Mom was in the kitchen. Dad had just driven up.
“Girls set the table,” she called up to us.
“C’mon,” I said, tugging at my older sister’s sleeve.
“It doesn’t take two,” she answered, not looking up from her book.
She was reading Dune, again.
“C’mon, please, you know what happens when only one of us goes.”
“The same thing that happens when two of us go. Leave me alone!”
“What a pal,” I snapped, tumbling down the stairs before she could respond.
As I went down the back stairs Dad went up the front stairs. Well, that was good timing for a change! I pulled open the drawer and grabbed a handful of everyday silverware with one hand and a wad of napkins with the other. I set four places. Just the kids tonight. My parents would eat later, after watching M.A.S.H., martinis in their hands. That was good luck too! I loved M.A.S.H. nights. I felt so good I began to sing Tea for the Tillermanvery quietly, trying to remember the lyrics. The table looked so nice when I finished, all the pretty Van Gogh napkins in their matching rings…lavender, yellow, leaf green, that I wanted it to be even prettier, to celebrate M.A.S.H. night, when we got to eat alone, like adults.
“Flowers!” I suddenly thought, dashing out the patio door and glancing around for some blooms my mother wouldn’t miss too much.
It was almost dark. I stepped into my mother’s ‘white garden’ — white roses, lilies, Queen Anne’s lace. I scooped up Mom’s clippers from the bench and entered a wonderland where all the flowers drank light at dusk, became a family of moons floating briefly on the surface of a darkening sea.
I found one white rose, nearly blown. It would be gone tomorrow anyway. I clipped it, then a bunch of Queen Anne’s lace to keep it company.
Back inside I found the small green vase I always used and made it pretty. I placed it in the middle of the round dinner table with a white doily underneath, then stepped back, taking in the whole scene with satisfaction. Then Mom called.
“You take over, it’s time for M.A.S.H.”
She already had her martini in hand, grinning as if it were all a big joke. I opened the basement door and called down to the twins. My older sister was already at the table, Dunestill in her hand. I gently pried it away and put her plate down in front of her. Then I served the twins. They were blond, skinny, and silent. His kids. They never did any work; they spent their time playing hockey in the basement. I could hear them through the heating vent in my room shouting, “He shoots! He scores!” Sometimes I put a pillow in front of the vent, but Cat Stevens worked better.
After dinner, the twins vanished and my older sister came demanding her book.
“Look,” I said, “I set the table, you do the dishes.”
“No way! I did them last night!”
“That’s not fair! You know what he–”
“Don’t be stupid. It’s M.A.S.H. night.”
“Martini night.”
“It’s your turn,” she finished, snatching the paperback from my hand and flouncing out of the room and up the stairs, slamming the bedroom door behind her.
I began to clean up. If I were fast enough, I would be finished and up in my room before M.A.S.H. ended. I was rinsing the last plate when the laugh track stopped. I heard steps behind me, felt hands slip around my ribs and cup my breasts. I held my breath. He leaned in close. I smelled gin.
“See you later,” he whispered.
I placed the last plate in the dishwasher and slipped out the back door, into the garden. The flowers were still moons. I found my patch of grass right in among them and lay down. The lilies and roses were breathing their last; soon they would close and drift into their scentless sleep, but for now, they were all around me, embracing me with their aroma.
On the way to bed, I plucked the green vase from the dining room table and took it up with me, placing it on my bedside table. I undressed, put on my nightgown, slipped under the covers, and began to sing Tea for the Tillermanvery quietly, trying to remember the lyrics.
Photo by jill jones from FreeImages
