My wife is off for a weekend trip with a friend. The dog stands on the sofa and watches through the window, whining softly as the car pulls away. Me, I’m fine – I have plans, which are no plans at all.
On second thought, I think, I could invite my three sons over for Sunday lunch. With their mother away, they could eat a home-cooked meal without paying the normally exacted price: being forced to relate anecdotes about their personal lives. I will cook, and not pry. It’s the closest thing to a free lunch they’ll ever get.
I post a message to the family WhatsApp group. “Mum is away,” it says. “I could do Sunday lunch here, but you have to let me know if you’re coming cos I gotta take a big piece of meat out of the freezer.”
I hear: nothing. Not for an hour, or two, or the rest of the morning. I wonder if I could have worded my offer differently to make it more enticing, or at least worthy of response. But I decide not take my sons’ silence personally. I was the same when I was their age. Anyway, I think: this is not about you; it’s about defrosting times.
This aloof approach lasts about 20 minutes, after which I send another message: “So that’s how it is,” I write. “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth.”
I hear: nothing.
Three hours later, my wife posts a message that says: “Poor Dad”.
The oldest one sends a message that says: “I’m busy tomorrow.”
The youngest one sends a message that says: “Seeing grandpa tomorrow what about dinner.”
The middle one sends nothing.
“Fine,” I write. “The meat stays in the freezer.” I fall back on my original plan of No Plan.
The next day, at what would have been lunchtime, I am alone eating an egg and toast when I hear a key turning in the front door. The middle one walks into the kitchen and sheds his coat.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say. “There’s eggs.”
“I ate,” he says. He sits down and takes out his phone. I think he might have come to look in on me, as if I were a cat; to make sure there’s water in my bowl. Or maybe he’s here to see the actual cat.
“What’s up?” I say.
“Nothing much,” he says, thumbing his phone. I wonder if the serpent’s tooth thing might have given rise to some general concern about my mental wellbeing. In which case, I think: mission accomplished.
“I might have a coffee,” he says.
“Have you seen this?” I say, standing up. I remove the magnetic whisk from the inside the milk frother.
“Whoa,” he says.
“Brand-new spare part,” I say, twirling it before his eyes. “I was on a waiting list for it.”
“So it works now?”
“Whisk away, my friend,” I say. “Whisk away.”
The middle one drinks two coffees, watches the first half of a football match and leaves. At about seven, I realise I have left the youngest one’s dinner suggestion unanswered.
I send him a text that says: “pasta cheech.”
Pasta cheech is a classic Italian-American store-cupboard supper handed down over generations, but not to me: I learned to make it when I was about 50, from a YouTube video. It replaced our former traditional Sunday night odds-and-ends meal, Spicey Ricey, because it’s better.
The youngest one sends a text that says: “I could come for pasta cheech.”
He arrives just after eight. We settle in front of the television with two bowls and two beers. On the screen a couple’s dream home building project slowly destroys their lives, one terrazzo floor tile at a time.
“Harsh,” says the youngest one.
In the break, a home insurance advert appears featuring CGI creatures involved in some domestic mishap.
“What kind of animal is that supposed to be?” I say.
“A wombat,” says the youngest one.
“Oh yeah,” I say, realising the animal is wearing a T-shirt that says WOMBAT on it. “So his accent is, like, geographically appropriate.”
“It is,” says the youngest one.
“Whereas these meerkats,” I say.
“They’re still Russian,” he says.
“Which never made sense,” I say. “But before this Australian wombat arrived to make the anomaly plain …”
“We just went along with it,” he says.
“Speak for yourself,” I say. “I signed a petition.”
I think: if his mother was here, she would stand for none of this.
