Supper time

Literary Review, Summer, 1995 by Clara Pinto Correia, Richard C. Zimler

Then, when I heard his steps on the tile of the entranceway, clearly moving toward the living room, I no longer had any doubts at all. My son limped slightly on his left foot because of an accident that he had as a kid when he was playing with his cousins to see who could be the first to get to the top of the eucalyptus trees on the road to the old porcelain factory which is now abandoned.

My husband was in the living room watching TV.

It was a live broadcast of a soccer game, but I've no idea which one. It had just started a few minutes earlier.

I realized that my son had sat down on the orange armchair because I heard the springs creak. Even without entering the room, I knew that this armchair was placed at an awkward angle against the brown sofa where, every time my husband sat down to watch TV, he made a kind of nest out of newspapers, his cigarettes, two pillows, and a bedspread from the Alentejo. I also knew that my husband and son still hadn't exchanged a single word. The living room was separated from the kitchen by a tiny pantry, and between this pantry and the living room there was an archway with another bedspread from the Alentejo hanging as a kind of curtain. Everything said in the living room carried into the kitchen.

I thought that the silence was normal because they're both crazy about soccer; they didn't want to miss even a second of the action. They'd surely speak at the first commercial break. And then he would come to say "hi" to me in the kitchen. It had been a year since our oldest son had come to visit us.

I thought that he'd probably stay for dinner, since he chose to come over at this time. We could even open the wine which his wife had sent us in the mail last April when they spent a week in Provence - or in one of those other places where they make wine. I don't know a thing about wine. The bottles were in the cellar, but if I'd gone to get them I would have missed what was happening in the living room. I decided that I'd go down only after he'd come to speak with me. I threw some more carrots into the pot and took out a bag of green beans from the refrigerator; I seemed to recall that he was the one who really liked green beans.

It's not that they live that far away. It takes less and less time to get from Aveiro to Murtosa these days, and I used to suggest that he could come over more often. But the way things are, there's nothing anyone can do. He's always real busy, what with his computer company, his two kids and his wife's health problems. He's got his life there. And all the men in the family are the silent type. His father is, his grandfather was, and his brother is another one of them. At least this one sends us Easter and Christmas cards. They always spend Christmas at his wife's family's farm near Cabeceiras de Basto. Good for them. I've seen the photographs. It's a real pretty place. And full of people - good-looking people with satisfied faces and festive clothing. They must all make a whole lot of noise. Must be a lot like the Christmas which we should have around here.

Anyway, because of all this, I was really happy that he'd come to see us. Quite a long time had already gone by. Maybe I could still put together a flan for dessert. One of those instant ones, but with homemade caramel sauce on top.

His father and he still hadn't talked. Two commercial breaks had come and gone. The springs of the armchair creaked now and again, but nobody said a word.

When he came into the kitchen I was going to hug him real hard and tell him I was really happy.

When the game ended I heard his footsteps moving again toward the entranceway. I thought about running, but I figured that he wouldn't leave like that without saying anything. I heard the door open and close.

Then I heard the car start up. And then the sound of the engine disappearing into the distance.

Translated by Richard C. Zimler

Clara Pinto Correia, a biologist and writer born in Portugal, is currently preparing a book on theories of reproduction at Harvard University. She has published numerous children's books and essays, in addition to six novels.