SUNDAY LUNCH

Shawn Van Horn

           You don’t want to do this. You dread these Sunday lunches with Mom and her new fiancé. They dated for a week before he bought her a ring and you know that’s fucking crazy. What’s his deal? But he makes her happy, so you try to accept it. Now every Sunday, the long tradition of lunch with Mom has an unwanted add on. But he has money and always pays, so at least there’s that.

            You drive up to Bob Evans, its cherry red siding burning under the full noon sun. Owen is in the back seat, playing a loud game on his tablet. He looks up when you come to a stop in a parking space.

            “Joe is here, too,” you tell him.

            “He’s here again,” he says, and the emphasis on the last word, the honest annoyance of a five-year-old, makes you feel stronger. He’s on your side.

            You walk across the parking lot, holding your son’s hand, wishing you had made an excuse to cancel. You reach the double glass door with the loud wood trim. Mom and Joe are sitting inside on a bench. Mom is dressed in a plain blouse and slacks. You’ve never seen her wear a dress or skirt in your entire life. Joe wears a tight blue dress shirt, his bowling ball gut straining the buttons. He pushes his square wire glasses up onto the bridge of his flattened pancake nose.

            They see you and rise. Mom hugs you. You tense up. That happens a lot now and you feel so guilty. Joe says hello and puts out his hand.

            “Hey,” you say, no emotion. You hope he feels how much you don’t feel for him. You shake his hand with a weak apathetic grip, making sure he sees you wipe your palm on your pants leg after.

            He says hi to your son, but Owen hides behind you, peeking out to catch a glimpse.

            “He’s shy,” you say, but it’s a lie. Owen’s the friendliest kid you know. Right now you’re so proud of him.

            A blonde waitress half your age leads you to your table. You look around at the after church crowd. You’re the youngest adult here by a good twenty years. You sit at the end of the long table by the window. Joe sits across from you. You hate that. He picks up his laminated menu and tells you to order whatever you want. Oh, you will. You skipped breakfast just so you’d be hungry enough to order the most expensive meal they have.

            He puts his arm around your mother and caresses the nape of her neck. She smiles. You look away. Mom asks how your week has been.

            “Okay,” you say, and no more. More guilt. You’ve had the argument with her before about this new addition, and you’ll have it again, but now is not the time or place to rekindle it.

            “Your mom showed me that story you had published,” Joe says to you. “It was good. I liked it.” His interest catches you off guard. You almost thank him, but stop yourself and reply with a slight nod.

            You pull out your phone and hide it under the table. You scroll through Facebook so you won’t have to focus on the now. Who cares if it’s rude. You look up just long enough to mumble your drink order.

            After a few minutes of awkward silence, the waitress is back with four Mason jars. When did they start using those? Joe and you both got a Coke, Mom just a water as always, Owen a chocolate milk. Your son rips off the tip of paper covering the end of his straw. He puts the open end to his mouth, aims it at Joe’s chubby face, and blows. The paper arrow strikes him in the cheek and Owen cackles with delight. You laugh, too. You taught him that.

            The waitress is still there. “Are you guys ready to order or do you need more time?”

            You tell her to skip you and come back at the end. You’re not ready. You’re going to need a lot more time.

END