Dinnertime!

What's happening at our dinner table? Dad is just folding up his paper and approaching now. He's not fully retrieved his energy from the mire of specifications, blueprints and office gossip.

Mom deftly maneuvers a bowl of pirogies against her pregnant belly, jabs the pacifier into my sister's mouth, and raises a meaningful eyebrow at me. I lower the spoon with which I intended to pacify my sister. If I don't put it down gently, Mom will spoil the fun by yelling. She overcompensates. At three, I'm the oldest, and I know this.

Dad sits down. Mom finally dares to ask about his day. Timing is everything. Let him unwind, but don't let him rewind. Ask just before he begins stuffing food in his mouth; the trauma is thus abridged.

I understand her art even before I understand why it is necessary. I have my own art. My sister is my canvas. Sour cream, fried onions, and pirogies are my palette . . . pale, dense, and ideal for flinging. I have to wait a long time before Mom sits down and serves herself. She takes her first mouthful of food.

Timing! I push sour cream onto my spoon, then scoop and fling a bit of doughy potato dumpling into my baby sister's face. She anticipates my move and is ready with her scowl and wail. She knew it was coming. Well, we all knew it.

Stymied by my timing, Mom finishes chewing and wags her fork weakly, adding a forlorn shrug. Dad musters up his office rage and snarls at us. He is always fair. He blames us both.

My sister offers a glare far more intimidating than a two year old typically expresses. She is a master of resentment.

I realize I have mobilized her to action. They can't stop her now. Only from my seat can I see she has inadvertently plunked her bowl down on the edge of the spoon. When she bangs her fist down, the bowl is leveraged into mid-air.

Mom sighs before the first pirogi slithers to the floor. She doesn't yell! She simply looks at my father with a twisting bitterness I had not anticipated.

Why? I had acted alone to instigate my sister's fury! I earned her attention.

I could not understand it, but I could store the memory and piece it together with meaning later. Surely, there would be meaning to flesh out that mysterious look, slinking low and sullen into the wilderness of hidden conflict . . .