The Dinner

by: martin ferris

“Wait…You’re what?”

“Yeah….It’s true.”

“Doesn’t that mean you have like 4 moms? How’s that for you?” She smiles as she puts the menu on the table, placing her chin in her cupped hands supported by her elbows resting on the menu.

“Eff you,” he smiles back, without looking up from this menu.

“Wait, you don’t swear either? You just euphemize with the first letter of the swear word? What is that? You’re really too much, you know that?” She clasps both hands together and sets them on the table. “So, you’re really into this whole church thing then, right?”

“Just average, I guess. What are you going to order?”

“I don’t know—the steak, the halibut, the eggplant. I can’t ever decide until they come and ask.” She lifts her right forefinger and lazily points it at the boy, “Seriously though, I heard Mormons are polygamists. Are they? I mean, are you?” She keeps her eyes trained on his head, which is still buried in the menu.

He pokes his head over the menu, eyes still trained on the choices, and asks, “Do you think the Thai Chicken Salad has peanuts?”

“God! Can’t you just answer the question?” She takes a drink, shakes her head slightly back and forth.

“I’m sorry,” He smirks slightly, “But I just don’t like peanuts that much. But I do love chicken. It’s what my moms always made for me.”

“Ha! I knew it.” She slaps her two open palms onto the table. The couple sitting next to them eyes them without turning their heads. “So…” She laughs, “How many were there?”

“Nine,” he says as he looks around (for the waiter, perhaps?).

“Yeah, right,” (She is still laughing).

“Yep. Let’s see, there was” he begins counting on his fingers “Martha, Sarah, Caroline, Leeane, Nicole, Gene, Mary, Emma, and Penelope.” He shows her his nine fingers. “Where is the effing waiter?” He drops his fingers and closes his menu, places it on the table, looking past the girl.

“Penelope? That’s the best you could come up with?”

“Fools shall mock, my friend.” He looks straight at her. “Penelope was my birth mother. Please don’t laugh at her name. She didn’t have the easiest life. She was the last sister-wife of nine. You have any idea how hard that is?” Unsmiling, he sips his water. “The first wife, Martha, was a slave-driver. Plus she resented my mom. Martha was 65 when my dad, also 65, married my 22-year-old mother. You can understand her resentment. I have older siblings who were twice the age of my mother.” He turns his head again, “Can you see the waiter?”

The girl holds her glass with one hand—semi limp at head’s height—elbow resting on the menu. “Older siblings, huh?” She places her glass down, folds her arms on the table—shoulders raised slightly—and leans forward. She is still smiling.

“Yeah. 37 in all, if I remember correctly—it’s not really a time I care to remember. I didn’t really know my oldest siblings. They were more like distant uncles and aunts. We didn’t even live in the same town.” His eyes shoot to oncoming movement, “Finally, here comes the waiter. You ready?”

“What? Oh. Right. I will be. But I don’t like that you’re fucking with me.”

He looks up quickly with wide eyes (Hurt? Offended?), “Why would I be effing with you?”

“I don’t know, asshole,” she whispers just as the waiter reaches the table.

“You folks ready?” The waiter talks with a slight, unidentifiable accent.

“Does the Thai Chicken Salad have peanuts?” The boy asks.

“Nope.”

“Good. I’ll have that.”

“And for you?” The waiter turns to the girl.

“Um….” She pauses, looks at the boy, “I’ll have the steak, medium rare.”

“Great. Anything to drink?” The waiter addresses both boy and girl.

“Should we get a bottle of wine?” She is smiling again.

The boy shakes his head. “Sorry,” he adds.

“The Mormon thing again?” She says this as both a question and a statement.

He raises his shoulders and puts his arms out with his palms upward. He makes a sound that is a cross between “yeah” and “eh?.”

“Unbelievable.” She now turns to the waiter. “Can you believe this guy? He’s a Mormon. You know, he goes to church and shit like that. He can’t drink, and he has nine moms.”

After a pregnant pause, the waiter ventures an “Uh….great. So…no drinks?

The girl shakes her head no.

The boy says, “Diet Coke please.”

“What were we talking about?” He asks as the waiter leaves.

“You were busy bullshitting me about your older siblings,” She pushes her dark brown hair out of her right eye, and looks at him with an I’m-all-ears look.

“I have no reason to B.S. you.” He looks down at his utensils. “I usually don’t tell people about it when I first meet them. I guess I know why. I didn’t appreciate you shooting off your mouth to the waiter. People around here can be very judgmental about that sort of thing,” He looks up at her. “I didn’t think you would be too.”

She slightly cocks her head to the side, “Look at you, Mr. Sensitive.” She laughs. I didn’t realize you were such a Mommy’s boy, but then again, you did have 9, right?”

He says nothing.

“Oh…what’s wrong? Did Mr. Sensitive get his feelings hurt?” She talks like she’s talking to a baby.

“I’d rather we didn’t talk about this,” he softly offers.

“Wait, wait, wait, wait. Hold the phone. Are you telling me you’re serious? You ARE a polygamist?” Her smile softens almost imperceptibly. She moves her arms so they are parallel, 3 feet apart, and facing the boy. Her hands are clenched loosely.

“Not exactly,” he says.

She visibly relaxes, moves her right arm in slightly.

“I mean, I don’t practice polygamy now—we actually like to call it plural marriage—but I definitely grew up in it.”

Her arm moves back into place. No smile now. “Wait, so you were serious about that?” He nods his head. “I feel like shit for making fun of it. I guess I’m sorry.” A pause. “How was it? I mean, was it hard on you? I want you to tell me every little thing about it, at least if you feel comfortable with that.”

“I mean, it wasn’t so different from a normal family, I guess. We ate together, prayed together, sang together….”

“You sang together?”

“Sure,” he takes a drink, “A family who sings together, stays together. We used to have a family band. I played guitar, three of my brothers played fiddle. I had one sister who had a killer voice. Of course, that was before the incident.”

“What? The incident? What happened?”

“Oh, its hard to talk about.”

“Come on, you are killing me. Tell me now!”

“Well we were playing a sold-out show one night, and what we thought was the spotlight, actually was an incoming space ship. That’s when the robot-aliens took over and began transplanting our skin and turning us into mimicking machines and….” He laughs a laugh that gets caught in his throat, so he can’t finish the thought. Then he laughs again, but tries to keep it in a closed mouth.

“What?” She shrieks. “So you WERE bullshitting me?” She is smiling, mouth slightly open, and sitting up straight. Her hair has fallen back over her eyes. She sharply flips it out of the way with her right hand and slaps her arm down to her side. “You bastard!”

“What?” he manages defensively, though he is laughing steadily now.

“Fucking bastard!” She laughs.

“I don’t know where you heard Mormons are polygamists, but it’s not true.” He laughs again. “But I’m glad you did because that, my friend, was classic.”

“I hate you.” She is laughing with him now. “Seriously, I want you to die a slow and painful death.” She shakes her head, “God!”

“Relax, Relax,” he puts his arm out like he is going to comfort her with a pat on the shoulder. “People will stare.”

“Shut up,” She is finished laughing, but still has a smile. “So how did I hear Mormons are polygamists?”

“What do you mean?” The boy says into his cup, as he finishes off his water.

“I mean—you lying son of a bitch—if Mormons aren’t polygamists, how did I get that in my head?” She takes the saltshaker and screws the lid off and then on again.

“I don’t know—how did Columbus think the world was flat? How did Hitler think the Jews were inferior?” He smiles wryly.

“Oooohhh,” she blurts in faux-disgust, “So I’m a bigoted, imperialistic murderer now?”

“If the hat fits…” the boy fishes out a piece of ice by tipping the cup into his mouth.

“So you’re telling me,” She asks over the crunching noise of his ice, “That Mormons were never polygamists?”

“No, No,” he says as he chews. “I didn’t say that.” He swallows the ice; “I just said we don’t practice it now.”

“WTF? What are you, a lawyer? So what’s the actual story?” She takes to her cup to find some ice for herself, fishing it out with her tongue.

He doesn’t reply, just watches. His eyes go from her searching tongue, to her of brown hair over her eyes, to her bare olive shoulders, and then back to her exploratory tongue.

“Well?” She asks with a mouthful of ice.

“Huh?” He shakes his head slightly.

“Hello…The polygamist thing? What’s the story?”

“Oh” he says with a start, “It’s a long and boring story, not really dinner conversation, you know what I mean? Plus, I’m still not sure if I trust you with my personal information.” He smiles as he talks.

“OK,” she says, “But you'll tell me about it sometime.” She pauses, sits back in her chair. “I think we’ll probably have plenty of chances to get the whole story straight.” She smiles and brings her hands off the table into her lap.

“Yeah?” the boy says, almost invisibly nodding his head.

The girl shrugs her shoulders and nods back--all the while sucking on the piece of ice she finally retrieved from the cup.