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Jim Cooke pulled his moderately priced mid-sized family sedan into the driveway of his suburban two-story home. He saw Ed Buckley on his lawn trying to get his mower started as he stepped out of the car. Jim waved with a briefcase in his hand as he walked to his front door. Ed returned, face red and sweaty with effort. His open Hawaiian shirt revealed a belly to match his face. Jim laughed as he twisted the doorknob and entered the house in one swift motion. His attempt to say, "I'm home," was intercepted by a frantic golden retriever and a seven year old boy in hot pursuit. "Hey, hey. Calm down now." They might've heard the second "hey." Jim set his briefcase on the floor by the coat rack under which he carefully took off and set each shoe perpendicular to the wall. He walked into the kitchen as he loosened his tie and was greeted by the image of his wife Susan facing away from him, hunched over the counter. He cautiously approached and stood behind her, wrapping his arm around her middle. He pressed his lips to her cheek and pressed other parts of him into other parts of her. "Why do you read that? You're so morbid," he whispered almost inaudibly into her ear. She spun around in his arms and answered with a kiss. "So what's for dinner? Or should we skip right to desert?" "You be patient," she said slyly as she playfully pushed him away. She walked away from him and he dutifully followed. Just then, they heard two pairs of footsteps come down the stairs in unison. Jim stuck his head out the kitchen door and saw his twelve year-old daughter with some boy. Jim's eyes went grim. They were holding hands. The pair walked out the door that shut behind them. The golden retriever and the seven year old boy appeared again, both to look out the window. Jim's shirt pulled him from the door back to the kitchen but only because it was attached to his wife at the moment. "Come on, it's time for dinner," she said, pulling him to the dining room. Jim sat at the head of the table and watched the seven year-old boy zip to his seat at the table, the golden retriever sitting at his side. His name was Sam. The boy, not the dog. They hadn't yet named the dog. Sam suggested they name the dog Sam as well and didn't understand why his parents would find it so confusing. The front door opened and shut, announcing Jill as she walked into the dining room. Jill was Jim's daughter. "So Jill, who was that?" asked a concerned Jim. "No one," she replied, staring at her plate. "That was her booooyfriend," informed Sam. "Oh," said an unpleasantly surprised Jim. "They were kiiiiissing!" added Sam. "We were not!" said Jill, blushing a fierce red that said that they had indeed been kissing. "Oh," said Jim again who looked to his wife who was just smiling. The golden retriever barked, which broke the family into laughter. "So honey, what's for dinner?" Jim finally asked. "Oh well, let's see. We're having..." She picked up the paper she had been reading in the kitchen. "We're having leg of Ted Johnson." "Oh boy! I call the foot!" shouted Sam. "No fair, you always get the foot!" Jill pouted. "Sam," Susan said in her motherly tone. The tone said, "You better share you little brat," and of course Sam was apt to listen to the tone. "Fine, you can have the toes," Sam said, defeated. "Okay," said Jill, suppressing her glee. Toes were her favorite part. "It says here that this Ted Johnson was from Brooklyn. He was a-" "Sweetie, I wish you wouldn't read those dinner bios at the table," Jim pleaded. "I just find them fascinating. Oh, by the way. The Duncan's want to have us over some time next week. They say they just got their hands on some veal." |