“It’s all right,” she says, unhappy but resigned to the loss.
“I have glass in my food,” says Katie.
“Me, too,” says Colleen.
Joe looks down at his plate. He’s got glass in his mashed potatoes. What a mess.
“Okay, nobody eats anything,” says JJ. “Even if you can’t see any glass, it’s not worth taking the chance.”
As Katie is cleaning up the floor with a dustpan and broom and Rosie and Meghan are clearing the plates of ruined Sunday supper, Patrick strolls in, yesterday’s clothes rumpled and hanging on his skinny frame, smelling of stale beer, cigarettes, and mint, a box of Dunkin’ Donuts under his arm.
“You’re late,” says Rosie, her eyes two formidable laser beams fixated on boring a hole through the center of her boy’s forehead.
“I know, Ma. I’m sorry,” says Patrick.
He kisses his mother on the cheek and sits down at the table.
“I don’t even want to know where you were,” says Rosie.
Patrick says nothing.
“There’s no excuse for missing Sunday supper.”
“I know, Ma. I didn’t miss it, I’m here.”
“Oh, you missed it,” says JJ.
Katie smacks Patrick on the shoulder, a signal to lift his elbows off the table so she can wipe it down with a sponge.
“Where’s the food?” asks Patrick.
“Dad thought supper needed more water and a dash of glass,” says Meghan.
“Be thankful you’re not a klutz like your father,” says Joe.
Patrick proudly sets the box of Dunkin’ Donuts on the table. Today’s O’Brien family Sunday supper. JJ dives in first and pulls out a Boston Kreme. Katie peeks into the box expecting to be disappointed, but instead her face lights up.
“You got me a toasted bagel with peanut butter.”
“Course I did,” says Patrick. “And an egg-white veggie flatbread without the flatbread for Meg.”
“Thanks, Pat,” says Meghan.
Rosie’s posture softens, and Joe knows that Patrick is forgiven. Joe chooses a jelly donut and a cruller. Donuts and beer. He pats his protruding belly and sighs. He’s going to have to start watching his figure if he wants to live to be an old man.
He takes in the ordinary scene at their modest table, at his grown children and wife, everyone happy and healthy and here together on a Sunday afternoon despite all their quirks and faults, and a wave of gratitude swells inside him so suddenly, he doesn’t have time to brace himself. He feels the full magnitude of it pressing against the inner wall of his chest, and he exhales hard through clenched teeth to relieve some of the pressure. Underneath his tough-cop, macho exterior, he’s soft as a jelly donut. As he turns his head and wipes the wet corners of his eyes with the heel of his hand before anyone can see, he thanks God for all that he has and knows that he is truly blessed.