Within Close Range - Dinner at the Celanos'

In our house, dinner meant waiting for Dad.

It meant setting the table in the dining room, with its giant flour de lis wallpaper; with placemats and napkins and neatly set silverware; pitchers of water and plates for your salad.

And it meant waiting.

As smells from the kitchen - from sizzling pans or large simmering pots - wafted through the house like an intoxicating fog, making it hard to concentrate on anything other than the clock and the driveway, where we turned our attentions every few minutes hoping to see Dad’s headlights weave their way the final feet home.

Stomachs gurgling.

Tempers shortening.

Dad never seemed to notice that his famished children hadn’t eaten for hours; never seemed pressured, when shedding his suit, to rush to the table.

To get the meal going.

Dinner began when Dad was ready to sit, to eat, to hear of our days.

At our table of seven, there were two simple requirements in order to be part of the conversation, to be able to tell a story, a joke, talk about your day, or the dogs, your needs, or sibling-related peeves.

One: interrupt while the thought is still fresh your mind.

Two: speak louder than the loudest person speaking.

None of these rules, mind you, applied to Mom and, especially Dad, who spoke and you listened.

Not all siblings were comfortable or capable of carrying out these terms, which usually meant Chris, Jim and I dominated the conversations; while Mia and Mark sat silently, playing with the food, making faces, defending their honor.

Waiting for dinner to be over, so they could quietly slip away.

But in our house, in order to leave the table, we asked to be excused.

Depending on the day, or Dad’s mood, we might be able to scatter after doing clean-up (for which the girls were entirely responsible), or we might be required to hang around until Dad decided he’d had enough of his disorderly descendants.

I remember a night in particular, when Mark, quiet as usual, quickly downed a few measly bites from his plate and asked to be excused from the table. 

It was a radical move.

Ill-considered and premature.

Or so I thought, until Dad allowed it.

Still contemplating Mark’s gutsy move and wishing I’d thought of it first,  I was suddenly distracted - we all were - by the unusual amount of commotion coming from the boys’ bedroom, directly above.

Strange, everyone agreed, Mark usually went straight from table to T.V.

With a unified shrug, we returned to our plates, until all eyes were drawn through the dining room windows which overlooked the back lawn, the bluff and Lake Michigan.

To the darkening sky, where an airplane was crossing.

Which wouldn’t have been so unusual.

Had it not been on fire.

Smoke billowing from its tail.

Mom let out a little shriek.

Hearts jumped.

Until the plane got stuck on the wire Mark had strung from his bedroom window to an old oak in the backyard, twenty feet away.

In a flash, the tiny, tissue-paper-stuffed fighter jet (an F4 Phantom to be precise) - which Mark spent hours building, days admiring and the day high-wiring - became a wee inferno as the stalled model’s flammable glue ignited.

Our reflections in the glass were stunned. 

And a little confused.

I looked to Dad.

Who looked unsure of how to react. 

But his eyes couldn’t hide it.

And when, to everyone’s surprise, Mark quietly returned to his place at the table, Dad allowed a smile to creep to his lips.

Mark’s shoulders’ instantly relaxed.

Siblings offered their congratulations.

“Nice job, Kid.”

“Twisted, but effective.”

As we filed outside to examine the smoldering wreckage, I could see Mark was pleased.

He’d impressed a tough crowd.

Dare I say it? Made us proud. 

Except for Mom…

She “didn’t think it was funny at all.”