My wife bought a new radio with a Bluetooth connection for the kitchen, which means I can listen to music from my phone when I’m cooking, unless my wife is also in the kitchen.
“This is awful,” she says, turning down the volume to zero.
“You don’t understand it,” I say, turning it back up. “Please leave the area.”
“When is supper ready?” she asks.
“Any minute,” I say.
“Supper!” she shrieks. In the silence between two songs, a sound like distant rolling thunder reaches my ears. It gets louder, and the windows begin to rattle in their frames. It’s as if a helicopter is trying to land indoors.
Suddenly the younger two burst through the door, punching each other. They’ve been entering rooms this way for many years, but I can’t help noticing that they are now much, much bigger. It’s like watching a pub brawl spill into the road.
“I’m gonna kill you!” the youngest says to the middle one.
“They’re fighting,” my wife says. “Make them stop.” They chase each other round the kitchen table, picking up things to throw at one another as they go.
“Not the forks,” I say. “Sit down before you…” The middle one backs into a vase full of flowers. The vase rocks back gently, then rights itself. The flowers in it shed their bright red petals as a job lot, as if from stress.
“Look what you’ve done,” my wife says.
“How is that my fault?” the middle one says.
“Take a plate,” I say. “Help yourself. Sit.”
The two boys fight over the food, poking each other with implements.
“Get off me!” the youngest says.
“I can’t live like this!” my wife shouts.
“Stop!” I scream. “Sit! Eat!” In the relative quiet that follows, it’s apparent that music is playing.
“Ugh,” my wife says. “Dad’s music. Turn it off.” The middle one grabs my phone from the worktop and changes the song. He appears to know my four-digit passcode, which is my passcode for all things requiring four digits.
“I said off,” my wife says. “Oh wait, I like this one.”
“Am I allowed to read?” I say.
“No,” my wife says. She begins to sing along to the song. The youngest one covers his ears. The little dog sits up on the sofa and barks, and the cat runs from the room.
“Wow,” says the middle one.
“What?” my wife says. “That was fine.”
“This one is possibly a little high for you,” I say, but my wife doesn’t hear me, because she’s singing again. The middle one turns up the volume.
“I want this sung at my funeral!” my wife shouts.
“Too bad you can’t sing it at your own funeral,” the middle one says.
“What did he say?” my wife says, turning to me.
“He said it’s too bad you…”
“I’ll be dead,” my wife says, pointing her fork at the middle one. “You’ll have to sing it. Sing it now.”
“Can I please leave?” the youngest says.
“No,” my wife says. “Stay where you are.”
“Why?” he shrieks. “I’m finished!”
“Sunday family supper,” I say. “It’s like a punishment.”
“For what?” he says.
“It’s meant to cover everything,” I say.
“Sing!” my wife shouts. “All of you!”
“I think I’m done here,” the middle one says.
“Me, too,” the youngest says. “Bye.” They pick up their plates and leave the room.
“Go and get them back,” my wife says.
“Why would I do that?” I say. In the brief silence that follows, I again hear a sound like distant thunder. Another song begins.
“Oh, I like this one,” my wife says, taking a deep, preparatory breath.
