I have to press my lips tight together to smother my smile. Connor is watching me out of everything around us. My eyes flit more subtly to him, and then I sip my wine.
Eliot removes his empty pipe, never filled. “Gentlemen. Ladies.” He gestures to the entire table. “‘This above all.’” He pauses dramatically. “‘To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day. Thous canst not then be false to any man!’”
After this passionate monologue from Shakespeare’s Hamlet, he returns to the top frame of his chair, pipe in his mouth.
Dear God.
My smile is betraying me. Stay poised. Connor is beyond grinning at this point and we’ve only just started.
My pride for Eliot arches my shoulders and lifts my head. He has memorized far more than just that scene. No one is allowed books, computers or cellphones at the table.
Connor has told them many times before, “You bring your minds. That will always be enough.”
Tom raises his hand next. Like Eliot, he stands on the chair, mischief clinging to their vivacious souls. Then he looks over to Eliot and says, “Dear brother.”
Eliot grins. “Dear brother.”
Tom plops back on the cushion, seated and slouched.
“Was that it?” Audrey gapes, as though he’s insane for not occupying more of his time.
During opening remarks, they can bring up literally anything they want and for as long as they want, which fascinates Connor more than they even realize. I enjoy learning about their week in open remarks, but not all are willing to share.
Eliot points his pipe towards his sister. “He’s a boy of brevity, little Audrey.”
Before confusion crosses her face, Connor says to me, “Brevity, darling.”
“Shortness,” I define.
“Conciseness,” he adds.
I burn a hole between his eyes. “My love towards you.”
Charlie Keating laughs, ten-years-old, and the most amused when Connor and I argue. I recognize as well as my husband that Charlie is one of the only ones who can mentally keep up. Jane, too. Charlie is also the only one who is consistently kicked back in his chair, polished black loafers on the table, dressed in a dapper, modern suit.
Connor called him ostentatious the other day. I called our son a smartass. We agreed that he’s equal parts of both.
Connor swishes his wine, his grin overtaking his whole face as our previous words consume him.
Conciseness.
My love towards you.
Very smoothly, he says, “Rose.”
“Richard,” I snap.
“I adore when you define a lie.”
I scoff. “I was defining brevity. Restrain your ego.”
“It can’t be restrained. If you haven’t learned that by now, then maybe you need a new tutor.”
“If you suggest yourself, I’ll carve out more than just your heart.”
“I suggest myself,” he challenges. “I am the best, and you deserve the best.”
I roll my eyes, but I never attempt to actually hurt him and enact my threat, so I’m not surprised he has a rebuttal for it.
“And thank you for defining a hyperbole.”
Ben, six-years-old, looks horrified. He stares up and down the table. “Stop,” he whines. “Stop it.”
I go rigid.
Connor is calm, but his grin fades. Before he explains to Ben that our words are layered with figures of speech, idioms, and hyperbolic prose, Jane leans forward again. She sits on the side with Eliot and Tom, all her other siblings are seated across.
“Pippy,” she says. “It’s all in good fun. They mean no harm.”
“I hate when they fight.”
Charlie cuts in, “You only hate it because you can’t understand.”
Ben gawks. “I understand. Mommy wants to cut out his heart! And Daddy thinks it’s funny. It’s not funny.” He rises from the table.
I meet my husband’s gaze, and in our eyes, we both tell each other, wait.
In the next second, Beckett wraps his arm around Ben’s shoulder. At the comforting touch, Ben sinks back in his chair. “They love one another, Ben. If you ever doubt their love, then look at all of us. Look at Wednesdays.”
My eyes burn, tears threatening to well.
“They could be working,” Eliot professes.
“They’re here,” Tom pipes in.
Wednesdays became their favorite, not for the goose or the grandeur, but because they saw Connor and me at each head of the table. This is the only day of the workweek where we’re home together, the only one where our children know for certain we won’t be stuck at our offices past a meal.
It’s the day where our wit and our words battle for hours on end, and as they’ve grown older, they’ve become more and more a part of it all.
Ben looks to me for affirmation.
I sigh, knowing I’ll have to compliment my husband. I loosen my jaw like it hasn’t uttered this phrase in years. “I love…” You can do this, Rose.
I am the fucking lioness in a den of little cubs.
I clear my throat, feeling the heat of my husband’s arrogant eyes, and I announce, “I love Connor Cobalt.”
There, I said it.
Connor raises his goblet to me, his grin more affectionate than conceited. His love stampedes his narcissism so much that my claws recede.
Charlie cocks his head to Ben. “Connor Cobalt is Dad, in case you’ve fallen further behind.”
“I know that’s Daddy.” Ben huffs.
I snap my fingers. “Moving along with opening remarks.” Five children still need to speak up, even if they only want to say no. That’s fine with us.
Charlie lifts his pointer finger in the air. “I invoke my right to pass.”
Audrey gasps. “Why, Charlie?”
Beckett smiles up towards the chandelier. “It’s like asking why the contrarian wears a suit and tie to a pool party.” He didn’t pick the example out of thin air. Charlie actually wore his most expensive suit to a neighborhood pool party.
Then he left after five minutes.
Audrey’s hand shoots into the air.
“Audrey,” Connor calls on our youngest with a broadening smile.
Our youngest child opens her mouth to speak, but with every eye on her, she forgets her words. “…I…”
We all wait patiently.
“You?” I try to help her without making her feel inadequate.
“I am…” Her cheeks suddenly flush, and she plops back to her bottom, clutching tight to her Victorian hat.
The three oldest children drum the table for Audrey.
“Such wise words. I am,” Jane tells Audrey.
Audrey perks up. “Thank you, Jane.”
I try to drink my wine to hide a smile, but Connor sees. Defeat thy husband. I can make him ache just as much as he can revel in my smile. I collect my hair on one shoulder and tilt my head, bare neck in his direct view. He rubs his lips and then drops his hand to his goblet.
You can’t have this. I channel through my eyes.
We’ll see, he replies back.
I take another sip of wine, just as Beckett raises his hand.
He confesses, “I Google-searched my name.”
I choke on my wine.
“Careful, darling,” Connor says.
I give him a look before planting my fiery eyes on Beckett. “In this entire ugly world, what compelled you to do such a thing?”
Connor and I have sat side-by-side in bed and Google-searched all of their names. If there are any particularly defaming articles that we think lawyers will squash, we unleash the hounds upon the unethical journalists. So for Beckett, I know what would’ve cropped up in his search.
All the stereotypes related to boys in ballet.
Beckett explains, “At school, Geoffrey Stanford showed me in computer class.”
Charlie shakes his head at his brother. “Geoffrey Google-searched your name. Not you.” It upsets Charlie when Beckett confesses to actions that aren’t his own.
My warrior side flares, just to protect them in whatever shape they need, piercing eyes darting to each of my boys.
“I still saw,” Beckett tells his twin brother.
“Geoffrey is an idiot along with the rest of the world.” He pauses. “Except you.” He only tells this to Beckett.
“Beckett.” Connor’s even-tempered voice catches everyone’s attention. “We’re all labeled. Every day we step outside, we’re stereotyped. You let that affect you—”
“You let them win,” Charlie finishes.
My chin rises once more. Beckett sees me, and his intensified confidence permeates like a spritz of perfume. He nods, assured.
“Anything else?” I ask him.