State Plaza Hotel Restaurant, Washington, D.C., December 31, 2008, breakfast

Published in the A Year in Repose: May 15, 2008-March 15, 2009, Journal

Across the room a family of four is having breakfast, each of them sitting at one of the four corners of the table. The father sits to the right of the eldest, who is maybe four years old, and across from the son the youngest, maybe two years old, while the mother sits across from the father. The father is talking about the current economic downturn—who the winners and losers are, who’s behind it, why it happened, and what will happen next. She’s nodding and feeding the youngest and eating her own breakfast. When he stops talking and stares at her, she knows he’s accusing her of not listening, so she asks him a quick question. “Who are you referring to when you say big business?” He counts them off on his fingers. “Big business” consists of seven companies: GM, Chrysler, Ford, General Foods, Philip Morris, Exxon, Goodyear. She nods to say she understands as he goes back to his explanation and she dips her napkin in her waterglass and wipes the youngest one’s cheeks and chin. When her husband takes a breath, she sighs too, and gathers their things to get them moving. She wonders aloud if he’s had time to think about what they were going to do this afternoon? He snaps at her that they decided last night to skip the zoo and get an early start, and she lowers her voice, asking him to lower his. She looks wounded and embarrassed and a little scared, like this could mean trouble all afternoon. And she’s ashamed that she’s triggered him again. She should know better by now. But mostly she’s surprised and disappointed that she’s been silenced in public. He turns away to help the eldest put his jacket on, and she lets the moment pass. Then she turns and bends over the youngest, her back to both of them, singing “Who’s a good boy? What a good boy! Who’s a good boy? What a good boy!” and the older boy shrieks and spins in his seat, his father catching him before he falls, shrieking. “Hey, buddy,”—and he swipes at his waving arms—“There’s something you’ve got to do for me, buddy. You’ve got to sit down and shut up or I’m going to get angry. Do you want me to make you shut up?” and the son freezes in mid-scream and goes rigid, his chin snapped into his chest, his arms tight at his side, as if he’s already been struck. Then the father swings back to face his wife and says “And, now, what were you were saying?”