The
table is set for four, four dinner plates as a nest for four salad
plates, four glasses for water and four for wine, red, wide open mouths
better for the breathing, four salad forks to the left of four dinner
forks and on the other side four spoon, midway between soup and tea,
and four butter knives, below those silvered utensils—the real
deal, not that fake stuff—four bright green, emerald, cloth
napkins, linen. The tablecloth is white, also linen. The chairs are a
deep stained brown, simple and modern, with very clean lines, the table
stashed beneath the cloth matches, Martha can tell by its legs, also
four, which barely emerge from their covering.
Doctor Bowen the male wears a tweed jacket, grey, a pale blue oxford
under it, a bow tie to tie it all together, peach, and trousers, tan.
He is instantaneously professorial: he plays his role well. They are
younger than she imagined, not that she had a clear image of either,
and Doctor Bowen the male still excessively charming. He wears wired
glasses, barely visible, his brown hair covers up any grey, his face is
thin and stern and very smart, not unlike Simon. He has bad posture
though, the kind of spine that has served too long in battle, only
Doctor Bowen the male has warred only with books and Rank and Tenure
committees, his hands are deceptively small. They drum against the
tablecloth on the top of the table, impatient.
Doctor Bowen the female is beautiful and trim, elegant, long brown wavy
hair, and she dresses in a manner all too reminiscent of her table: a
loose linen shirt, white, it’s simple, nothing flagrant, an
unassuming cut that emphasizes the slight size of her waist, curving up
to the curve of her breasts, which are firm, she is a sight!, and linen
pants, a shockingly bold green, like fresh grass, the newest grass,
they’re loose on her, hanging practically, and sensible sandals,
brown leather.
The Bowen family is photographic in their pristine veneer.
The table, despite being set for four, with four of everything, two
couples two pairs four squares, spreads enough food for forty. It would
seem the Doctors Bowen are trying to challenge Martha.
Everything looks like wax, not like it’s fake, no, just that
it’s perfect, too perfect to be gobbled up like she wants to
shovel it in by the wheelbarrel, if she could, though that’s not
polite, so she shows some restraint, a rarity for Martha. Every dish is
garnished, every single one with an appropriate ladle or ladling
device: they’re not Cro-Magnons! The dishes are simple enough
though nothing is ever simple, let’s be fair here. Set on the
table are three types of lasagna, one without meat, they had no way to
knowing her dietary restriction—although upon seeing her they
could tell she had none, not even a one—and vegetarianism is just
so faddish, impossible to predict when and how you’ll have one surprise you at your own
table, better to be prepared, Doctor Bowen the female always says, her
voice trilling, and apricot-braised lamp, two whole racks of them, and
roasted potatoes rubbed with rosemary and thyme, though without the
accompanying parsley and sage, too many herbs drown the flavors she
always says, green beans with yellow mustard seed and whole grains of
sea salt, Dover sol in a delicate lemon butter sauce, char grilled
skewers of shrimp, brussel sprouts baked with stone ground mustard,
steak tartar, and gazpacho soup, and dessert obviously stashed away,
hidden from the main courses, no no food first, then dessert, it
can’t be placed with the dinner spread, how appalling!, their
table is enormous to accommodate so much food, and salads, there were
four different choices: the typical dinner salad, butter lettuce with
some romaine cut in, chickpeas, red bell pepper, mushroom, tomato,
carrots, and an unlikely suspect, grapes, the perfect ingredient to tie
the flavors together!, with a easy balsamic vinaigrette, and a roasted
beet and goat cheese salad, a mozzarella basil tomato salad, sure, and
a cob salad, easy easy, and with it, four variations on bread, each one
equally delicious, two of which Martha could hardly even pronounce,
Doctor Bowen the female’s wavering voice reminding her to ease up
on the bread, lest she become too full before the real meal even
begins, and in the middle of the table, the center piece of it all, something prepared especially for her taste buds, a slap to her
provincial tasteless white trash roots: a tub of fried chicken, Doctor
Bowen the male putting piece after piece on her plate while the Bowen
family abstained from that one dish alone, and she didn’t any
doctor anything to explain to her why.
Martha eats like she can’t be sated, the food so scrumptious
it’s sexy, she’s turned on, all this food, each bite taking
her closer to delirium, but she has to retain her composure, the
Doctors Bowen judging, throwing question after question at her, Simon
goofy grinning, they
were in love: Simon with his parents’ misery and Martha with all this food.
