Page 12 of How to Hide in Plain Sight
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I WAKE THE NEXT DAYwith a clear conscience. It lasts about twenty seconds. Then I remember what happened the night before, and I fall right back to pieces.
From:Memory & Other Executive Functions
To: Conscious Mind
Subject: A Beck family dinner (before Henry died)
Below is a brief press release detailing Past Beck Family Dinners, intended to provide you with a comparison for the Current State of Affairs. Read & syndicate as necessary.
I (5) go first, ladling lopsided scoops of whichever dish has the most sugar onto my plate. Henry (6) builds a mountain of spaghetti. Taz (12) quietly arranges a neat rainbow along the edge of his plate. Karma (16) claims she hates spaghetti or chicken or whatever we’re serving, and pours herself a bowl of cereal. Clarence (30) and Caleb (33) stand off to the side, holding glasses of red wine and waiting for the kids to finish making a mess of the buffet.
We cart our plates out to the porch of Sunny Sunday and each sit in one of the sturdy wooden chairs surrounding it. Dad sits down last. By the time he claims his seat at the head, half of us are done eating and ready to go back to blowing shit up outside. But now that we’re together, Mom insists that we say grace. Karma picks at dry Special K flakes. My legs swing like bungee cords, toes miles above ground.
Mom closes her eyes and tells us to hold hands. We pinch each other’s fingers and make faces across the table. At the end of the prayer, just before Mom says, “Amen,” Karma sticks her tongue out and blows a fart wet enough to make even God blush.
Then the stories start. My siblings—well, they aren’t just good storytellers; they’re brilliant. Their eyes sparkle. Their arms wavetheatrically. Caleb tells the story of eight-year-old Karma beating up the unfortunate boy who tried to steal Taz’s Fruit by the Foot, and the whole table—down to the candles—shakes with laughter. Tears leak out of Mom’s eyes.
In my head, I’m eloquent, too. Insightful. Wise. I have a story to tell, the same way they do, but I exist in this strange in-between: too old for a high chair, too young to be taken seriously by the adults. A child perennially annoyed by her place in the world. Dinner conversation is an exclusive club to which I have not yet been granted access. Membership includes time with the talking stick, the right for your jokes to be laughed at, and consideration of your ideas as valid suggestions. I sit in my chair and gaze up as their words ping-pong across the table. I want desperately to join, but everything takes place just a few inches too high for me to reach.
Henry and I quickly become antsy. We ask to leave, but Mom says no, so we find other ways to pass the time: we do handstands against the wall, invent plays using forks and knives as actors, draw presentations on construction paper, then tape them to the wall and make the rest of the family listen.
Sometimes, we just run around and around and around the table until our parents tell us to settle the hell down. Henry always listens. Sometimes I do, too, but mostly I don’t. Mostly I keep going, arms cranking, blowing steam through my lips like a train’s horn.
“The Boose is loose!” the older kids yell. “The Boose is loose!”
5
NOW
DINNER WAS BURGERS, FRIES, ANDsalad, served buffet style as usual. After filling my plate with food, I tried to sit next to Caleb.
Mom stopped me. “Oh, Eliot, honey, don’t be so diplomatic.” She grabbed my shoulders and steered them over to the other corner of the table. “It’s fine to sit next to your best friend. I’m sure you two have a lot to catch up on.” She pushed me into the chair next to Manuel.
I glanced over at him. He immediately looked down at the table and began to studiously unfold his paper napkin.
Right. Oodles to catch up on.
After everyone sat down, Mom told us to join hands for the prayer. None of the Beck children were particularly religious, but Mom liked to pretend we loved Jesus just as much as she did. Manuel accepted mine the way you might accept a limp sponge. Our palms rested together on the table in an awkward pile. As soon as the prayer was over, they fled.
A transcript of the conversation that followed:
MANUEL:So…how’s New York?
ELIOT:Big.
M:What do you do there, again?
E:I’m a copywriter.
M:Oh. That’s cool. Do you live close to the office?
E:Not really.
M:So…you take the train?
KARMA[already on her third whiskey highball]: What is this, Twenty Questions?
