at his bidding, we catch him up on our lives. He listens with an ear to the punny opening, sometimes interrupting the first sentence of our heartfelt explanations of the confusion we feel at sixteen (or six) to twist fart jokes or pull double entendres out of the few words we’ve managed to say. Except for Timmy, who protests by pretending that his life is perfect, none of us is too disappointed by our father’s lack of interest in our, we admit, trite struggles. He picks up a lot despite himself. Last year, when Tammy admitted to sticking her finger down her throat after every box of Corn Flakes she ate, he may have had a joke for every orifice and a lot of funny anecdotes about women and weight gain, but he also, over the course of that long weekend, went out of his way to force-feed her well-balanced meals and whisper in her ear how beautiful she was, all of which helped her try to kick the habit; she’s failing, but she’s added raisins to her diet and she openly credits him for this. We like him this way; when he laughs at us, he forces us to laugh at ourselves. It doesn’t take us long to tell Dad our sagas. They are pretty uneventful; nobody’s going through any major turmoil right now. Two months ago, he would have had his hands full with Stevie’s suspension from school for the throwing stars and hit list that were found in his locker and Little Petey’s escapade through his mom’s underwear drawer, but these things have already been cleared up; spring is coming soon and, even if we did have problems, we couldn’t be happier than we are this weekend.
Our father launches into stories about his life, which is much more interesting to everyone. His job—somehow related to business or science or medicine or something; we’re not sure; each time he explains it, it seems to be different—has taken him all over East Africa. From what he tells us, the people there do very funny things. He says he once saw a car full of government bigwigs in Kenya drive a full mile in reverse before they bothered to turn around, and then they were still on the wrong side of the road! He teaches us the Swahili words for fart, asshole, whore and fuck you, which are all the Swahili words he knows, he says, but he’s going to learn more when he goes back next month.
Enraptured, we almost forget to eat. He never runs out of stories, and without the bits of reminder that periodically fall to his plate, we’d be forced to snarf down cold fish when he decided it was time to go. Our baked potatoes would be waxy with recongealed butter. Instead, we chomp along with him, and by the time he’s run out of safari tales, all our plates are empty. Lisa, who ordered spaghetti, has even licked hers clean.
Thinking our father might take us to a movie or have a surprise adventure planned for after dinner, we’re antsy to leave now. For some reason, he’s dawdling. He asks for a refill of coffee. With the tip of his knife, he absently stirs designs in the rosemary-sprinkled grease that’s left on his plate. The way he puts off asking for the
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