Table Manners
 

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) running, 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.

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.






©2005 Jim Sutton
all rights reserved.

originally published at
http://jimsdesk.goodwordusa.org
reproduced here by the author