Pork Chop Night Part 3

At the top of the stairs there was a door that opened into a large living room with a baby grand off to the left and back a little. I hated it because it was black and I had to dust it nearly everyday to keep it nice. My mother always told me not to bother with it and that the maid will just get it in the morning. But she wouldn’t, not well enough at least. She always left dust in the cracks, every crack, and it drove me mad. I was always dusting it and it was always dusty. I made my way past the dusty piano, trying not to look at it, and into the formal dining room, which is where we always ate. The places were already set, one for me my mom and my dad. My dad’s plate and silverware were missing leaving just an empty tablecloth and an unused glass. My mother was sitting at the table waiting for me. “Hello Marcus!” she said in a voice a little to high and a little two loud. She was drinking a Highball, she loved Highballs, and from the tone of her voice I could tell it wasn’t her first. I hated it when she called me “Marcus” too. She always put the emphasis on the ‘ma’ and sort of forgot the rest like ‘MAHcus’. She only says it that way when she has had at least two Highballs. “You’re a little late for pork chop night.” She said. She hated it when I was late for pork chops. I’m not sure why, she didn’t even cook it. Tony the cook did.  “Your father is having his in his study.” She said as nicely as she could muster. “It’s just you and me tonight.” I said nothing. I didn’t say much to my parents ever. Not that they would really listen anyway. I mean, they did hear. They always heard what I said but the never really thought about what I was saying.

“I said, your father is eating in his study tonight. It’s just you and me. How does that make you feel?” They were always asking me this. “How doe’s that make you feel.” Or, “What were you thinking when you did that?” I go to this doctor who asks me questions like this all the time. My dad hates it. “He doesn’t need to go to no brain doctor, Maxine.” He said when my mother suggested it. “He’s just fine.”  Dr. Anderson is his name. He keeps talking about some Freud or something and asks me questions about just about everything. I don’t say much to him either.

I didn’t care much either way if my dad was eating in the study or in the damn foyer. He often took his meals in the study saying, “I’ve got work to do.” My father was the New York City Council Speaker. Pretty high up I guess. He’s always got some dinner or gala he’s got to go to.         

My mom and me ate in silence, not unusual. But it was a palpable silence. There was something very unusual about it. I finished the pork chops and most of the apples that were in the glaze. I left the lima beans. I hate lima beans. They are the vilest of all the beans in the bean world and they cannot be trusted. Tony brought another highball into the dinning room and set it right next to my mother who had her forehead resting on her cocked arm which was on the table, rumpling the table cloth into two small waves. She didn’t look up. I left the dining room and made my way down the long, wood lined hall to the study. I found the door slightly ajar. I go on my hands and knees and crept through the door on all fours. My dad’s chair was one of those big, green leather jobs with the big brass pins in the back and the scrolled wood arms. He was sitting in it as always and it was faced towards the window overlooking the park as usual. I crawled over to the large cherry wood desk and leaned against the back of it. I did this often. He didn’t know about it, but I liked the smell of his cigars.