Who's Coming For Dinner?

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Who’s Coming for Dinner?

T. Yger

Carol’s smile appears behind Art when he opens the door. I am always happiest when these monthly dinners happen at their home. Something about the coziness, the hominess of their early sixties’ era house, the way they keep it, how it is furnished, reminds me of my youth. And the food is always memorable.

Stepping into the humidity caused by boiling pots of potatoes and vegetables, the comfortable warmth of a kitchen in full production stirs my appetite, warms my soul, and fogs my glasses. For a couple in their late seventies, Art and Carol are not ones to shy away from work. And they make it look so easy.

“Come in, come in,” Carol beckons with one grasping hand. “Curtis and Trinity are already here. They’re in the living room.”

“Smells like heaven,” I say, giving Art’s thick hand a shake and Carol’s pudgy cheek a peck. They remind me of my grandparents, only a little thicker. Life has been good for them, and they are enjoying it. Ellen, my wife of thirty years, offers to help in the kitchen, follows Carol as though sucked into the vortex her wide hips vacated. She is a veritable semi truck heading down the hallway, through the living room and around the corner into the kitchen.

“Beer boy?” Art offers, opening the door of the fridge in the vestibule just inside their back door. No one uses the front, which opens into the dining room. The back door, actually a side door, is the way in.

“You know me.” I accept the can, beaded with cold condensation, snapping the top open with a satisfying hiss. He takes the six-pack I brought with me and adds it to the stock in the fridge.

Following him to the living room, we engage in small talk. The weather, health, it doesn’t take long since we speak frequently.

“Curtis,” I shake his hand when he stands from the sofa he’d been reclining on. I love his crooked smile, bright teeth, honest eyes. It reminds me of the actor, Matt Damon, although the resemblance ends with the smile. Voluntarily bald, Curtis’ head shows a few days worth of stubble. He normally has it shaved smooth, but isn’t opposed to letting it out once in a while. His wife, Trinity, sits in Art’s recliner. She’s the only one allowed to sit there except Art. She is a bubbly lady, a little large through the middle due to complications during the birth of her youngest that left her with some mobility challenges. Unable to exercise, hardly able to walk, she’d been promised surgery to get her back on her feet, but our crappy healthcare system had delayed that for twelve years. She struggled to bring the chair to sitting and then to stand. I tried to save her that effort.

“You don’t need to stand. I’ll come to you.”

“But look,” she says, standing, holding her hands out to her sides, “I can stand now and am happy to do so. I’m getting into a walking routine so I can start getting rid of this.” She grips the bulk of her stomach.

“Oh,” Art pipes up. “Guess you won’t be needing that chair any longer.” He points, taking a step toward it.

She sits back down, quick, having given me a hug around my neck and a quick kiss on the lips. “I don’t be thinking so.” She smiles up at him, knowing he was only kidding.

I want to encourage her so I pretend I can already see progress with her weight loss. She beams at me.

The doorbell rings.

“Must be Allan and Jacquie.” Carol comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “Go let them in, Art.” She waves him toward the side door. A few minutes later, after the noise of greetings settled down, the three of them parade in. I note Jacquie is looking great. She is a slim woman, with dark hair and a serious expression. She is so pretty when she smiles. I don’t know why she doesn’t do it more often.

Allan is exactly the opposite. He is always smiling, full of energy and jokes. Tonight, was no exception as he came in making a big deal about his socks which were festooned with his favourite superhero. “He’s such a child,” Jacquie said with a dour look on her face. I am certain she was kidding. Maybe I just don’t understand her sense of humour.

“Someone come and set the table.” Carol commanded. White haired, big busted, she is a force not to be denied. But the brusk exterior she often displays, is camouflage for a heart of gold. I enjoy kibitzing with her, and she has often hip-checked me to maintain her superiority. I am happy to give her that because she feeds me well.

All of us guys move to comply with her request. It’s a great opportunity to share work and catch up a bit with each other. While we set out the silverware, Allan shares with us that Jacquie is likely going to have to have a mastectomy. Speaking in low tones, he explains she went in last week for a biopsy of a mass in her breast and they are waiting the results. “She’s pretty stressed and doesn’t want to talk about it, so I never said anything. Got it?”

During dinner, which includes three bottles of wine, we discuss all the popular topics and finally the conversation turns to what game we are going to play tonight. My hope is for charades or Pictionary. I do pretty good with those, but my wife Ellen says we haven’t played Screw Your Neighbour, a card game, in a long time.

“I want to play Truth or Dare,” Jacquie announces.

“What’s that?” Carol asks. “I don’t remember playing it.”

Jacquie looks at her while most of us smile behind our hands. We know that game and its pretty risqué. I am certain Jacquie is just kidding.

“Each person gets to choose if they get a question or a dare. Whoever’s turn it is can ask any question or make any dare. If the person lies, or doesn’t do the dare, the asker gets to make them do anything they want as punishment.”

“Like make them give all the money in their wallet?” Art asks. He’s a capitalist.

“I’ve never seen anyone do that,” Jacquie responds, and I wonder just how many times she’s played that game. It’s been a lot of years since I last played in my teens. She looks around the table, smiling, then continues, “It’s a good way to get to know people better.”

I just about laugh out loud at that comment. It sounds pretty innocent, but I know what lies behind it.

“That sounds like fun,” Carol declares, and we all know the issue has been settled.

While the men clear the table and do the dishes, the women prepare for the game by making cardboard tiles with numbers on them. After the men clear the hassock out of the middle of the living room, each of us choose a tile from the two piles. Whoever gets one, gets to ask first, whoever gets A, will be the first to be asked. I drew three and B. Carol drew one, and Trevor got A.

We settle into the living room to play.

“So, what do I do?” Carol asks. She looks at each of us for direction.

Jacquie tells her, “First, Trevor has to say if he wants a truth or a dare.”

“I’ll take a truth,” he responds. A look crosses his face. Maybe he’s worried just what he might be asked to reveal.

“Ok Carol.” Jacquie continues her guidance. “You ask him any question you want.”

Carol looks down, muttering to herself, then her head snaps up. “How much money do you make in a year as a counsellor?” I guess Art isn’t the only capitalist living in this house.

“What?” Curtis blurts out. “What kind of question is that for this game?”

Carol’s lower lip puffs out. “She said I could ask any question I wanted.”

“Yeah.” Curtis speaks slow, with a bit of a drawl. “But they’re generally more personal than that.”

“Well,” Carol glares at him, “I think that’s pretty personal. What did you expect me to ask? How big his dick is?”

“Actually.” Trinity smiles and sits forward. “That’s more what I’ve heard before.”

“Oh, really?” Carol stares for a moment. I can almost hear the gears grinding behind her eyes. “Ok, then. How about, do you have a chub?”

“Now we’re talking,” Curtis chuckles. Art guffaws.

Allan looks at her with a quizzical expression. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“She wants to know how thick your penis is,” Jacquie states. After a moment, when Trevor doesn’t answer, she adds,” It’s not a chub. He’s got a nice one, but its not a chub.”

Trevor sits back, shaking his head. “I don’t know if I like this game.”

“It’ll get better,” I reassure him. I don’t want anyone spoiling the mood. I have a bit of a chub in my pants just thinking about the possibilities.

“I don’t even know what a chub is,” Trevor declares.

There is a smattering of laughter. Trinity says, “He didn’t answer the question. Doesn’t that mean he has to suffer the consequences?”

A look of shock crosses Trevor’s face. “Consequences?”

“Yeah,” I offer, “If you lie or don’t answer, whoever’s asking can tell you something you have to then do.” I paused a moment while his expression turned to one of horror before I added, “but, since he’s just learning, I think he should get a pass.”

“Yeah, yeah, a pass.” Trevor’s eyes grow wide, and he nods his head.

“What pass?” Carol asks. “I could make him show us his non-chub?” And then she laughs as though she would never ask that.

“Technically,” Trinity responds, “but since its his first time, I vote he gets a pass.”

There were a few “yeahs,” and “I guesses,” but Carol continues her protest. “What’s this pass? No more passes.” Trevor sits back, a sigh of relief escaping him.

“Ok, who’s next? This is fun.” Carol laughs.

“I have two,” Curtis announces. “Who had B?”

“Me,” I say, hoping he doesn’t make this too weird.

“Truth or dare?” He asks. Someone says “Dare.” But I’m not biting. Knowing where this could lead has already given me a woody.

“Truth.”

“Alright.” Curtis looks at Ellen, then back to me. “When and where did you last have sex?”

Ellen blushes, since whatever I say will include her. I make a big deal about thinking, as though it’s difficult to remember. Then I answer, “Yesterday, morning, in the bathroom.”

Ellen’s face blazes red. We’d had an unexpected session, with me bending her over the sink. We’ve fallen into sexual doldrums, not feeling that urge too often. It had been particularly satisfying with both of us feeling the need.