Be Careful of The Eggshells

I am sitting at my little, green and yellow table in one of the tiny green chairs. Papa must have dressed me that morning because I am wearing an orange and brown striped turtleneck with yellow and brown checkered, polyester pants. The outfit never bothered me until years later when I look at myself in slightly faded photographs; memories such as these, once suppressed, but now flooding my consciousness.

The kids are home from school and the house is abuzz in a flurry of activity. Grandma Millie cleans the dishes while Nanny prepares the evening’s meal. Aunt Kerry sets the table, six place settings placed perfectly around the table. I would like to help but I am too young and may not be able to make the dinner table as perfect as he likes. I am, however, just as content to be a part of the animated conversations happening in the brown and orange kitchen. The family is laughing while my aunt and uncle recall their day at school. I love to hear my Nanny laugh, so light and contagious.

Suddenly the atmosphere changes. The house takes on an eerie silence as one by one we turn to see the time on the clock above the doorway. He will be home in ten minutes. The food has a final taste test, the place settings are carefully examined and smiles are replaced with furrowed brows. Avoiding an unpleasant situation is our main objective.

At precisely 5:05 pm the green station wagon rolls up the driveway. He is home, dinner is placed on the table and he strolls into the house. He appears weary from work but not unhappy. This is a good omen. Dinner begins uneventful but the moment is fraught with tension as he discovered a miniscule spot on his spoon. We collectively hold our breaths. He retrieves his napkin, removes the residue and continues with his meal. Another catastrophe has been averted.

After dinner he walks back and forth to the garage with a specific purpose. He is convinced that the family is unaware of his little facade. We all know. We simply choose not to discuss it. The uneven gait that intensifies with each trip to the garage belies the charade. After a dozen or so trips he passes out in his favorite chair. The family begins to relax. He awakens after an hour, stumbles up the hall, and falls into bed. We can finally breathe easy. Tonight was uneventful. What will tomorrow bring?