Imperfect Chemistry

by Mary Frame

I manage to get out of an uncomfortable dinner situation by volunteering to sit at the kids’ table. My mom set up the food buffet style, so after I’ve filled my plate, I sit in the breakfast nook with the children while the rest of the adults, including Jensen, converge in the formal dining room.

  “Is Jensen your boyfriend?” my six-year-old niece Katie asks.

  So much for avoiding that question.

  “No,” I answer quickly. “Well, technically, he’s a boy and he’s my friend so in that sense of the word yes. But otherwise, no.”

  She looks at me blankly.

  “Do you have kids?” This from Tom’s young son David. I think he’s four. He watches me, waiting for an answer while he licks the butter off of his bread roll.

  “No,” I say.

  “Why not?”

  I think about it for a few seconds. It’s on the tip of my tongue to respond with a scientific answer about insemination and the reproductive cycle, but I’m not sure Tom would appreciate that. “Because I’m not married,” I say finally.

  “Do you like kids?” Katie again.

  “I like you,” I answer.

  “Why aren’t you married?” she asks.

  That’s when Jensen decides to make an appearance, plate in hand. “Is there room for me in here?”

  I scoot over and he sits next to me in the booth and starts shoveling food in.

  “Can’t stand the heat?” I ask him.

  “Sam,” he says, shaking his head and trying to finish chewing the food in his mouth before continuing.

  I save him the trouble. “Put a pea in his nose?” I ask.

  Jensen looks at me sharply.

  “While everyone was saying what they’re thankful for?” I continue.

  “How did you know that?” he asks.

  “The old food in the nose trick. It’s a classic. My brothers have been doing it to each other since we were kids, trying to see who will break first and get my dad to yell.”

  “Can I put a pea in my nose?” David asks.

  “No,” Jensen and I say at the same time. We smile at each other before continuing the meal.

  After dinner we end up in the living room. The TV is on and football is over. Now we’re watching some Christmas cartoon movie and most of the kids have congregated under blankets and pillows on the floor. I’m on the couch with Jensen, Sam between us. Ken is in the recliner and Tom disappeared with his wife, as they are inclined to do when they have a moment of free time and babysitters aplenty.

  Dinner was good, as it always is, and I’m spared having to help with the dishes by a bevy of relatives who insist on providing relief for my mom in the kitchen.

  “Where’s my little Scooby?” Grandma says from the wide entrance into the living room.

  “Which Scooby is she referring to?” Sam asks me quietly out of the corner of his mouth.

  “How am I supposed to know?” I ask in a normal volume.

  We’re spared figuring out drunken Grandma’s request because one of the kids gets up off the floor and runs to her.

  “She literally had six martinis at dinner,” Sam says.

  “How is she still alive?” Jensen asks.

  “The world may never know,” Sam says, shaking his head. “Ken has a theory that she’s a reanimated corpse.”

  “Sam!” I scold.

  “What?” He looks offended. “It’s Ken’s theory, not mine!”

  A snore emanates softly from the recliner.

  “Speaking of the devil. He’s out!” Sam says, again in sotto voice.

  “How, exactly, are you planning on getting him into the car?” Jensen asks, whispering.

  Sam turns towards him and I can hear the grin in his voice. “You look strong.”

  ***