Page 59 of Going Home in the Dark

Britta put her fork down and patted her lips with her napkin and returned the napkin to her lap, staring at Ernie in disbelief throughout the procedure. “How could it be possible that you have reached the age of five without being able to define ‘reposition’? Are you able to explain that to me, Ernest?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I thought not. Do you not see that you are still playing with your peas? I expressly asked you to stop.”

“I’m just moving them.”

“And to where are you moving them?”

“To the other side of my mashed potatoes.”

“It is important that we do the things we do in life for clear and rational reasons. Can you explain why you must move yourpeas to the other side of your mashed potatoes? Can you do that, Ernest?”

“They taste better when they’re on that side.”

She had begun to pick up her fork. She put it down again. “Are you seriously contending that peas taste better when consumed from the left side of your mashed potatoes than they do when they have been served on the right side?”

“Yeah.”

“As I have asked you before, I ask you yet again to refrain from using the word ‘yeah.’ It is an informal derivative of the proper word ‘yes.’”

“Other kids say it.”

“Yes, they do. You must understand, however, that children who speak imprecisely—or, worse, descend to the use of slang—will grow up to be ill-spoken adults who are condemned to such menial careers as plumbers and car mechanics.”

“Plumbers and car mechanics are cool jobs.”

“In the interest of maintaining a cheerful mood on this special occasion, we will not further discuss suitable careers. Are we in agreement that this restriction will apply throughout the remainder of this celebratory dinner?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

After a prolonged silence, Britta observed, “You have eaten only half of your filet medallions. Should I not have placed them directly opposite your mashed potatoes?”

“I wanted hamburgers for my birthday.”

“What we want and what we should have are not always the same thing. An individual might want to drink vast quantities of sugary cola every day of his life, but as he lies dying of diabetes at the age of thirty-four, he will recognize the folly of havingfailed to appreciate the consequences of always choosing what he wanted rather than what he should have had. Do you understand, Ernest?”

“I guess so. But most people call me Ernie.”

“Those are people I would severely censor if I could. I am the one who named you after Mr. Hemingway. He was a properly proud man. He would never have allowed anyone to call him Ernie. AnEarnestis a person of importance. AnErnieis the kind of person who works twelve hours a day, belowdecks in a commercial fishing trawler, gutting the day’s catch. Am I to assume that is the life you yearn for, Ernest, a life standing knee-deep in fish guts?”

“No, ma’am.”

After a long silence followed by a longer one, his mother brought him a slice of cake and a small scoop of ice cream.

“It’s not a whole cake,” Ernest said.

“If I provided an entire cake, you would eat a second slice later, another tomorrow, on and on, until eventually you had eaten the whole thing. One slice is all that is required for an adequate celebration. I am determined you will not become diabetic—or grow into an enormous fat person who would be an embarrassment to me.”

“I’m five. There’s only one candle.”

“One is sufficient, Ernest. Burning candles produce carbon dioxide. We were not born for the purpose of imperiling the planet by contributing to climate change.”

She produced a silver snifter with which he was required to extinguish the candle, because blowing it out would be uncouth.

A year later, shortly after Ernie’s sixth birthday, Hilda Merkwurdig was fired from her position as his nanny when Britta discovered from whom her son had learned the phrasecrazy bitch.

Hilda’s replacement, Bertha Fettleibig, lasted eight months before she was fired when Britta discovered from whom Ernie had learned the phraseshit for brains.

---