Chapter 4: Sunday Dinner

Margot Hayes opened her front door in an apron and looked past her son to me.

"Vivian. You're thin. Come in, come in. Tristan, you can wipe your feet."

"Hello, Mom," Tristan said.

"Hello, stranger."

My father was already at the dining room table in his Sunday flannel, with sawdust on one sleeve.

A casserole dish sat on a trivet in front of him.

Stanley Stratton is sixty-one years old and has never once been late for a meal.

"Tuna noodle," he said proudly.

"Dad."

"You haven't eaten a real dinner since August. I checked the grocery receipt you left in my truck."

"That receipt was from March."

"And?"

Margot set down a pot roast and a bowl of green beans and sat at the head of the table.

"Now," she said. "Tristan, pass your wife the potatoes."

Tristan passed me the potatoes.

My father looked at Margot. Margot looked at my father.

"That's the first thing he's passed her since spring," my father said, to the green beans.

Then he lifted his water glass, and Margot lifted hers, and they began to chant.

"Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"

I put down my fork.

It is an old rule of mine never to be outdone at a chant.

I lifted my glass.

"Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!" I said, with real feeling, the way I'd said it at the party.

Tristan's face went through three expressions and settled on the one he uses in budget reviews.

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