He brought his fist down on the table. The settings jumped; a glass overturned, spilling water. He brought it down again and again. They were all standing now. He sat there and pounded the table with his big right fist—Henry Devers, who would never have thought of making such a scene before, but who was now so sick and tired of being treated as the First One, of being stood back from, looked at in awe of, felt in fear of, that he could have smashed more than a table.
Edith said, "Hank!"
He said, voice hoarse, "Shut up. Go away. Let me eat alone. I'm sick of the lot of you."
Mother and Joe returned a few minutes later where he sat forcing food down his throat. Mother said, "Henry dear—" He didn't answer. She began to cry, and he was glad she left the house then. He had never said anything really bad to his mother. He was afraid this would have been the time. Joe merely cleared his throat and mumbled something about getting together again soon and "drop out and see the new development" and he, too, was gone. Lucille never did manage to speak to him.
He finished his beef and waited. Soon Edith came in with the special dessert she'd been preparing half the day—a magnificent English trifle. She served him, and spooned out a portion for herself and Ralphie. She hesitated near his chair, and when he made no comment she called the boy. Then the three of them were sitting, facing the empty side of the table. They ate the trifle. Ralphie finished first and got up and said, "Hey, I promised—"
"You promised the boys you'd play baseball or football or handball or something; anything to get away from your father."
Ralphie's head dropped and he muttered, "Aw, no, Dad."
Edith said, "He'll stay home, Hank. We'll spend an evening together—talking, watching TV, playing Monopoly."
Ralphie said, "Gee, sure, Dad, if you want to."