Dinner Drama

Jason has inherited his mother's total lack of humor. I don't know; maybe he's funny and I'm not. We just don't laugh much together is all I can say for sure. My son Jason is this incredible-looking kid—paint him yellow, he'd mop up for the school sumo team. A blimp. All the time stuffing his face. I watch my weight and old Helen is only visible full front plus on top of which she is this leading child shrink in Manhattan and our kid can roll faster than he can walk. "He's expressing himself through food," Helen always says. "His anxieties. When he feels ready to cope, he'll slim down."

"Hey, Jason? Mom tells me this book arrived today. The Princess thing? I'd sure like it if maybe you'd give it a read while I'm gone. I loved it when I was a kid and I'm kind of interested in your reaction."

"Do I have to love it too?" He was his mother's son all right.

"Jason, no. Just the truth, exactly what you think. I miss you, big shot. And I'll talk to you on your birthday."

"Boy, are you wrong. Today is my birthday."

We bantered a bit more, long past when there was much to say. Then I did the same with my spouse, and hung up, promising a return by the end of one week.

It took two.

Conferences dragged, producers got inspirations that had to carefully get shot down, directors needed their egos soothed. Anyway, I was longer than anticipated in sunny Cal. Finally, though, I was allowed to return to the care and safety of the family, so I quick buzzed to L.A. airport before anybody's mind changed. I got there early, which I always do when I come back, because I had to load up my pockets with doodads and such for Jason. Every time I get home from a trip he runs (waddles) to me hollering, "Lemmesee, lemmesee the pockets" and then he goes through all my pockets taking out his graft, and once the loot is totaled, he gives me a nice hug. Isn't it awful what we'll do in this world to feel wanted?

"Lemmesee the pockets," Jason shouted, moving to me across the foyer. It was a suppertime Thursday and, while he went through his ritual, Helen emerged from the library and kissed my cheek, going "what a dashing-looking fellow I have," which is also ritual, and, laden with gifts, Jason kind of hugged me and belted off (waddled off) to his room. "Angelica's just getting dinner on," Helen said; "you couldn't have timed it better."

"Angelica?"

Helen put her finger to her lips and whispered, "It's her third day on but I think she may be a treasure."

I whispered back, "What was wrong with the treasure we had when I left? She'd only been with us a week then?"

"She proved a disappointment," Helen said. That was all. (Helen is this brilliant lady—junior Phi Bete in college, every academic honor conceivable, really an intellect of startling breadth and accomplishment—only she can't keep a maid. First, I guess she feels guilty having anybody, since most of the anybody's available nowadays are black or Spanish and Helen is ultra-super liberal. Second, she's so efficient, she scares them. She can do everything better than they can and she knows it and she knows they know it. Third, once she's got them panicked, she tries to explain, being an analyst, why they shouldn't be frightened, and after a good solid half-hour ego search with Helen, they're really frightened. Anyway, we have had an average of four "treasures" a year for the last few years.)

"We've been running in bad luck but it'll change," I said, just as reassuringly as I knew how. I used to heckle her about the help problem, but I learned that was not necessarily wise.

Dinner was ready a little later, and with an arm around my wife and an arm around my son, I advanced toward the dining room. I felt, at that moment, safe, secure, all the nice things. Supper was on the table: creamed spinach, mashed potatoes, gravy and pot roast; terrific, except I don't like pot roast, since I'm a rare-meat man, but creamed spinach I have a lech for, so, all in all, a more than edible spread was set across the tablecloth. We sat. Helen served the meat; the rest we passed. My pot-roast slice was not terribly moist but the gravy could compensate. Helen rang. Angelica appeared. Maybe twenty or eighteen, swarthy, slow-moving. "Angelica," Helen began, "this is Mr. Goldman."

I smiled and said "Hi" and waved a fork. She nodded back.

"Angelica, this is not meant to be construed as criticism, since what happened is all my fault, but in the future we must both try very hard to remember that Mr. Goldman likes his roast beef rare—"

"This was roast beef?" I said.

Helen shot me a look. "Now, Angelica, there is no problem, and I should have told you more than once about Mr. Goldman's preferences, but next time we have boned rib roast, let's all do our best to make the middle pink, shall we?"

Angelica backed into the kitchen. Another "treasure" down the tubes.

Remember now, we all three started this meal happy. Two of us are left in that state, Helen clearly being distraught.

Jason was piling the mashed potatoes on his plate with a practiced and steady motion.

I smiled at my kid. "Hey," I tried, "let's go a little easy, huh, fella?"

He splatted another fat spoonful onto his plate.

"Jason, they're just loaded," I said then.

"I'm really hungry, Dad," he said, not looking at me.

"Fill up on the meat then, why don't you," I said. "Eat all the meat you want, I won't say a word."

"I'm not eatin' nothin'!" Jason said, and he shoved his plate away and folded his arms and stared off into space.

"If I were a furniture salesperson," Helen said to me, "or perhaps a teller in a bank, I could understand; but how can you have spent all these years married to a psychiatrist and talk like that. You're out of the Dark Ages, Willy."