Room & Table Setting
Childhood
On a November morning, I eat toast and enjoy it with coffee at the age of eight. After plenty of butter and the entire cup of coffee, the meal concludes. I say, No, thank you, mam, when Margaret asks if I need help, and begin to perform my duties.
The first item of order is to prepare the room. The living room, the informal everyday living room, as opposed to the formal living room in the front of the house, doubles as the dining room on special occasions, because the side servers already live here and its heater puts out the best warmth. I am to move the furniture out of the room without scratching the furniture, the doors, or the walls. I take this seriously!
In corduroy pants and a snowflake sweater, I carry comfortable chairs, smoking stands, floor lamps, ottomans, rugs, and side tables, and wedge them together like pieces of a puzzle in the bedrooms. When everything is inside, and the doors have ample room to open and close, the bedrooms are closed off. No one’s going in them, except to toss coats and purses, and that someone is me.
From the front of the house to the living room, I carefully maneuver the long dining table to the living room where I open the table leaves. When the hinges open out they make music like a dissonant piano chord. It sounds like something you’d hear when an orchestra warms up. I’ve only seen them on television. Everyone’s heads look funny because their bodies looked squashed to fit the frame. It can make you feel uncomfortable.
Eight chairs come one by one to the room, and I carry them lightly, wanting to spin them on my fingers. I have not been to the circus, but I’ve had a day at that at the zoo. The monkeys took notice of me and immediately threw shit in my direction. The peacock stood so still I felt like I could toss a dime on its head.
From the tall stand-alone closet, I take a soft, thick cloth and lemon oil to polish the wood. I begin with the chairs because the woodwork is intricate. As for the table, I save the top for last, because I like the wood to shine so clear it looks almost as if it is a lake. Winters don’t get that cold here and the nearest lake is too far away, except as a day trip. Still, we make do with ponds and shriek when we stand on them frozen.
With these preparations mastered, I go to a bedroom where the ironed tablecloth is safe from wrinkles and lying in wait. Margaret pauses from cooking long enough to help me carry it, and together we dress the tabletop, smoothing it down.
“It’s coming together nicely, Rabbit,” she says.
Margaret leaves me to my devices — they are good today.
She only wears dresses; the thought of pants makes her shake with a dignified fury. Her shoes have a practical ethic but are chic. I can hear her in the kitchen working the hand mixer. I love the hand mixer and its sounds which make me think of little cheetahs gossiping wildly.
My grandmother’s cooking spreads a harmony of scents, they drift on the air with tenacity and flavor, and under this net of familiar ready-ing and cooking, I pull out the china, crystal, and silver from where they’re stored. The second item of order is to set the table. It is not unlike buttoning up your best suit. Order reminds me of math because I’m good at that too.
Beginning with the china, I polish each plate and lay it in its setting. I place linen napkins on each plate. Next, I polish the crystal and hold glasses up to the light like picture windows. The silver makes its way to the table one by one as well. Silver is the best part because it flashes a light when it is ready. The forks, knives, and spoons glint and gleam. I love them. I’ve been taught, since I can remember, to love people, not things. Somehow I can’t seem to master that, and in my heart, I take great pride in this.