The Painted Table(80)

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN



STUFFED RIBS





What began as a relaxing evening catching up with the newspapers suddenly changes when Jack looks up and suggests they should invite his boss and wife to dinner. Saffee, lounging on the love seat, drops her paper and sits up straight. “You’re kidding, right?”

After Saffee’s angst when she cohosted the Tupperware party with Gail, he knew he could expect some hesitancy. “It would be a good way to get to know them,” he says. “Good for all of us. And you’ll like Leonard Johnson. He’s a really nice guy. I’m fortunate to work for him.” Jack tells her that his boss was recently transferred to Minneapolis, so he and his wife probably know few people in the area and would appreciate the invitation.

“Where are they from?”

“Louisville, Kentucky, I think. Somewhere down south.”

“Southerners? Oh, Jack. I’m not ready to compete with southern hospitality yet.”

“But, Saffee . . .”

“No, Jack. I’m sorry.”

Jack settles back into the turquoise vinyl chair and picks up his softball and glove. He thwaps the ball into the pocket a few times, a habit Saffee is still trying to get used to. She knows the matter is not settled.

Her memory shuffles through snapshots of her mother’s pathetic attempts to entertain. She feels a queasiness not unlike that she used to experience before playing in a piano recital.

From the lumpy love seat, she scans their hand-me-down furniture.

“Honey, look at this place,” she says. “You know I love it—it’s great for you and me, but . . . your boss? They probably live in a very affluent neighborhood.”

Jack says nothing.

Then she looks into the nook they call a dining room and knows the clincher. “Look, Jack, all we have in our so-called dining room is a Modigliani poster that’s not even framed.” The stylized, long-necked portrait seems to smirk at her, daring to be compared to the “real art” that must hang in the Johnson home. “We absolutely can’t have company for dinner without an appropriate table. The stripping won’t be finished for weeks . . . maybe months. We’ll just have to wait on entertaining.”

Jack’s expression says he doesn’t accept her arguments. He gestures toward the kitchen and their small Formica dinette set with its tubular stainless steel legs and four matching chairs with red plastic seats.

“Honey, that table works just fine. Don’t we use it every day? We’ll just carry it into the dining room and throw a tablecloth over it.”

He moves to sit beside her. Crestfallen, she drops her head onto his shoulder. He doesn’t get it. Neither one speaks for a few moments. In his gentle way, Jack asks, “Did you ever have any good times around the Norway table?”

“I . . . I can’t remember any.”

“Let’s change that.”

She looks dubious.

Family tables are more than just places to eat, he says. Much of his young life was around a table. Jack laces his fingers behind his head and gazes upward, as if childhood scenes replay on the ceiling. The dining room table was where he glued balsa airplanes together, he tells her, and where he played a million games of cribbage with his brother. His mother did her daily crossword puzzle there, and his dad paid bills and studied the stock market.

“When we had company,” he says, “I remember more than the food. I remember my uncle recounting the same war stories over and over. And my cousins telling such unfunny jokes we howled.” Jack’s eyes linger for a moment, the corners of his mouth turned up. “Oh yeah, and Mother always cautioning me not to eat so fast—when sometimes I was slipping my food down to the dog. What a great place it was to be—for all of us, not just the dogs.”

She is jealous beyond words of his memories. She can’t believe he has even more to tell.

“When Danny and I got older,” Jack says, “after meals we all lingered at the table drinking coffee, talking about life—God, politics, philosophy. I’ve realized that those conversations became foundational to my entire belief system. It was the place where Dad encouraged us to formulate what he called a worldview. Oh, if tables could talk,” he says, summing up his reverie.

Jack’s account helps her to better understand why he has a social consciousness, as well as an intellectual life. It had been built over the years with the help of his family and their guests, and now he was sharing it with her. Saffee is relieved tables can’t talk.

“Oh, Jack,” she blurts, turning to face him, “I really want to have what you describe. It’s silly to be afraid of good experiences.” She swallows the lump in her throat. “I must get over this.”