A New Nuclear Family

Every night at dinner, during one of the family’s trademark lulls, Steven, the father, would ask what the best part of everyone’s day was. Sometimes when Steven forgot, Justin would ask the question jokingly, accentuating his father’s natural rhythm of speaking. Although it would always get a decent laugh, teasing his father - in a still supportive and deferential way - that was not why he did it. He did it because he hated the sound of forks and knives clanking on the plates and the disagreeable sound of eating. He had recently gone to an Alamo Drafthouse Cinema to see a movie with a friend, and they decided to get some food as well. During the movie, Justin sat askance at his friend, who had ordered a cobb salad. Justin had gotten fries, the most inconspicuous thing on the menu. His friend’s smacking, however, could be heard for three square seats (which were gigantic) and ruined the dramatic understatement during several points of Avatar: Way of the Water. This story is the kind of thing that may come up at the dinner table, as making polite fun of friends in absentia is always good conversational fodder. Then Sam might chime in, about her own disbelief towards a friend, this time at lunch in the cafeteria, who bought a strawberry milk as if she were still in primary school. And maybe this would make Katrina vie for some attention and try at some precocious quip, or, better yet, act confused herself at what the big fuss was.

But that isn’t what happened at dinner that night. The family served themselves by the stoves, stopped by the island for the salad, then took a seat at the table - not the dining room table, but the one they actually used. Plates clamored, and so Steven prompted the children about their days. Katrina piped up first, as if waiting for the cue. She said some vague things then left the table. She reappeared from the entryway where kids all dropped their backpacks as they got home from school. Katrina, whose school let out 45 minutes earlier than Justin and Sam’s, was slightly buried. Katrina had retrieved from it a big box wrapped in paper. It must’ve taken up the near entirety of the bookbag, but save for a Yellow Submarine lunchbox there was never much in there.

The family turned their attention to Katrina and her box.

“Oh, what do you have there?” said Steven in his most patronizing little kid voice.

“Just wait,” replied Katrina.

She then carefully unpackaged the box. She started in the air, propping the box on a cocked knee then moved down to the floor for better handling. She did not tear, she unpeeled thoughtfully the tape and carefully unfolded the wrap on its creases with aplomb. Though, behind the wrapping it turned out not to be a box, but a cage, and in the cage, a cat. “Jesus,” said Sam, hoping Katrina would be chastised for her negligence with another living being, “It’s been in there for like 8 hours,” she continued. Katrina pointed out the cat was evidently okay. “Right, Malto?” she said, and the cat said, “Yes, I’m fine I was just having a cat… nap” Katrina giggled profusely, turning to the family in hopes of finding unanimous amusement. Everyone, instead, was appalled.

6 months later:

Steven was picking up dry cleaning for the party that night, while Malto was prepping hors d'oeuvres at home. Steven was orating to the car’s handsfree bluetooth calling feature. He was talking to Nate, a fastidious auxiliary character. 

“If he could drive, maybe. But I trust him, you just know I get really anal about presentation when I’m hosting.”

“Well, it’s not an easy thing to make an olive tapenade as I understand, so I… understand your anxiety,” Nate responded.

“It’s your job to tell me I’m being foolish for being so nervous.”

“You’re being foolish for being so nervous.”

“We-”

“It’ll be great.”

“Well thank you, Nate. Now you don’t think the kids should be sequestered in my room all night, do you? I know it's unorthodox, but I want them to have these experiences.”

Nate then used his answer for the next question to talk about his own children and quandaries.

At home, Malto had just finished laying out water crackers on a large ceramic plate like a charlatan with a deck of cards. He carefully walked the container of Trader Joe’s olive tapenade not to the kitchen trash bin, but the garage trash bin. Everyone called Malto a talking cat, when rather he was fully anthropomorphic. He walked on two legs, smoked cigarettes when he was drunk, and was acutely aware of the concept of nudity, for he was raised Catholic.

The kids were trickling in from school. Justin’s Land Cruiser pulled into their circular drive with Sam and Sam friend’s Marshall in tow. Malto and Marshall were well acquainted. However, Malto wasn’t in a particularly social mood. He decided to scurry out the back door and take a moment to himself to bask. Malto was an excellent factotum and confidant but he relished his shortcomings, for those were the aspects of him of which nothing could be asked. He attributed his proclivity to conk out for multiple hours in the day time to an evolutionary handicap, though it was, in truth, mostly personal preference. He loved to be left unbothered just as much as he loved to be around the kids and help Steven throw elaborate parties. His ability to keep the house in such great shape afforded everyone the ability to roam freely and him his solitude. Everyone in the family felt so liberated since Malto had come around. Before, everyone simultaneously felt the brunt of the labor, the labor of being in such a family, a fractured family, rudderless and in desperate need of an identity, was resting on each of their own shoulders. As Malto came into their lives, this was suddenly ameliorated. Everyone felt the taste of leisure for the first time, despite the fact that Katrina had been going to a private school, wherein she referred to her teachers by their first names, and the words ‘no’ and ‘stop’ were stricken from their vocabulary, or that Justin’s nonnegotiable carpool with Sam was also accompanied with a full gas subsidy and free weekends.

It all trickled down from Steven, though. Suddenly, he could just be a dad again. He didn’t have to clean the house, make all the food, or do the laundry. He could instead go hit golf balls with his son, or teach his daughter to ride a bike, although the two rarely felt so obliged. Ignored was the fact that no one really hung out with each other alone, except for with Malto. Everyone had a group relationship and a Malto relationship. He was, though superficially acknowledged but scarcely confronted, the glue of the household. And the life of the party, lowkey. Steven was the official host, but Malto’s savoir faire was nonpareil. He could dance without inhibition, imbibe freely while always maintaining decorum, and always produce an effortless bon mot for any given topic. Most miraculously, though, he also didn’t make anyone jealous. Everyone just felt grateful to be in his presence and granted even a fraction of his earnest attention.

“Oh you even did the dishes, you’re a lifesaver,” Justin said as he waltzed in the door, dry cleaning dancing with his pace. Malto had just come in from the sun. “Malto!” shouted the children. “Kids, who’s ready for this weekend?” He replied. Steven cut in, “Justin, I’m putting your suit on your bed. Sam your dress, too. And maybe you can lend one to Marshall if she’d like to stay for our soiree tonight.” Marshall was flattered, and graciously accepted. “Malto, I have your shirt and pants here, that should suffice, no?” 

“Ah, yes, well I already seem to have my tails for tonight.” Malto replied. Everyone laughed uproariously.