table manners -- a short story
Jim
(Bitterness always takes more away from us than it can ever give back.)
We all sat around the table, in arranged seating. Well, the only arrangement
in the seating was that we should sit boy-girl-boy-girl, even though we were
all quite old. All of us, that is, except for the host's own son.
Whatever appetite we might have had earlier was gone now. Everyone kept
glancing to the end of the table, where the host's chair sat empty.
After a pleasant night at the theater, we had been invited to this usually
happy gathering. It was George Kingsley's way. He loved the life of
celebration and gathering. He loved the sounds of laughter and soft music.
He loved wine and food, but not really to excess. He simply loved to be
among his friends. And everyone he met was his friend.
George and Marianne had already raised a family. In fact, they had several
young grandchildren that from time to time could be seen (and heard)
screaming and laughing through the large old house and gardens. But the one
son, the youngest of their five children, had not been able to take hold of
life with the same joy and success that the others all enjoyed.
Doctors had examined him, but had never been able to discover what it was
that made him so cross, so unwilling to face the tasks and challenges of
life with anything but rage. He was every bit as bright as all the other
children and capable of a wry and subtle humor. And he might have been a
mathematician had he been willing to complete his schooling. But he was
broken inside, twisted into a knot of bitterness. He was both unwilling and
unable to learn a trade, and so he remained without any earned income of his
own.
George was not a hard man. And he was well off, having inherited a small
fortune from his hard-working father who had been in shipping. George had
then taken that money and multiplied it many times as a young man, through
several careful and wise investments. Life had been very good to him, and he
was kind and generous of heart in return. He gave away more money in a
single year than most people saw in a lifetime.
George had found a quiet cottage, not far from town, with pleasant grounds
and a small grove of ancient oaks. He had purchased the land for his son and
had given to the young man outright. There was even an older couple working
there, whose salary was paid by George himself. The man kept the grounds and
house in repair, and the old woman took care of cooking and cleaning. And
George even provided his son with a decent income of his own.
But the young man was not happy. After a few years in the cottage he had
returned to the family home, moving back into his old childhood room. George
and Marianne made him welcome. That was just three years ago, the year
before Marianne had the accident that would eventually take her life.
Usually the troubled son kept to his room during the day. At night he would
often wander the grounds and gardens and barns of the estate. Even in the
most violent weather, he could sometimes be seen in the momentary glare of
lightening flashes, running like a wild beast from tree to tree, or even
dancing naked out in the lashing rain.
But tonight he had wanted to dine with his father and the invited guests. He
had come down as we were arriving. Dressed in a black wool suite that must
have belonged to his late grandfather. His hair was unusually long, and he
wore a slight beard. As always he refused to wear glasses even though his
eyesight was poor. So his eyes were in a permanent squint, pulling the ends
of his mouth up into a joyless sneer. More like a grimace.
I was just giving my hat to the butler when I overheard George say, "Why
certainly, Donald. You know that you are always welcomed at the table. This
is your house and these are our good friends."
But now we all just sat there, boy-girl-boy-girl-boy-girl, all around the
table. No one moved. No one knew what to do or say. Not even the quickest
among us had known what to say or do as the events had unfolded.
Donald and George had left the room. George had asked his son to join him
for a moment in the kitchen, to look at one of the sweet cakes that was to
be served. But we all knew that he wanted to try and calm his son who had
become increasingly agitated at the table -- apparently in an argument with
himself.
From the table we could hear Donald's voice rising in anger. Barely could we
hear George's own hushed and calm voice as he tried reasoning gently with
his son. Then there was some kind of shriek. Not from George, but from
Donald. And there was a sound then, as of something like a sack of potatoes
hitting the floor.
It seemed that everyone turned in a single move to look at George's empty
chair. Only a little while ago, we were all laughing at one of George's
jokes. We were all stunned by the sudden, unexpected turn of events. All of
us sat there, unmoving, for what seemed like a very long time. Now something
tragic had happened. Slowly it was sinking in. Then we all seemed t
Just as several of us jumped to our feet to go and see what had happened,
Donald came back through the swinging doors of the kitchen into the dining
room. He walked slowly. And for the first time that I can remember, he had
an actual smile on his face.
I, along with several others, came around the large table to meet him. He
extended one hand that still gripped a bloody knife, not threatening but
offering it to us. A couple of the men pushed through the doors into the
kitchen, where they found George's body on the floor in a pool of blood.
Some of us took hold of Donald, but he pushed ahead, seating himself at the
head of the table, in his father's empty chair. He calmly picked up a napkin
and began wiping the blood from his right hand. Still smiling, he looked
around the room, and motioned with both hands, bloody napkin and all, for
everyone to return to the table. But no one moved to be reseated.
Then he spoke.
"I don't understand what all the fuss is about. I sat here at the table,
minding my own business. I held my fork in my right fist, even though I am
left-handed. I was careful to drink from my own glass, instead of from the
pitcher. And I even placed my food on my plate when it wasn't stuck on the
end of my fork."
He looked around at everyone and chuckled at the shock and dismay that was
clearly visible on every face. Then he said, "There's just no pleasing some
people." And again he waved his hands, motioning for everyone to return to
their seats.
When no one moved, he spoke again.
"Ladies and gentlemen, our beloved host will not be rejoining us for the
rest of the evening. He's had a little health trouble, an upset in his
stomach. There seems to have been some external bleeding. And when I last
saw him, he was curled up tightly on the floor. But I believe it's okay now.
He no longer seems to be in any pain. Oh, and I want everyone to know that
I used the proper knife."
And with that his calm demeanor suddenly exploded into laughter. And as I
listened, it didn't sound insane at all, which surprised me at the time. He
was still laughing, in fact, when the police arrived.
Jim
©2005 Jim Sutton
all rights reserved.
originally published at
www.jimsdesk.com
reproduced here by the author