Whether we know it or not, dinner seating is never random. Dads preferred the head of the table, as was his custom. And prerogative. Dads was head of everything.
Before him, the family secured places in magisterial order. Katherine McGinnis was first, to his left. Beside her, smug and confident, sat her fiance, Mark Schoen. He would have preferred to sit in her spot. He would have preferred to sit in his lap, if Dads let him.
On the other side sat Stella and Jake. The rest spread along the table with many seats empty. At the end Bud McGinnis scowled at his bottle of beer. “Don’t we have any Heineken?” he said to no one.
Bethany Lammers (formerly McGinnis) sat two seats away. She leaned over. “What can I get you, honey?”
“Nothing.” Bud balanced a fork on a finger, dropping it to the shiny mahogany table with a clang. Picking it up he tried again. He regressed into a surly adolescent around anyone older than thirty.
Lately Bethany had taken up Bud as a favorite. Formerly she did the same with Stella, Katherine, and the McGinnis’s toy poodle, Chow Chow. Dads’ second wife was always welcome in his home. He seldom banished anyone from his life. Even disgraced attorneys or old enemies were dialed up now and then, just to see how they were doing.
Bethany Lammers never missed a Sunday. She dressed as though preparing the whole week, which indeed she had, visiting a salon for careful coloring of the graying roots of her ash blonde hair, then draping her long body in a tight Versace metallic mini-dress. An always-present throat scarf graced her long, ropy neck.
The McGinnis core, or corps, were all present, all except the children’s mother, Dads’ first wife Cheryl Lea, who was in St. Petersburg visiting the Hermitage, for some reason.
As they waited for the first course Dads held sway, telling a story. He deployed his typical, self-deprecating Gaellic humor. The story involved selling something big and expensive to one of his cronies.
“Finally I said, if you can’t pay the bill, at least don’t park your Bentley in my spot.”
Mark Schoen’s laugh was loud and grating. A handsome man, dark with heavy eyebrows and a close-cropped hair, Schoen stood six three and weighed two hundred ten pounds. He had been a football player in college and had a thick neck and the not unhandsome square jaw, dark and clean-shaven, of the mature ape.
He worked for Dads. Or rather, worked at the Seattle regional office where he met, dated, and (literally, in her office) proposed to Katherine McGinnis. Dads was only provisionally approving. Katherine, tall, gorgeous and brainy, could have done better. She could also have done much worse.
Lila Ramzi sat by herself, mid-table, with a crossword puzzle. “Darling,” Dads said to his wife. “Must you bring that to dinner?”
“I’m almost done, papa.” She did not look up.
“Just don’t start another one.”
“Another what?”
“Crossword puzzle.”
She didn’t answer. Her lips were moving as she studied the booklet. Lila was exotically attired in a gray Moroccan kaftan, flowing, with a beaded bodice and matching hijab.
The chef, Andre, rolled in a large silver service bowl. “Bring on the bird!” Dads cried.
Mark Scoen cackled, long and loud. Dads said the same thing every Sunday. They were actually having beef bolognese. Two servers in white aprons began doling out large squares of lasagna sciabo and the bolognese. Dads spread a napkin on his lap.
“Now really, Lila. I must ask you to put away your puzzle.”
“Does anyone know,” she said with a subtle lisp. “Another word for transmission?”
“How many letters?” said Bethany enthusiastically.
“Five.”
Bethany thought a moment. She was good at games. “I got it– Sends!”
“No.”
“Relay,” said Dads. He drummed fingers.
“Nope.”
“How about radio,” said Bud.
“Thank you, honey,” said Lila, who really did like Bud. He would always be the baby. “But no.”
Jake Hooker had said little that evening. As the new addition he remained polite and reserved. When he spoke everyone jumped, followed by a pause.
“Gears.”
“He’s right!” cried Lila, scribbling in the answer.
Stella had closed her eyes, but now opened them and pinched Jake under the table. “Good job,” she whispered, smiling at her family.
“What do gears have to do with transmission?” said Bud. The others also hesitated. But of course none of them had ever helped their father rebuild a ’92 Buick LeSabre. Or watched their mother walk a mile to work, crossing two highways, because the family’s only car sat in their garage with the engine suspended by chains.
“I took the mechanical angle.”
“Why Jake, that’s genius,” said Dads.
“I was going to guess that next,” said Schoen but no one believed him.
Dads beamed. “We were all stuck in our thinking. Except for Jake. There’s a lesson there, kids. Let’s eat.”
The exact lesson Dads meant was unclear, but all were impressed. None more than Bethany Lammers, who wanted to be useful. Desperately, as a matter of fact. Once she tired of Bud, his drinking and drama, Jake might be a future favorite.
Almost certainly he would.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com