turning to me for confirmation on everything? If you want to make proclamations, make them on your own.”
“Right,” he said, not listening to her at all. “Perfect.” I put down the plate of food and some clean silverware in front of him while he rested his wrists against the table. He stared at his dinner for a minute and then he looked up at me and smiled. “Really great.”
We all waited.
“See, the thing is, I can’t pick the fork up, and if I could pick the fork up, I couldn’t get it anywhere near the neighborhood of my mouth.” We all looked at his fingers, all of which appeared to be about half a size too big. They were deathly still.
“Oh, God, Dad, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m thinking about.” I picked up the knife and the fork and cut off a bite. Then I blew on it a little, thinking it might be too hot.
“What are you going to do, chew it for him?” My mother wasn’t being helpful.
“It takes a while to get the swing of it all,” my father said. “Trust me. This just happened and I don’t have the swing of it yet myself. I know that I’m hungry but there isn’t much I can do about it.”
I raised the fork to his mouth and he took the bite and chewed.
“Wow,” Camille said.
My father nodded at her in recognition of all her “Wow” implied. “This is the way it is, kiddo. This is why people have families. You never know when you’re going to fall and smash your wrists and not be able to get a fork in your own mouth. It wasn’t such a long time ago your mother was spooning in the chow for you.”
I wanted to say that’s what I was thinking of. I knew that’s what I should have been thinking of, feeding Wyatt and Camille withtiny spoons and Gerber jars, but I have to say the two experiences had nothing in common. There was an incredible sweetness to putting stewed apricots into those tiny mouths, their fat pink cheeks, their wide-eyed pleasure at being loved and cared for. But this, this just seemed sad. Dad’s upper bridge was out, undoubtedly at the bottom of his overnight bag wrapped in plastic. He was short on teeth and I was grateful for the soft lasagna. Feeding my father didn’t make me think about how cute my children were when they were young. It made me think about how dependent my parents were going to be as they got older, how dependent Sam and I would be one day on Wyatt and Camille. Frankly, the whole business broke my heart.
“So I haven’t gotten the story yet,” Camille said, “about what happened to you. What kind of accident was it?”
“Could I have a bite of the bread?”
“Butter?”
He shook his head. I held up the piece of French bread and my father bit into it and chewed thoughtfully. For a poor kid with a hardscrabble past, my father had lovely table manners. I always thought it was all the time he had spent playing in fine hotels. When he had finished chewing I reached up and dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin and he thanked me. “I was walking across a floor and I slipped. I guess they must have just waxed it. Down I went. Bang. That’s the story.”
“In a club?” Camille said. “Were you playing?”
“That’s right.”
My mother rolled her eyes. “And the Wild Turkey had nothing to do with it?”
My father tilted his head. “Why, Hollis, are you implying I was drunk?”
“If the highball glass fits.…”
“And by implying that I was drunk, are you then implying that it’s my own fault that I’m in this hardware, that it was my own bad judgment that brought me here to screw up your domestic bliss?”
“You aren’t as impaired as I thought you were.”
I put down the fork. “Mother,” I said in a tone of tentative authority I used with Camille.
My father sighed and shook his head. He still didn’t wear glasses. I would guess he was too vain for glasses. Did he wear contacts? My God, would I have to fish his contact lenses out of his eyes?
“You weren’t there, you old bag,” he said
“Right,” he said, not listening to her at all. “Perfect.” I put down the plate of food and some clean silverware in front of him while he rested his wrists against the table. He stared at his dinner for a minute and then he looked up at me and smiled. “Really great.”
We all waited.
“See, the thing is, I can’t pick the fork up, and if I could pick the fork up, I couldn’t get it anywhere near the neighborhood of my mouth.” We all looked at his fingers, all of which appeared to be about half a size too big. They were deathly still.
“Oh, God, Dad, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m thinking about.” I picked up the knife and the fork and cut off a bite. Then I blew on it a little, thinking it might be too hot.
“What are you going to do, chew it for him?” My mother wasn’t being helpful.
“It takes a while to get the swing of it all,” my father said. “Trust me. This just happened and I don’t have the swing of it yet myself. I know that I’m hungry but there isn’t much I can do about it.”
I raised the fork to his mouth and he took the bite and chewed.
“Wow,” Camille said.
My father nodded at her in recognition of all her “Wow” implied. “This is the way it is, kiddo. This is why people have families. You never know when you’re going to fall and smash your wrists and not be able to get a fork in your own mouth. It wasn’t such a long time ago your mother was spooning in the chow for you.”
I wanted to say that’s what I was thinking of. I knew that’s what I should have been thinking of, feeding Wyatt and Camille withtiny spoons and Gerber jars, but I have to say the two experiences had nothing in common. There was an incredible sweetness to putting stewed apricots into those tiny mouths, their fat pink cheeks, their wide-eyed pleasure at being loved and cared for. But this, this just seemed sad. Dad’s upper bridge was out, undoubtedly at the bottom of his overnight bag wrapped in plastic. He was short on teeth and I was grateful for the soft lasagna. Feeding my father didn’t make me think about how cute my children were when they were young. It made me think about how dependent my parents were going to be as they got older, how dependent Sam and I would be one day on Wyatt and Camille. Frankly, the whole business broke my heart.
“So I haven’t gotten the story yet,” Camille said, “about what happened to you. What kind of accident was it?”
“Could I have a bite of the bread?”
“Butter?”
He shook his head. I held up the piece of French bread and my father bit into it and chewed thoughtfully. For a poor kid with a hardscrabble past, my father had lovely table manners. I always thought it was all the time he had spent playing in fine hotels. When he had finished chewing I reached up and dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin and he thanked me. “I was walking across a floor and I slipped. I guess they must have just waxed it. Down I went. Bang. That’s the story.”
“In a club?” Camille said. “Were you playing?”
“That’s right.”
My mother rolled her eyes. “And the Wild Turkey had nothing to do with it?”
My father tilted his head. “Why, Hollis, are you implying I was drunk?”
“If the highball glass fits.…”
“And by implying that I was drunk, are you then implying that it’s my own fault that I’m in this hardware, that it was my own bad judgment that brought me here to screw up your domestic bliss?”
“You aren’t as impaired as I thought you were.”
I put down the fork. “Mother,” I said in a tone of tentative authority I used with Camille.
My father sighed and shook his head. He still didn’t wear glasses. I would guess he was too vain for glasses. Did he wear contacts? My God, would I have to fish his contact lenses out of his eyes?
“You weren’t there, you old bag,” he said
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