Chapter Text
The table is simply set, with reflectively clean silverware placed in pairs at four seats around the table. Clay, the tipsy head of the household that stumbled his way into the kitchen and almost knocked Orel over with his superficial hug, sits, of course, at the head. Bloberta, her good mood noticeably ruined by the presence of her husband and his lack of sobriety, sits to his right. Orel and Christina, the happily married couple, sit side by side across from Bloberta, so that Orel is closest to Clay.
Each of their bowls are filled with soup, and a wooden-weaved basket filled with butter-rolls sits in the middle of them.
Bloberta clears her throat and throws Clay a look, to which he gives a half-nod in response.
“I will, uh, say grace–of course,” Clay announces, a bit unsure of himself and worried that it shows.
Everyone bows their heads.
“Thank you God for the food we are about to eat. Thank you for the time we’re able to have together. Thank you…for giving us the food we have here…to eat–together.” Clay clears his throat. “Um…”
Bloberta opens an eye and peeks over at Clay–his eyes are still shut.
“Thanks for the…air that we breathe. The clothes that we wear…thank you. Thank you, so much. And…thank you for the time we have here together.”
“Ahem.” Bloberta kicks his shin under the table—not violently, just forcefully enough to snap his eyes up and at her own agitated gaze; her forced smile looking more like a grimace by the second.
Clay clears his throat once more. “I guess I already said that, didn’t I? Haha…yeah. So, thank you. Thank you, God…amen,” Clay mumbles out, quick and quiet, wanting the moment to be over.
“Amen.” Orel, Christina, and Bloberta voice in unison.
“Alrighty! Boy, am I starving. Let’s eat!” Clay’s voice is raspy and loud as it cuts what might have been a semi-serene moment.
“Wow, the soup smells like heaven.” Christina licks her lips and grabs her spoon enthusiastically, winking at Orel who gives a small smile back.
“Well if it were heaven then we wouldn’t be eating it—hch—we can’t eat heaven that’s…blasphemous. Very blasphemous! You mind those manners, young lady.” Clay says with his index finger pointed at his daughter-in-law.
Bloberta’s eye twitches and Orel snaps his head towards his father.
“It’s just an expression, Dad,” Orel asserts with a raised brow. His tone is firm, but steady.
Clay shrugs and sucks his teeth; his cheeks go a bit red, but that’s probably just the alcohol.
“So…Clay. Bloberta has been telling Orel and I about all of the projects you’ve been doing around the house; she showed us the downstairs bathroom with that new sink countertop. It looks lovely.”
The chip on Clay’s shoulder practically doubles in size. “What? You didn’t think an old man like me could still be handy? I remember when Blobs told me about that old dresser in our room–one of the legs was chipped and made the whole damn thing lean to one side like this,” Clay leaned over the table to one side, his eyes bulging, “and I fixed it! I…I just fixed it.” He poured himself some wine and downed the whole thing. “I did a good job, too. I did a really good job.”
“Oh, great. How did you fix it?” Christina asked innocently.
“Fix what?”
“...The dresser?” Orel held his breath.
“Dresser…yeah, that old dresser we have upstairs. Did you know that, one time, your mother told me that it was chipped on one of the legs–it was leaning-”
“Ahem. So, Christina, you and Orel are planning a short vacation? You were telling me about that earlier, yes?” Bloberta interjected quickly, changing the subject.
“Yes! We want to take a trip to-”
“Vacation, huh? Like a getaway?” Clay abandons the wine glass beside him and begins taking swigs from the wine bottle itself. “Boy, Orel, do you remember our getaway? Our father-and-son outing when we camped in the woods?”
Orel stiffens.
Christina bites her lip.
Bloberta’s eyes are trained on her husband, wide and waiting; she’s not mad or upset or nervous. She’s just…waiting.
Clay takes another swig.
“Yeah, dad. I remember.” Orel breathes the sentence out, taking Christina’s hand in his.
“That was a fucking trip and a half, wasn’t it? Oh yeah…just a nice ride out into the forest, living off the land, catching rays with your old man.” Clay nods and smiles, his eyes bloodshot, his forehead glistening.
“Clay, please don’t use that language in the house.” Bloberta’s tone is even and cool. She darts her eyes toward her son and daughter-in-law, briefly wearing that painted-on, gold-star smile she’s become somewhat a connoisseur of over the years–but she rips her dinner roll in half with visible force.
Orel and Christina exchange a look.
“My house, you mean. Right? I mean, I’m the one working. I’m the one who pays our mortgage, right? Blobs? I’ll say what I damn well please while in my house, thank you very much.”
Bloberta tilts her head, now staring at the two halves of the ripped apart dinner roll in her hands.
“As I was saying-hch-” Clay takes two swigs from the wine bottle, “that was one important day, wasn’t it, son? That was the day I taught you how to shoot.”
Clay’s getting plastered, and it isn’t just sad to the party at the table anymore; it’s uncomfortable.
Well, Bloberta thinks it’s disgusting.
Christina thinks it’s awkward.
Orel thinks it’s exactly how he thought tonight would go anyway.
“I bet you a buck that won’t be a lesson…you won’t soon forget, huh?” Clay unbuttons the top of his shirt. Bloberta shakes her head at his verbal nonsense.
“I definitely won’t be forgetting that day, dad. Trust me.” Orel has a bite to his words now–Christina clears her throat and smooths out a small crease on Orel’s pant leg. He tries again: “It was interesting. We’ll leave it at that.”
“No, no” Clay shakes his hands in protest, “I’d love to look back on that day with you all. What an incredible time of bonding it was for Orel and I…out in God’s green earth, nothing but the clothes on our backs and the sun in our eyes…”
“Let’s not do that, dad. Okay? We know what happened, alright? I don’t want to…I just want to have a relaxed dinner with you guys. Is that okay?” Orel’s plea is measured and smooth–he even wears a tired smile, willing himself to be as amicable as he can against what’s brewing inside the man drowning himself just beside him.
“Well, why? Why can’t we talk about it? I can talk about whatever I want to in my own house.” Clay continues to hiccup, quickly pouring out what little is left of the wine into his glass–suddenly at use again–and downing it just as fast.
Christina scoots her chair in, getting closer to Orel and to the table. “I really would love to share more about this vacation we’re planning, Clay. I mentioned to Bloberta-”
“You know what, sweetheart, I’m really not that interested. I’d much rather catch up with my son. Heh…my son. My son who couldn’t kill one fucking dear!” The loud cackle that escapes Clay’s mouth causes Christina to jump.
Bloberta is frozen in her seat. She’s still holding the bread, she’s still looking down–but the smile is gone. Orel is shaking his head vigorously, fists clenched.
“Dad, are you serious? What’s wrong with-I mean, I know what’s wrong with you. You…you can’t just disrespect people like that. You can’t talk to Christina that way.” Orel pinches the bridge of his nose.
He was right.
He should have trusted his gut.
This dinner was doomed from the start.
“Mom?”
Bloberta slowly looks up at Orel with a tired smile. “You know your father, Orel. It’s just his…nature.”
Clay is incredulous now. He rolls his eyes and taps on his wine glass. “Honey, I need more wine.” His wife rises without a word and walks to his study.
“Now, I want to know what the big deal is. I just wanted to reminisce, that’s all. Seriously, Orel, why are you being so difficult? Hm?” Clay shakes his head at Christina, his grin nasty and nose scrunched tight. “Can you believe this boy? What do you see in him, sweetie? Really?”
Christina stares at Clay with…
Oh, God.
No.
That look.
Pity.
“Fine, dad.” Orel cuts the beat of silence. “Fine. Let’s reminisce on that great, educational trip we took when I was twelve. The one where you brought more booze than drinking water, shot someone's dog right in front of me and…oh, yeah, shot me in the leg. Right? I guess it’s fair, only because we’re reminiscing, to talk about how you slept through an entire day while I bled out in pain in the dirt and had to defend you from a bear!”
Clay’s brows rise. “Defe- defend me? You-all you did was whine and act like a little girl that whole damn trip. Yeah! And…and, I shot that fucking bear. Not you! Me! I won!”
Christina bites down hard on her lip, keeping her eyes on Orel.
“Won?” Orel’s face says it all–his brows furrowed, his lips pursed, his head cocked to the side. “No, dad. No. No. No,” Orel is up, his hands firm on the table. “Stop. Just stop. This is exactly why I hate coming to see you guys.”
“Oh, that’s rich, isn’t it? D-does my career and life success make you-hch-feel miserable about your failures? Is that it, Mr. Orel Puppington guy?” Clay spits, wiping his now running nose with the sleeve of his shirt.
“Dad…I…” Orel’s head drops. Christina lets out a breath she didn’t realize she started holding.
Clay looks between the two of them, his hands shake slightly. He notices, then quickly throws them up in the air, mock surrendering.
“Okay, so I messed up once. Give me some grace, Orel! Why not, yeah, actually, you know what-” Clay pushes his chair back and wobbles up-“how about we sit here and-hch-talk about…er list off all the mistakes you made in your life. Yeah? How about your failures as a son!”
Orel and Christina only stare at this, someone–this something–that sits in Orel’s father’s chair. It’s a shadow of someone that he used to think of as his dad, someone he called his hero, the one he wanted to please the most…sometimes, even more than he wanted to please God.
“Yeah…oh, yeah it’s all coming back to me now! Remember when you…when you did drugs? Yeah! Y-you were a drug addict. You-hch-bought drugs off of the street and then…then…” Clay scratches his head hard, as if in doing so he’ll dig up the detailed memories of the mistakes Orel made when he was a young, impressionable, innocent child.
It doesn’t work.
Clay just huffs, looking at Orel.
“Dad…you’re a bad person.”
Clay blinks.
“You’re a terrible father.”
Clay gulps.
“You’re-”
Christina stands and takes her husband’s hand.
“We’ll be leaving now, Clay. Tell Bloberta that the soup was lovely.” Orel sucks in a breath, lets it go, looks at his wife, and nods.
He doesn’t smile, but having Christina’s hand in his is like a safe anchor amidst the storm swirling inside of him.
The two begin to gather their bowls and silverware. Clay is speechless and…
Tears?
“...Orel, now…hold on.”
“Here’s the wine, Clay.” Bloberta gently places another wine bottle in front of Clay. “Here, take a minute to look these over as well. I want the divorce to be as quick a process as we can make it.”
A pile of papers, placed just as gently and just as close in front of Clay on the dining table, holds the attention of everyone in the room.
“I thought it would be a bad time, but, then, no…” Bloberta doesn’t sit down, in fact, she glides across the room to take her son’s and wife’s bowls from them. “It’s quite a perfect time, actually.”
She disappears into the kitchen, humming some sweet-sounding tune.