Circus at the table
The crackling behind his eardrums as he was chewing the peanut butter toast reminded him of those beautiful Sunday mornings when his mother would whistle her favourite tunes while peeling potatoes for lunch. His eyes would be stuck upon the flickering black and white lights of the television screen as cartoon characters ran around defying physics and common sense. The heavenly smell of the lukewarm cocoa on the table squared danced with the smooth feeling of the fluffy, cloud-like carpet under his feet. The Sunday morning meant carefree hours before the night-time routine would taint his mood with the Monday blues hanging above him.
“Come on, Pop,” his daughter’s voice hit hard his ears, shattering his memory orb and dragging him back to reality.
“Excuse me, darling?”
“All my friends will be there. Can I go?”
“What’d your mother say?”
“She said I should ask you.”
His eyes met her wife’s. They shared a long stare. He could see in her eyes that she was convinced that he knew what she wanted. Those long years they had spent together, living through all the joy and sadness, must not have been in vain. He could remember that earlier he would know from a single sigh or a brief jerk of her lips what his wife thought. How she felt. What she needed. Conversely, at this time, he had no idea. The longer he looked into her eyes, the deeper he submerged in those beautiful dark blue irises, the more he hoped he would know where her wife stood. But it was as much a hopeless attempt as if he had been a long-time surfer who was just about entering a skateboard competition. In principle, his experience was supposed to help him. In practice, it did not. Not at all.
“Ehm,” he cleared his throat to buy himself some time. “I believe that your mother and I completely agree where we stand on this matter, darling. It does not even merit further discussion. I trust in your understanding.”
The son smirked at the table as he forcefully swallowed a laugh. He was not in the mood of breaking the calm before the storm. Intimate family gatherings like this always amused him. Seeing how his parents would be on entirely different pages was outright hilarious and absolutely entertaining. For him, at least. As if his father was treading hard to get through the prologue to find his mother who would be impatiently waiting at the end of the epilogue. And while the two would battle hard to get on the same page, their focus would be intermittently smashed into pieces by his sister whining and moaning about a school party or some extra money that she wanted to spend on a piece of dress to impress the incumbent guy she had a crush on. “What a ball,” he thought.
“Excuse me?” the daughter gasped in surprise, trying to understand what her father meant.
“Exactly,” the father pointed at her and winked. Awkwardness crept up at the back of his neck accompanied by goosebumps. His hopes that he would get away with it in such a straightforward manner hung on a thin thread. Probably it was already falling as the thread may have snapped.
And that is when a rumble of thunder tore up the idyllic dinner table setting.
“What the actual fuck’s that supposed to mean? Is that a yes or no? Bloody hell…” The daughter has lost her marbles.
“Language,” the mother said silently but with authority. She sighed. She could not believe that her husband had no idea what she wanted after decades of being a team. At the dawn of their relationship, he would behave as if he had superpowers. If she craved some food, he would take her to the respective restaurant. If she wanted to see a movie, he would take her to the matinee. If she longed for a specific pair of earrings, he would buy them for her. Always without her ever conceptualising what she wanted. Times changed. Some time and two children later, it felt as if she was married to a stranger. It did not disappoint her. It infuriated her. Would they be together had it not been for the kids? Did she have the right to blame him?
“Sorry, Mom.” The daughter quickly toned down her passion. “Dad? Can I go? Please,” she begged, once again calmly, completely backtracking from her former approach.
“That punk gon’ be there? Whats-his-face? Keith?”
“Kevin. No… yes… I don’t know… maybe. How would I know; I’m not his personal assistant,” the daughter said in surprise, trying to keep it cool. She could not believe how quickly she lost her wits. She ought to have stayed chill. But how could she relax if Kevin was about to be there, and maybe she was not? She blushed. Her father would always make these conversations so goddamn difficult. She was outright offended; his father should know better. If she was raised well, her parents would have no reason to worry. She was the product of their discipline. And if she slipped, as much as it is the part of learning through experience, well, the onus would fall on the parents. They should have given her a roadmap that keeps her safe in life. But that roadmap somehow fell through the cracks of her parents’ failing marriage.
“Well, I do hope you won’t get any personal with him, for sure, he’s a bad influence,” the dad said and bit into his toast.
“Well, he’s just different, non-conventional. Very unique. He has style and principles. But how would you know if…” the daughter was getting heated but was interrupted by the mother.
“You must be back home by 9.30, not a second later. Clear?”
There was no room to counter what her mother had told her; she knew this well. She would have argued if she had known that it would not lead to losing face. But she had no leeway to negotiate for increased respect in her parents’ eyes in this situation.
“Thank you, Mom,” she said taking a slight detour, hoping that she would get away with it.
“Is that clear?” her mother insisted.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said as was entwined in this ambivalent topsy-turvy of getting what she wanted while also being completely and entirely defeated in her dignity at the same time.
“Good,” her mother acknowledged.
“Yes, good,” the father seconded the mother’s guidance, hoping that his support would get him in his wife’s good book. It would not.
“What a fucking circus,” the son breathed under his nose, barely audibly, as her sister kicked into his left ankle under the table.
-cx-
This story was originally published on reedsy prompts for weekly Contest #116.
