Someone is Hiding in the Linen Closet
Grandfather | Canoe | Pear | Cakewalk | Blouse | Assignment | Stampede | Present | Dinner | Slurp
Meemaw tells us “That’s how they do it in Japan,” and leans in to slurp another mouthful of split-pea soup. Her dentures watch from a safe distance, perched on the edge of a glass smeared with the red of her lipstick. Thick, green globs of soup fall out of her face when Meemaw is making like she’s in Yokohama, staining her Sunday Blouse. Two middle buttons pop open and my grandfather barks “Jesus, Margaret, cover that up. We’re trying to eat here.” Shaking his head, he pulls a rubbery piece of pork chop out of his mouth, examines it, then sets it on Meemaw’s plate.
Mom, from the opposite side of the table, says “Dad, don’t be such a fucking douche canoe.”
Grandpa Butch looks at her and says “You ain’t no cakewalk either, toots,” and takes another swallow of Molson.
Katie, my sister, continues mining for lumps in her mashed potatoes, and then asks, “Can I be done?”
Nobody answers.
“Don’t everybody stampede to the boob tube the minute you’re done eating,” Meemaw warns. “That kitchen ain’t gonna’ clean itself.” She tips the bowl to her thinning lips. Slurps more soup.
“Dumb as a sack of hammers,” Grandpa announces, then leans towards me and whispers, “Present company excluded” and nudges me with his baggy elbow.
Oh, and Dad? He understands the assignment. The minute that pear cobbler shows up on the table, he heaps a giant spoonful on a plate, then another, and retreats to the closet like Homer backing into the bushes.
Welcome to family dinner.