When the Family Gathers

Slumming, thinks Mr. Carlin a few minutes before he will sit down with his family for lunch, yes, that’s probably the best word for it.

He would never call it that word out loud, of course.  And the term probably hasn’t even occurred to Mrs. Carlin, the brains behind this whole operation, or to their children.  But the fact remains:  this is a wealthy family intentionally trying to spend a week in mid-December as they—or at least their children, who are too young to remember not being wealthy—imagine “typical” people do.  They’re sharing a meal without the benefit of a caterer—or a personal chef, as back home in the city—to prepare it for them, or household staff to clean up afterward.  Instead it’s just been Mr. Carlin, out by the pool, grilling hot dogs and hamburgers today, with the assembled family members have been doing their own laundry throughout the week.  And all the kids and their respective paramours are cheerfully pitching in to assist with light housekeeping tasks, things like loading the dishwasher, sweeping, taking out the garbage, separating materials recycling, and so forth.  The Carlin family agrees:  it’s kind of fun, living this way.  And what really makes it fun is they all know that, when the week is over, they’ll go back to living their normal, comfortable lives.  But, of course, that’s why Mrs. Carlin, several years ago, insisted that whenever they came down here for their annual short stay in the wintertime, they not hire any household help.  It was important, she told her husband, for kids who grew up in privilege to know something of what life was like for ordinary folks—“the kind of people you and I used to be,” she reminded him pointedly.

Today Mr. Carlin is giving serious consideration to telling his wife and children—as well as the respective paramours of their two daughters and one son—that they’re still ordinary folks.

***

Here, gathered in the dining room—and anxious to begin the meal—are the three Carlin children:  Amanda, Isabelle, and Rodney, aged twenty-six to twenty-one, in order of oldest to youngest.  Also present are Amanda’s boyfriend, Tristan; Isabelle’s boyfriend, Aaron; and Rodney’s girlfriend, Cassandra.  Oh, and the family cat—Toonces—is skulking about somewhere.

Mr. Carlin, with Mrs. Carlin’s help, is bringing in all the hot, glistening hamburgers and hot dogs on large platters.  Amanda, ever the attentive hostess, is laying out hot dog and hamburger buns, potato chips, and coleslaw in the middle of the table; Isabelle is distributing napkins and plastic utensils around it.  The young men aren’t doing anything useful at the moment, though Mr. Carlin was pleased to overhear them offering to help.  Yet the girls have insisted on handling all the details.  They’re natural caregivers, he thinks, who like to look after other people.  It’s a trait they must have inherited from their mother; he doesn’t see how they could have gotten it from him.

“Time to eat,” Mr. Carlin announces as he comes into the dining room with the last big plate.  He feels ridiculous, as if he’s just play acting and doing a bad job of it to boot.  But what else can he do?

Nothing, he assures himself, I have to dance until the music stops.

The dining room, thanks to a phalanx of tall glass windows, permits a marvelous view of the sandy white shore and the blue-water Atlantic Ocean beyond.

“This looks wonderful, Dad,” says Amanda, admiring the food.

Everyone at the table nods or murmurs their assent.

“It was nothing,” Mr. Carlin responds, and takes his customary seat at the head of the table; Mrs. Carlin goes to the other end.

It’s all so perfect, Mr. Carlin muses, and so incredibly tenuous, this moment.