Page 13 of Told You So
“And the ladies?”
At first, I think she might be referring to Mac and Sam, but then I comprehend. “Ah, yes, the ladies. Marilyn and Monroe are doing just fine. I think they really like the new plant you got them for the tank.”
“It’s plastic,” she says.
“Yeah, and they’re fish and don’t know any better. Trust me, it’s a hit.”
“A point for Mom then,” she says, and I sneak a soft roll off the platter and tear off a bite. “Where’s Dad, still at work?” I scoot a hot plate closer to the stove for the roast pan as she pulls it out. My mouth starts to water. “That looks deadly delicious, Ma.”
“Thank you. I hope it’s as edible as it looks. I’ve never been able to pick out a decent roast to save my life. Too much fat, not enough fat. Too dry, too small...” She lets out a frazzled breath. “And I’m not sure where your father is. Work sounds about right. Now, take the carafe of water to the table, would you?”
I nod, grabbing the sweating pitcher from the counter in one hand, a stack of napkins and the silverware resting beside it with the other. My weekly contribution to family dinner: setting the dinner table. I’m great at it. I don’t know what my parents would do without me.
“Oh! I made iced tea for you, sweetheart. It’s in the refrigerator door.”
“You’re spoiling him again,” my dad says from the hallway, and I hear the front door shut and keys hit the entry table. I set my armload back on the counter and meet him in the doorway.
“Hey, Pop,” I say, wrapping my arms around him with a quick hug.
“Hey, Nicky.” He’s got a bouquet of flowers in his hand, another family dinner tradition.
“How’s the Wyman property coming along?” I ask and take a step back, strangely comforted to see him. “Looks like it’s still keeping you busy.” So busy, in fact, I feel like family dinners are the only time I see him anymore at all and he’s barely at half of them.
We walk into the kitchen.
“It’s, uh, good. It’s coming along just fine. You know Judd, he’s a demanding son of a bitch, as usual.”
“Language,” my mom says under her breath.
“For you,” my dad says, and hands her the flowers.
“They’re beautiful.” She takes them with a tight smile and nods to the dining room. “Put them in the vase, would you?” Then, she glances over her shoulder at me. “You were setting the table,” she reminds me.
“Oh, shit. Sorry, Ma.” I can feel her piercing glare without even looking at her, and I can’t help but laugh. “Language, I know. Sorry.”
The usual cream cloth covers the table, and the vase for the lilies is set off to the side, on the buffet behind it. My mom and dad hustle around, getting the remaining items on the table and setting out the food. I put the extra napkins in the center of the table as my mom pulls out her chair to sit. “All right. Dig in.”
My dad takes his place at the head of the table. “You can change out of your suit, Pop,” I tell him and fill my mom’s glass with water. “We can wait.”
“Nah,” he says, hanging his jacket on the back of the chair. “I’m fine.” He smiles. “Starving, actually. Your mother made this beautiful meal. Let’s eat.”
I fill his glass with water, then pour some iced tea for myself and sit down. “Thanks for the tea, Ma.”
“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” She unfolds her napkin.
My dad cuts into the roast. “Extra done, just the way you like it,” he says and places the end piece on my mom’s plate.
“Thank you.” She doesn’t even bother to look at him, ravenously eying the meat.
We plate the rest of our food in silence, the sound of clanking dishes and the ticking wall clock are all that fills the lack of conversation. I plop some potatoes and a heap of salad onto my plate.
“Oh!” My mom starts. “Did the property manager get your faucet fixed in the kitchen yet, sweetie?”
“I told you I’d fix it, Ma—”
“Nick, that’s their job.”
I shrug and take a monster bite of my roast. After a quick chew, I explain it simply. “They take forever. It’s just easier if I fix it myself.”
