Whining and Dining

Billy the Kid came home from his first day of school to find the dining room table protected with fat sections of the New York Times, and his mother making posters with magic markers. She had a strangely happy look on her face, considering that the sign in front of her said, “No More Killing.”

At first, he thought it was about abortions, but that didn’t make sense. His mother volunteered at Planned Parenthood, and “No More Killing” was what her “Right to Life” opponents said.

Once again, Uncle Wayne’s car had been pulling out of the driveway when he got there. Wayne wasn’t his real Uncle; he just called him that. He was a very good friend of the family.

“How come Wayne’s always going when I’m coming?” he asked.

“Uncle Wayne. And I never noticed that.”

“He’s not my uncle.” He was sick of calling him that.

“If you want to know,” (he didn’t really) “Uncle Wayne is crazy. He’s gone way over to the other side. He used to have tendencies, but now he’s a full-fledged…” She stopped.

“Full-fledged what?”

She thought for a minute. “Nut-case,” she said.

Billy was already opening the refrigerator door. “Don’t eat too much,” his mother told him. “We’re having dinner at the Harris’s They always have a lot of food.”

“And a lot of wine,” he added.

“They have a winery.  If they had a bakery, they’d have a lot of bread and cake.”

 
It was going to be a cozy dinner with the Harris family – just she and Billy, and Donny, Ann, and Natalie.

The main building of the winery was a huge, old stone castle, built single-handed by a stubborn artist in the middle of the last century. Its floor and walls were stone, its beams and rafters covered with carvings, accumulated over decades of decadent parties below. The Harris’s had bedrooms on the grounds, but they had no private living room or kitchen. Dinner was served, and the family relaxed, in the main hall, when patrons weren’t there.

Doreen knew something was wrong the minute she walked in the door. Way down in the center of the immense room, she detected a surfeit of silver at the table.

Sure enough, Ann Harris came breezing into the big room, her caftan flowing behind, her voice belting out in front: “I hope you don’t mind, but at the last minute, Melissa called. Practically invited herself over tonight. Begged. So…” she indicated the table with a wave of her hand, “she and Wayne, are joining us.”

“Shit,” Doreen thought. “Lovely,” she said.

No matter how formal or informal the evening, two things were sure – Ann’s caftan, and the biggest, roundest, wine glasses anyone had ever seen anywhere.

Dinner was, as always, a great success – kidding and small talk, the comforting sound of the continual pouring of wine, leaning back in the big, heavy chairs, almost like thrones, to stare up at the carven gargoyles. Wayne was seated between Doreen and Melissa, and across the table from them were the three kids. Ann was at the head, and Donny at the foot. The vegetables came from The Orchards, a town or two away. Corn on the cob, a pyramid of sliced tomatoes and onions, sprinkled with shredded basil and smelling sublime, sautéed rainbow chard with raisins and feta cheese, the cut up stems the colors of confetti, and fat cowboy steaks (no vegetarians here) grilled by Donny at the far end of the room, on a grill set directly in the fireplace itself.

No heavy talk during dinner. The children are present. Never mind that the children know more than the adults do – witness the latest phenomenon, thanks to Hannah Montana, kids having to explain to their parents what twerking is because they’re too embarrassed to ask the Internet.

Doreen marveled that Natalie was so grown-up! And yet not at all snobby about being so much older than Billy. After apple pie and ice cream, (dessert wine for the grown-ups), she and Stevie took Billy along as if they were all the same age.

At last, the parents were alone. And plenty drunk. Happy and loose, and friendly-feeling, so Doreen leaned over Wayne, to say to Melissa, “You don’t really want to go to war, do you?” She pointed at Wayne, with not too steady a finger. “He talked you into it, didn’t he? He’s a mean, mean, man. Wants to fight.”

“You know he never talked me into anything, Doreen.”

“Not till now,” Doreen replied, looking Wayne square in the eyes, as her head passed by his on the way back from glaring at Melissa.

At the ends of the table, the host and hostess watched as though it were television.

Doreen addressed the company at large. “No more killing. Not of anybody. Not for any reason. It’s so simple. Thou Shalt Not Kill. What’s wrong with that?”

Wayne came half out of his chair. “What’s wrong with that? I’ll tell you what’s wrong with that. It’s stupid and short-sighted. And coming from you, the queen of the baby-butchers, it’s goddam hypocritical.”

“How dare you!” Doreen picked up her goblet of amber liquid and hurled its contents in Wayne’s face. Then she put her head down on his shoulder and started to cry.

Melissa leaned past him, and patted the head on the shoulder, than said to her husband, “You brute! You male chauvinist pig! Let’s see you lug around nine pounds of life-ruining potential.”

“Nice way to talk about a baby,” he said.

“Well face it, big boy, that’s sometimes what a baby is.” Her gaze drifted toward the door. Wouldn’t want Stevie to hear that. His life had been up for grabs for two months while she decided what to do about her pregnancy. She married Wayne.

Donny decided to take charge. “Why should we go to war over something that has nothing to do with us? There are so many bad things happening in the world, we can’t possibly stop them all. We’re not the world’s policeman.”

“Then who the hell is?” Wayne asked. “The UN? A bunch of criminals playing cop? When have they ever done anything but wait till it’s too late, and then come up with the wrong answer anyway? A club of dictators who don‘t give a shit about their people or anybody else’s?”

From the other end of the table, Ann Harris, who can hold her liquor better than any man she knows, shouted at Wayne, “You’re the one who’s being short-sighted. And unrealistic. It’s too dangerous. Russia’s involved. Russia could say, “You hit my kid so I’ll hit yours. Russia could bomb Israel. It could start World War III!”

The door opened and the kids popped back inside. Doreen quickly removed her head from Wayne’s shoulder. Melissa caught Steve’s eye and nodded, signaling “Time to go.”

“It’s been delightful,” Melissa said, pushing back her chair and forcing herself to stand straight. Mustn’t set a bad example for the children. Everything in moderation. Including drunkenness.

Wayne led the way to the door. “I’m driving everybody home,” he said.

“Don’t be shilly,” Doreen said. “I can drive.”

“I’m driving everybody home,” Wayne repeated, and they trooped out – the two boys, the two mothers, and the one dad.

On the ride home, the boys’ silently shared opinion of the evening was that Natalie Harris had good weed, and they were glad she wasn’t going away to college.