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COERCION IN THE KITCHEN

Hugh

OCTOBER 27, 1994

“H OW ARE MY FAVORITE MEN ?” M AM ASKED WHEN SHE WALKED INTO THE KITCHEN on Thursday night.

“All the better for seeing you,” Dad replied with a wink. He leaned back on his chair at the table and gave Mam his full attention. “How was work, love?”

“Busy,” Mam replied with a cheerful sigh, still wearing her hospital scrubs. “Is my baby in bed?”

“Thankfully,” I muttered from my perch beside my father. It took way longer than usual to get Claire to go to sleep tonight, and that bugged me because it meant I got less alone time with Dad.

“It was my fault,” Dad told Mam with a chuckle. “I left Claire and Small Gibs alone with a Black Forest gateau.”

“Rookie mistake, Biggs.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Did you boys have a nice evening?” Mam asked with a knowing smile. When she was on the day shift at the hospital, she didn’t get home until almost ten at night, but Dad always let me stay up late with him. Even if it was a school night. The key was to get Claire to bed by 8 p.m. and then spend the next two hours watching sports, reading stories, or doing whatever I wanted to do.

Tonight, we spent our quality time writing out birthday party invitations to hand out to my friends at school tomorrow before we went on midterm break for Halloween. I was about to turn seven next week, so I didn’t need Dad’s help to write the invitations, but I did want him to watch. I worked hard on my handwriting, even during the school holidays, and it showed. When Dad told me how proud he was, it made me want to work even harder to make him even prouder.

“Oh good, you’ve made a start on your party invites,” Mam said, spying the stack of neatly stacked envelopes on the table in front of me. “Wow, that’s a lot of invites, sweetheart.”

“I invited the entire class,” I explained. “Twenty-six.”

“Twenty-six?” Mam’s brows shot up. “Lovely.” Her voice sounded squeaky when she mumbled, “Twenty-six boys running through my house sounds…lovely.”

“It turns out that we have a genius on our hands, Sinead,” Dad announced, wrapping an arm around me. “He won’t be seven for another week and he wrote every word of those invitations himself. And have you listened to him read lately? He was reading The Hobbit the other night, and I’ve never heard anything like it. The school were right to have him tested, Sinead. He’s leaps and bounds ahead of the pack.” He squeezed my shoulder. “This young fella of ours is going to do great things.”

Mam smiled indulgingly at me. “Is that so?”

My face turned beetroot red, and I beamed with pride.

I knew I was considered bright at school, but hearing my dad say it out loud made me really believe it. The teachers told me often, and even though they didn’t tell me the results of those special one-on-one tests I was taken out of class for, I knew it had to be good.

“He’s a fine artist, too.” Dad continued to harp on, much to my delight. “Which will only stand to him if he decides to follow in his old man’s footsteps.” He squeezed my shoulder again. “Isn’t that right, son?”

“Hold your horses, Peter Biggs,” Mam interjected with a chuckle. “Your son is only seven.” She arched a brow. “I think it’s a little early to steer him down the architecture and property development route, don’t you, love?”

“Not when he has the reading comprehension of a teenager,” Dad replied. “Or can master a Lego set faster than any child we know.”

“Pete, let the child be a child,” Mam instructed, moving for the fridge. “Hugh has a long life ahead of him. His childhood is only a small fraction of that, so let’s not make it even shorter, sweetheart.”

“Jesus, you’re right, Sinead. I shouldn’t be talking about that kind of stuff to him. I just got a bit carried away with…” My father let his words trail off before roughly clearing his throat. His face was red, like he was embarrassed. “Never mind all that talk, son. Let’s just look forward to your birthday, hmm?”

“Oh, and don’t forget to make invitations for Claire’s friends,” Mam called out. “I know I have their names written somewhere.” She searched through the notes and hand-drawn pictures stuck to the fridge before snatching up a yellow sticky note. “Here we go.”

“Dad,” I groaned, turning to my father, who was sitting beside me. “Please.”

Dad held his hands up. “Your mother’s the boss, son.”

“Claire is only inviting four friends,” Mam added. “You can handle it.”

“ Why , Mam?” I whined, turning to look up at her when she placed the sticky note on the table in front of me. “None of my friends from school have to invite their sisters’ friends to their parties. Why do I have to be the only boy in class that has girls at his party?”

“Because, apparently, you’re the only boy in class with a mother who is raising him to be a gentleman,” Mam replied, stroking my chin with her thumb before returning to the fridge. “Write the invitations.”

“But we’re in first class.” I continued to plead my case. “What are we supposed to do with four junior infant girls ?”

“Five,” Mam chimed in happily. “You forgot to count your sister.”

“Oh God, that’s even worse.” I dropped my head on the table and covered the back of my head with my hands. “Fuck.”

“Watch your language in front of your mother,” Dad warned, elbowing my arm in warning. “And sit up straight when you’re talking to a lady.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled, not feeling one bit sorry but doing what he said. “So there’s no way out of it?” I heard myself ask, feeling defeated. “No way at all?”

“Not a single one, son. Now, hurry up and get those written before bed,” Mam instructed, turning on the microwave. “Claire’s on your bus tomorrow, so you can hand them out yourself to the girls.”

“Please God, no!”

Mam laughed. “It won’t kill you, Hugh.”

“It might.”

“You heard your mother,” Dad chimed in, covering his mouth with his hand. “She’s raising a gentleman.”

Knowing that I was beaten, I sighed in defeat and reached for the sticky note that contained the names of my sister’s stupid friends.

“Shannon Lynch, Marybeth and Cadence O’Neill, and Lizzie Young,” I read the list of names on the paper and glared. “Ugh.”

“Is that young Caoimhe’s sister?” Dad asked, leaning in to get a better look at the names. “Caoimhe Young who babysits for Sadhbh?”

“It sure is,” Mam replied. “Speaking of babysitting, I’ve taken her phone number from Sadhbh. I was thinking we could book her for a night for our gang.”

Dad’s eyes lit up. “Jesus, it’s been forever since we’ve had a date night, love.”

“Since before Mrs. Grady had her hip done,” Mam replied with a grin. “Caoimhe comes highly recommended by Sadhbh, and the O’Reillys up the road can’t speak highly enough of her.”

“Jeez, it would be fantastic if it works out,” Dad mused, scratching his chest. “With Mrs. Grady out of action, we’re lost for a sitter during the school holidays.”

“Let’s hope it does work out,” Mam replied. “She seems to be a hit with all kids, and even our Small Gibs is infatuated with her.”

“I hate it when you guys call him that,” I grumbled. “You do it all the time and it’s so annoying. He’s not Small Gibs . He’s just Gibs .”

“Sorry, son,” Dad laughed. “But Joe Gibson will always be the original Gibsie.”

“And has been since we were children,” Mam agreed with a chuckle.

“Which makes his son Small Gibs .”

“Whatever. I don’t care about babysitters—but Joe is Joe , and Gibs is Gibs ,” I huffed, turning my attention to the invitation I was being forced to write. “Marybeth and Cadence are Pierce’s twin sisters, so I’m only writing one invitation for them.”

“Make it a nice one,” Mam replied. “Best handwriting.”

“Don’t look so sorrowful, Hugh,” Dad laughed, ruffling my hair. “In a few years, you’ll be begging me and your mother to let you have girls over.”

“You know, Granny Biggs made your father invite me to his birthday party when we were only little.” Mam walked over and hugged Dad from behind. “And look at us now.”

“That’s right, she did,” Dad mused, pressing a kiss to my mother’s hand. “And it was the best coerced invitation I ever wrote.”

Mam beamed at him. “And we haven’t spent more than a week apart in three decades.”

“So you never know, son,” Dad teased. “One of these names could be the name you say on your wedding day.”

Shuddering, I gaped at him in horror. “Is that supposed to make me feel better ?”