The Terrible Dinner

Short Story | 5 Minute Read

May 20, 2022

This week’s story is another edition of what I like to call “first draft fiction.” Last weekend I joined Word West Press’s workshop entitled “Write at the Museum” led by David Queen. A group of writers met at The Metropolitan MUseum of Art in Manhattan, spent two hours explorig and then were tasked with writing a story inspied by a person in the art we saw.

I have begun to write a number of pieces based on my trip, but the story below is the one I shared with the group for our follow up Zoom call and is still a very early draft. This story was inspired by Norman Rockwell’s painting “Expressman” as well as my time in the storage room in the American Wing.

This story is a 5 minute read.

THE TERRIBLE DINNER

It had been two Thanksgivings without Genevieve. Lou had worked on the yams all morning, trying to follow Genevieve’s recipe, but somehow missed an unknown drop of inspiration to replicate her magic. The bowl had only one spoonful taken from it. He’d get it right by Christmas. He wasn’t sure about the rest of the meal.

Lou sat at the head of the table taking in the scene. There was the decimated roasted turkey purchased by his daughter Jennifer, the half-empty bowl of (probably instant) mashed potatoes reheated by his grandson Buster, the now cold broccoli florets brought by his son Leonard that his granddaughter Madison refused to eat with such an outrageous outburst Lou worried his neighbors had heard, and his great granddaughter Lizabeth’s premade formula bottle that his grandkids bought by the six pack. There was more food and drink than the family ever had before, but Lou was certain he wasn’t the only one enjoying it less. He wondered why none of the kids had bothered to try to learn how to prepare a decent meal from the matriarch of the family while she was alive, or at least ask to see the cookbooks she spent her final days writing with all of them in mind. Lou remained silent throughout the meal’s soundtrack of clinking utensils on plates and glasses, and the complaining of the three surviving generations of the Campanea family. He thought about how this lot of miserable human beings would return to their lives to tell their acquaintances how they “celebrated” with Lou for the holiday.

This was no celebration. Lou wondered if it had been Genevieve’s calm demeanor that kept the complaints at bay, or if her gentle grace distracted him from it. He tried to emulate his wife’s calm, to allow the conversations to drizzle around the table like the unwelcome microwaved gravy someone poured on his plate, but when his daughter Jenny advised her eighteen year old son Frankie to quit his first after school job after one week of difficulty, Lou reached his limit. He slammed his fists down on the table beside his plate and bellowed, “Enough!”

Lizabeth, at two months old, was the only one at the table who chose to vocalize her shock. Her screams and tears erupted simultaneously, while all other eyes darted in Lou’s direction. Buster, Lizabeth’s dad, was the second to speak while trying to shove the tiny formula bottle in his daughter’s mouth, “Pop pop what’s wrong with you?”

“No kid,” Lou said with a hardened grimace, “it ain’t what’s wrong with me that we need to be talkin about. You take your fragile factory fed child to her space age swing-a-ma-bob you got taking up half my living room for a three hour stay. Then you get your ass back here.” Lou raised his voice as Buster left the room to do exactly what he was told. “I’ll give your little Lizzie a couple years before I bring her into this loop, but I won’t waste much more time than that. Not like I clearly did with you lot.”

Buster was back in his seat before his grandfather finished his tirade. The electronic whir of the five hundred dollar baby swing hummed in the background. Jenny cast wide eyes at her brother Leonard across the table. He shrugged in response and got to his feet while Buster grabbed and squeezed his wife’s hand under the table.

“Dad,” Leonard said, clapping his father on the shoulder, “You clearly scared the shit out of the kids here. What’s on your mind?”

Lou looked up at his first born son. “Sit your ass down,” Lou said. “This ain’t a kid’s only lesson. Boy, it might be for you most of all.”

Leonard blushed and sat down. He stared at his food-stained China plate, remembering the days when he made his Mama proud by showing her his reflection in the plates after he cleaned them every Thanksgiving.

Lou glared at his son. “Lenny, in all your years living under this roof, how many times did you hear me complain or even talk about my job?” Lou was surprised by the timber of his voice, Genevieve never would have let him unleash his emotions in this way, or, rather, he wouldn’t need to if she were here.

Leonard, who demanded the family stop calling him “Lenny” when he entered middle school, looked up with eyebrows raised. “Your job? What’s to talk about Dad? You were a mailman.”

“Jesus Christ, Len.” Lou shook his head in astonishment. “If you could hear your fucking self right now.” He turned to Jenny. “And you, Miss Honor Student, what do you remember about your Daddy’s job?”

Jenny smiled at her father like she was a hostage negotiator ready to discuss the release of some innocent bystanders. “It was a really stable job, Dad. We all knew that.” She nodded knowingly across the table to Leonard who transformed into a bobblehead right before Lou’s eyes. Jenny then placed a hand over one of Lou’s fists. “You were outside all day, and most days you were home right after our bus dropped us off. We were lucky like that. It was earlier than any of my friends’ parents.” She let go of Lou’s hand, shrugged and took the napkin off her lap, placing it on the table next to her mother’s favorite holiday silverware that her father insisted on using even though it required polishing after cleaning. “It always seemed like a great gig for someone with no college degree.”

Lou pushed his chair away from the table and stared at the ceiling. “With no degree, she says.” Then he leaned forward and tented his hands together in front of his face with his elbows on his knees as if there was a prayer that could be said to help erase the misconceptions he’d allowed his family to go out into the world with. “Well that gets me thinking, Jenny, since I ain’t never spent my money or time in a college did you think my job was simple?”

Buster rolled his eyes before interjecting. “Pop pop, Aunt Jenny’s not showing disrespect.” He looked around the table quickly. “None of us are, right? You had a good job, you worked every day, you put food on the table. I mean, we all know we wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. Who cares about your job? You’re retired now. It’s time to live the easy life already.”

“The easy life ain’t ever been the point, Buster!” Lou was on his feet circling the table.

“I see now that’s been the problem all along. I never shared my struggles with y’all, thinking you too young to know, and you went on believing there weren’t none! Worst part of all is y’all are searching for some easy life that ain’t never comin, because I don’t think there exists something easier than what you’re already living! Did none of ya even think to spend a minute at a stove? Your mother, god bless her soul, cooked every meal, from scratch, for each and every one of you. There wasn’t one minute of that woman’s life when she chose the easy life, because her and I ain’t never thought the easy life was worth our time.”

The children bowed their heads one by one as Lou stopped behind Frankie’s chair and put his hands on his grandson’s shoulders. “Frank, don’t you dare walk away from that job at the first sign of struggle. Let your life stretch you to your limits, don’t back away from the fight of it.”

“Dad,” Jenny whispered, “you can’t advise him to stay in an abusive situation.”

“Honey, struggle ain’t abuse. Hard work, long hours, and earning your wage ain’t abuse. Breaking a sweat, leaving a little piece of yourself in the work ain’t a terrible thing. The comfort and convenience of your life is sapping you dry. I appreciate y’all coming to share a meal with me today, but this food is terrible and your conversations were worse.”

Frankie tapped one of his Grandfather’s hands on his shoulder. “I promise I won’t quit yet, Gramps. The job’s hard and I’m hella tired at the end of the day, but I hear ya. I’ve been proud of myself for doing it.”

Lou squeezed his grandson’s shoulders. “That, my boy, is what I’m talking about! Grandma G’d be proud of you.”

But it was the little sprite with Genevive’s eyes who gave Lou the greatest gift of the night. Eight year old Madison raised her hand and waited until her grandfather’s gaze met hers before speaking. “Grandpa, this food is terrible. GG was the only one whoever made the broccoli good. Do you think I can learn to cook like Grandma? I think maybe, if it’s hard to do, it might make it taste better.”

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The Inspiration

If you are not familiar with the painting by Norman Rockwell called “Expressman” that inspired this story, here is my picture from my trip to The Metropolitan Museum of Art in NYC.

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