thought you spelled farm E-I-E-I-O?"
Her sons arrived home just in time. They'd met up on the bus, Zach thoroughly mud-smeared and Marcus carrying his chessboard, which folded and fastened like a briefcase. He was a perfect replica of his father, down to the frameless glasses that reflected surfaces and hid his eyes. It had apparently bothered him to sit next to Zach on the bus. They came through the back door arguing about humiliation, Zach's single line being "But I'm your
brother.
" He was ten; his feelings showed on his soft face.
Marcus said, "You didn't have to take up a whole other seat with your bag. That old man could have sat there."
"Say hi," Rachel directed.
Zach dropped everythingâsoccer ball, dirty backpack, worn textbooksâin the middle of the floor and said hello to Didi and Paddy, who introduced themselves as Mrs. and Mr. Limbach. "Why are you crying?" he asked Paddy.
"Onions," Rachel explained. "Move this stuff, and clean up. You're late. Marcus, say hello."
"Hello," Marcus said sullenly, sliding through the crowded room with his black case, heading for his bedroom. It would not occur to him to come to dinner without clean hands; he worried too much about germs. Perhaps he would be a surgeon, Rachel always thought. Or perhaps just uselessly obsessive, like most everyone else on the planet.
"That was Marcus," she told their guests.
"Mom," Zach said, reaching around her to grab a cherry tomato. "Mom, Marcus called me illiterate."
"And?"
He shrugged. "Just thought you'd like to know." He popped the tomato, spilling seeds down his chin.
"You stink, son. Go clean up."
Zach left his things where they'd fallen and thumped down the hall to his room.
Rachel decided not to apologize for her boys. Instead, she took the mushrooms and onions from her guests to drop them into their places and then declared the meal finished. She asked Didi to help her move it to the table. She directed Paddy to retrieve Ev and the little girl.
The three children sat on a long bench on one side of the table, facing Didi and Paddy. Ev and Rachel took head and foot. Bowls circulated. The Limbach child refused everything.
"Try a little," her mother wheedled.
"I don't like chicken," she complained. "I don't like these green things, either, or these toadstools."
"Mushrooms," Paddy corrected her. "Try one. Mommy cut them. And this isn't chicken, it's Cornish gamehens. From Cornland."
Rachel watched Marcus roll his eyes.
"How about some bread?" Rachel said, handing down a slice, thinking that Paddy seemed hatched from Cornland.
"It's brown bread," said Melanie. "It has raisins."
"Seeds," Marcus corrected her, leaning around his younger brother to address the girl. "Caraway seeds, not raisins. Bite oneâit tastes like licorice."
"Black licorice," Zach added.
Melanie pouted as if she would cry.
Didi said, "It's very good bread. Mrs. Cole worked hard to make it for us."
Rachel, embarrassed by this, stood, asking Melanie what she
would
like.
"Macaroni and cheese," the child said, in a tone of voice daring Rachel to satisfy her.
"Sniveling thing," Rachel muttered in the kitchen. Fortunately, she found a frozen box of macaroni and cheese in the back of the freezer, its expiration date unreadable for all the hoarfrost. While it was microwaving, she poured herself another glass of wine, happy to be alone.
When she got back to the table, Melanie stared at the bowl. "It's the wrong kind," she whispered to her mother.
"Try it," Paddy repeated. Maybe this was his parenting technique, to be always the chorus.
Rachel's boys were eating in their usual way, Zach with a full plate he would slowly proceed through, Marcus with tiny servings he would rush to finish, his arms near the plate as if fending off someone else's fork. Zach frequently stayed at the table eating from the serving bowls, grazing, after everyone else had moved on.
Paddy and Didi seemed as confused by the little hens and mushrooms and piñons as
Her sons arrived home just in time. They'd met up on the bus, Zach thoroughly mud-smeared and Marcus carrying his chessboard, which folded and fastened like a briefcase. He was a perfect replica of his father, down to the frameless glasses that reflected surfaces and hid his eyes. It had apparently bothered him to sit next to Zach on the bus. They came through the back door arguing about humiliation, Zach's single line being "But I'm your
brother.
" He was ten; his feelings showed on his soft face.
Marcus said, "You didn't have to take up a whole other seat with your bag. That old man could have sat there."
"Say hi," Rachel directed.
Zach dropped everythingâsoccer ball, dirty backpack, worn textbooksâin the middle of the floor and said hello to Didi and Paddy, who introduced themselves as Mrs. and Mr. Limbach. "Why are you crying?" he asked Paddy.
"Onions," Rachel explained. "Move this stuff, and clean up. You're late. Marcus, say hello."
"Hello," Marcus said sullenly, sliding through the crowded room with his black case, heading for his bedroom. It would not occur to him to come to dinner without clean hands; he worried too much about germs. Perhaps he would be a surgeon, Rachel always thought. Or perhaps just uselessly obsessive, like most everyone else on the planet.
"That was Marcus," she told their guests.
"Mom," Zach said, reaching around her to grab a cherry tomato. "Mom, Marcus called me illiterate."
"And?"
He shrugged. "Just thought you'd like to know." He popped the tomato, spilling seeds down his chin.
"You stink, son. Go clean up."
Zach left his things where they'd fallen and thumped down the hall to his room.
Rachel decided not to apologize for her boys. Instead, she took the mushrooms and onions from her guests to drop them into their places and then declared the meal finished. She asked Didi to help her move it to the table. She directed Paddy to retrieve Ev and the little girl.
The three children sat on a long bench on one side of the table, facing Didi and Paddy. Ev and Rachel took head and foot. Bowls circulated. The Limbach child refused everything.
"Try a little," her mother wheedled.
"I don't like chicken," she complained. "I don't like these green things, either, or these toadstools."
"Mushrooms," Paddy corrected her. "Try one. Mommy cut them. And this isn't chicken, it's Cornish gamehens. From Cornland."
Rachel watched Marcus roll his eyes.
"How about some bread?" Rachel said, handing down a slice, thinking that Paddy seemed hatched from Cornland.
"It's brown bread," said Melanie. "It has raisins."
"Seeds," Marcus corrected her, leaning around his younger brother to address the girl. "Caraway seeds, not raisins. Bite oneâit tastes like licorice."
"Black licorice," Zach added.
Melanie pouted as if she would cry.
Didi said, "It's very good bread. Mrs. Cole worked hard to make it for us."
Rachel, embarrassed by this, stood, asking Melanie what she
would
like.
"Macaroni and cheese," the child said, in a tone of voice daring Rachel to satisfy her.
"Sniveling thing," Rachel muttered in the kitchen. Fortunately, she found a frozen box of macaroni and cheese in the back of the freezer, its expiration date unreadable for all the hoarfrost. While it was microwaving, she poured herself another glass of wine, happy to be alone.
When she got back to the table, Melanie stared at the bowl. "It's the wrong kind," she whispered to her mother.
"Try it," Paddy repeated. Maybe this was his parenting technique, to be always the chorus.
Rachel's boys were eating in their usual way, Zach with a full plate he would slowly proceed through, Marcus with tiny servings he would rush to finish, his arms near the plate as if fending off someone else's fork. Zach frequently stayed at the table eating from the serving bowls, grazing, after everyone else had moved on.
Paddy and Didi seemed as confused by the little hens and mushrooms and piñons as
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