The Hurricane

5

Daniel was helping set the tray tables out when his mom pulled up the driveway. It was seven fifteen. He could set his watch to her coming home two hours late, right on the dot. She did it every single evening and always apologized for “being late,” even though she couldn’t have been more consistently punctual if she’d been German and a train.

Carlton shuffled through the room—his tie off and shirt untucked—and portioned out a Friday’s frozen skillet sensation-or-something-other onto four plates. Zola staggered around, one thumb texting, the other hand clutching silverware. Once Daniel had the last tray set up, he took the bundle of utensils from his sister and had his usual nightly mental debate over which side the fork and knife went on.

“Fork on the left,” Carlton said as he slopped a pile of braised-something and julienned-something-else out of a steaming bag and onto a plate.

Daniel grabbed the remote and started searching through the DVR’s list of last-week’s shows as the burglar alarm chimed his mother’s entrance. The door flew open in the middle of a conversation, his mother explaining to someone else that they were doing something wrong. Daniel chose “House,” his mother’s favorite, and fast-forwarded to the opening scene. He paused it there and went to help with drinks while Zola laughed at something on her phone, shaking her head in bemusement.

In the kitchen, his mother’s cellphone snapped shut, followed immediately by loud and perfunctory kisses. A purse jangled to a heap on the counter. A jacket was tossed over the back of a chair. Someone complained about their feet, another mentioned a sore back. His mother apologized for being late.

“Are we ready to eat?” she asked. “Wrap that up,” she told Zola, suddenly impatient with other people using their phones.

The four of them filed into the living room, and Daniel handed the remote to Carlton, who would writhe as if in pain at anyone else’s incompetent attempts to skip commercials in the least optimum way possible.

“House,” he said, looking at the frozen image on the screen.

Daniel’s mom squinted at the TV. “Is it one we haven’t seen?”

“Can I eat in my room?” Zola asked.

“No you can not,” their mother said. “Your friends do not want to watch you eat on their webcams while you talk with your mouth full.” She jabbed her fork at the TV. “Now sit and enjoy your food while we have some family time.”

“Hunter said he had a group project for school, so he’s ordering pizza at a classmate’s house,” Carlton said. He aimed the remote at the TV while their mom swiveled her head around to confirm for herself that her eldest child wasn’t in the room.

“Group project? The first week of school?”

“He’s in college, now,” Carlton reminded her.

“Community,” Daniel reminded them both.

His mom shot him a look. The TV lurched into motion, showing a young girl laboring the final hundred yards of a marathon, her face contorted in a mask of discomfort, sweat coming off her in sheets.

“She’s not the one,” Zola and Daniel said in unison.

They glanced over at each other and smiled.

The camera panned to a cup of proffered water, grabbed at on the run and sloshed on the girl’s head. Then the scene cut to a young man in the crowd, clapping and egging her on.

“He’s the one,” their mother said, laughing.

Sure enough, as the ribbon parted across the young woman’s chest, her friend in the crowd collapsed, clutching his own. Forks tinked on plates, and the four of them laughed. The spectator crumbled into a heap just as the theme music and opening credits began.

Daniel dove into his food while Carlton worked his magic on the commercials. He didn’t need to see the rest of the show, anyway; it would only be slightly less formulaic than the transparent intro. He was more excited to get family time over with and get upstairs to see who was online before passing out for the night.