The TV blared from the living room
Where my father sank into the embrace of his brown, leather armchair
Cursing at the anchor delivering the news
As he announced the numbers of the day’s war dead
While I helped my mom prepare the salad
Tearing apart a head of iceberg lettuce
Then dicing a tomato that was more like a tennis ball
In both color and firmness
That I had taken out of the cardboard box covered with cellophane
From the fridge.
I added a sliced cucumber and then mixed some ketchup and mayo together
In a small glass bowl to make Russian Dressing
And slopped it heartily onto the salad
But I glopped it on a little too enthusiastically
And watched large, pinkish droplets spatter onto the beige speckled linoleum
As if the Russians themselves
Had come to invade our tidy little sanctuary
In this part of suburbia.
I quickly whisked a paper napkin from the ceramic napkin holder
And swiped up the offending stains
Before my dad could get up and notice them
And before Mom had to stop pretending
That she didn’t see anything.

I carefully set the dining room table
Starting with three vinyl flowered placemats
Then I folded the paper napkins in half diagonally
Because triangles were always more interesting than rectangles
I laid the forks, spoons, and knives on top of the placemats
Before arranging the lowball glasses just above the tips of the knives
So that nothing was out of place.

On this night, Mom let me ring the black bell with the painted red tulips
That we had bought as a souvenir when we went to Hershey, PA.
“Dinner!” I called out cheerily.
And just like “Groundhog Day” we all met up in the dining room
As we did every night
With the TV droning on in the background
With more news of crime and hurricanes and always the war.
Mom spooned some meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and salad
Onto the blue and white Corelle dishes
And I brought my father his plate before returning to the kitchen for my own serving.
Mom announced that we were having fruit salad for dessert
As if this was something unexpected
Like maybe reporting that we’d be taking a quick orbit in space before eating
Or have someone come perform a Broadway number for us before dessert
But Mom was forever the optimist
Or so she pretended as I discovered later in life
But for now
We had created the perfect suburban tableau
Just like every other house on the block.

Nancy Machlis Rechtman has had poetry, essays, and plays published in various anthologies. She wrote Lifestyle stories for a local newspaper, and she was the copy editor for another paper. She writes a blog called Inanities at https://nancywriteon.wordpress.com.