The Table of the Quadruplets

In early June 1995, a thirty-year-old man accompanied his equally aged fiancée to a birthday party for her father, two of his sisters, and their elder brother. The fiancée's name was Heather, and her fiancé was named Michael. The event was held at the condominium of the elder brother thirty-four floors up, and Michael and Heather got onto the elevator alone and it travelled up without a single stop, which made Michael dizzy as an unwanted accompaniment to both the knot in his belly and the sense of being held captive by this shiny steel Otis. He was focussing on the number buttons in their four columns and nine rows when she said: "You're nervous."

"I am very nervous."

"He'll like you."

"Should I be the one to tell him? Should I ask him for your hand in marriage?"

She flushed prettily and touched his shoulder in its light blue blazer. "He already knows; but prepare yourself to forget that for a while."

They weren't the only guests expected. Heather had twenty cousins in all, though only eight or nine had been invited to the birthday party. Also expected was the grandfather himself who was also great-grandfather to thirty-seven, though only ten or eleven were expected to be there. The condominium, as Heather had explained, was vast, with four bedrooms, two living rooms, a dining room, four baths, and other rooms she didn't know the proper terminology for. Her father's older brother--Air Force Jackson by given name--was a wealthy man who had turned a training in economics into a lucrative career fortune on the international currency markets. The condominium was but one of three homes he owned.

Together they stepped off the elevator and she took his hand in both of hers. "Now you're going to find out I haven't been lying all along, now aren't you?"

He didn't know how much staring was allowed.

"Everybody stares, even strangers who don't know them. Bondi and Celeste are identical, so they usually get the ideas rolling. Don't worry about it."

He himself was the opposite of this fecund family tree; he was the only child of only children who were themselves children of only children; which made him the sole descendant of fourteen individuals.

"Opposites attack," she said, knocking on a white door which drifted open from the force. Mellow voices both male and female easily flowed forth. Heather looked at Michael and smiled and said: "Seems no-one's drunk yet." She pushed the door, stepping in and calling: "Hello! Hello! Where's the birthday kids?"

Michael saw a middle-aged woman with black hair streaked from the temples with grey, in a green dress of a type he liked. She said, "Heather, so happy to see you!" She had good teeth. She took Heather by her hands and they kissed cheeks. The woman said: "And you are Michael?"

Heather said: "Yes. Michael, this is my aunt Bondi."

Bondi stuck out her hand and Michael stuck out his and they shook. Her hand was strong. "Bondi Nash, at your service. You look like you need a drink."

Michael couldn't but say: "Yeah, sure."

She pulled him into the condo. She loved him already. Niece Heather deserved it, such a sweet girl and thirty-something already.

As Michael was being pulled into the kitchen he looked into a living room and met the eyes of ... aunt Celeste must have been, who had black hair streaked from the temples with grey, and good teeth (she was smiling over a baby, her first grandchild as it turned out); Michael could only think of jealousy; then in the bright kitchen Bondi said: "What would you like?"

"Is there any beer?"

Bondi yanked open the almond refrigerator and pulled forth a bottle of Eidel and shoved it into his hand. "Have you met Denim before?"

No, never.

Bondi nudged him. "Don't make any jokes to begin with. He likes jokes but not to begin with."

"Okay then." He turned, looking for Heather who was back in the hall talking to an older man, her uncle Air Force by the looks of him, looking so freshly washed and dressed he could only have done it in his own home. Heather saw him looking and she pulled the gent into the kitchen and she said: "Air Force, this is my belovéd Michael."

Air Force stuck out his hand with a big smile. "Pleased to meet you. Welcome to my 'pad'."

Though Air Force was, he'd been told, only seven minutes older than Bondi, he looked significantly older. His hair was entirely grey, and he was a couple inches taller. He had a gym membership and a sailboat he sailed solo himself. "Let me show you around. You should get a feel for the place."

Air Force put his hand on Michael's shoulder and guided him through the other end of the kitchen and into a large room papered in blue with a massive white leather couch and a giant television suspended on the wall. Sitting on the couch slouching was a man who looked up and smiled; Heather pushed past Air Force and Michael and danced up to him; he stood and she said: "Daddy!" They embraced. Michael waited with his fingers meshed at belt level. Heather pulled her father, Denim by name, over and said: "This is Michael."

Denim, the youngest of the quadruplets, looked Michael up and down and said: "You're the third boyfriend I've ever met."

Michael smiled as pleasantly as possible. So many people! "Happy birthday."

Bondi cried: "Birthdays!"

Denim glared at his older sister. "Now Bondi, it's a bit early for that."

She looked abashed. "Well, it is my birthday too after all."

"Where's PawPaw?" Heather asked.

Demin said: "Sorry dear, he just couldn't make it. He was too tired." PawPaw was Heather's grandfather. He'd been born in 1900 exactly. Wasn't his birthday.

"Who's this?" Michael turned and saw the woman who was probably Celeste standing behind him to his left.

Heather kept it up bravely. "This is my fiancé Michael, auntie Celeste."

Celeste stepped forward. She seemed much more worldly than her genetically identical sister. He looked at Bondi again and he could see that Celeste had a wrinkle at the corner of her mouth that Bondi didn't. He had cracked the code. He had met everyone who mattered, for Heather was Denim's only daughter and there were no siblings to worry about trying to charm.

Air Force brought out three bottles of wine and the six of them sat in something of a circle in the living room. Bondi did the generous pouring. Denim was sometimes glancing at Michael without saying anything. Celeste was looking good with that wrinkle of hers.

The talk turned to (certain) family matters, mostly of those that had taken place with themselves in the adult situation: they talked about their marriages and their children. Michael sat, quietly listening, trying to remember whose spouse was whose and whose children were whose, but then the conversation turned slightly to reveal something of the past. Celeste said: "I got a phone call from Benedict yesterday."

Denim said: "What did he have to say?"

"He was wondering what was up with us all. He remembered our birthdays."

Bondi smiled. "I have a soft spot for Benedict."

Michael ventured to Heather: "Who's Benedict?"

Heather said: "Another uncle of mine. An older generation."

Denim said to Bondi: "I've got nothing against them. If it wasn't for the table, everything would be fine."

Michael asked Heather: "What about a table?"

Heather: "It's a massive oak table PawPaw has. They all ate at it. It's huge. Ten people can sit at it."

Celeste invaded the conversation: "We've been fighting about it for years, darling. We think it should wind up with one of us. We were the last to use it as a family, so it should come here."

Air Force said: "It's the great battle royal for us and them."

The party broke up around five p.m. Michael and Heather went home, talking about how to have their little wedding.

The newlyweds planned a trip to the country, a honeymoon, that would end at another party, this time in August, to meet with Heather's three other paternal relations. They rolled up to an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. The house had formerly belonged to PawPaw and his first wife; before that, it had been PawPaw's parent's house. No-one was certain whose it was before that. The house had a sloped gable over its only floor, with a summer kitchen running off away from the perpendicular driveway. Set out on the lawn Michael saw two picnic tables in the long grass, and there were three 'vintage' cars parked.

They both noticed the elderly woman with the tray, and Heather said: "That's my aunt Agnes. She's the oldest of the lot."

He parked the car and they got out. Many eyes were upon them. Heather called out: "Hello!" thought Michael nervously. He came out around the car where he was met with Heather's outstretched hand.

Three signs were up, modest banners of blue and white crepe suspended from poles, two poles per sign. All three read: "HAPPY 70TH!"

Heather had told him: "There's Agnes, Benedict, and Dymphna."

"Dymphna?"

"A saint starting with D, and a girl. Irish saint, murdered by her pagan father."

"Fair enough."

Heather introduced her new husband first to Agnes a birthday girl. Agnes smiled at Michael. Agnes was a lean grey-hair with gold glasses and a worn pink dress. She was sitting between her daughter and her daughter's daughter. Then the introduction went to Benedict, also lean but wholly bald, who had a little glass of beer in hand. He was the one who had invited them. Then there was the youngest of the three, Dymphna, who naturally seemed the youngest one. She jumped up and hugged Michael strongly. She was stout, and her grey hair was in a bun.

Heather said: "Is PawPaw here yet?"

Dymphna, still with a hand on Michael, said: "Sorry, hon, he couldn't make it."

"Dang!" She turned to Michael and said, "There's still time. His birthday's coming up in a couple months."

Michael said: "A lot of birthdays go on in this family."

Dymphna said: "He couldn't make it in from his suburb."

Heather said: "I understand. So, any drinks going?"

"Kitchen, kitchen, fully loaded."

Benedict raised his little glass. "Join the club!"

Heather took Michael inside. The kitchen was old and run-down. A formica table looked like the most recent addition. Heather opened a cupboard and there were at least five dozen glasses within, with no two matching. She poured wine into two glasses and said: "Oh, come here, look, check this out. They got it framed, from 1948."

She pulled him into the hallway and pointed at a small frame on the orange striped wallpaper. Inside the frame, under glass, was a panel of Ripley's Believe It or Not!

"Michael Delaney's first wife gave birth to QUADRUPLETS in 1925 and his SECOND wife gave birth to ANOTHER set of quadruplets in 1940!"

alongside a drawing of a man with four sketchy children to his left and four sketchy young adults to his right.

"Does your PawPaw really look like that?"

"It's a good likeness, yes."

"Very impressive. I've never know a Ripley's family before."

They went outside with their wines. Off in the yard they'd passed in their car four children played. They belonged to Benedict and Dymphna two by two. Agnes lived in the house and her brother and sister lived not too far away.

Heather hopped into a seat at a picnic table and Michael easily eased his way onto the spot beside her. The wood bounced but he got his glass down safely.

Agnes was a big toothy smile saying: "So you got married!"

Benedict observed: "You got no rings."

Michael said: "Ah...." and Heather said: "Michael's not big on jewellery."

"That I can understand." He turned the ring on his own finger and looked at the woman beside him. Benedict's wife. "The thing catches on stuff all the time."

Benedict's wife said: "You once said you wanted to be caught."

Benedict sighed. "That I did." He smiled and kissed him wife frankly.

Michael said: "So you all got kids?" He'd slipped somehow into country speech.

Dymphna spoke. "We got plenty kids, and plenty kids' kids."

Agnes said: "And got some kid's kid's kids to boot. Me more than anyone. We're old folk."

Michael decided to be witty. "I suppose that's natural. You're the eldest, I hear."

His comment was appreciated. He was fitting in all right.

Agnes said: "We're the first ones. You met the second ones, I understand. But we were the first. All saints. Agnes, Benedict, Charles, Dymphna. Charles is gone. He died some eight years ago. He got a wife, kids, grandkids. She doesn't like to come to these things. It's her deceased husband's birthday after all. She goes and prays at Saint Mary's chapel I think. No time for us, at least on this day. But we're the first quartet." She drank some. "So tell me, Michael, you met the younger quads, right?"

Michael managed to not choke on the cheap wine. "Yeah, I met them in town. Couple months ago. They were real nice to me, up in that rich condominium."

"Did they mention anything about a table?"

Heather interrupted: "Now let's not get onto that."

Benedict snorted up. "Yeah, don't wanna get anyone up on any table!"

"Now shut up you." That was Agnes speaking. She was upset. Dymphna took over. She said: "Sorry, son. Do you know about the table?"

Michael said, "There's a fight going on about it. About which, ah, 'quads' deserve to get it."

"It's a pitched battle."

"I, I'm sorry I didn't know it was so serious."

Benedict leaned to say, "Don't you have siblings that fight about stuff?"

"Actually I don't. My parents are singles too. I don't have anyone really."

Heather stopped it by saying: "He doesn't know anything about what you're all passionate about, really! Don't take it out on him." She kissed Michael then.

"What could be so life and death about a table?"

Benedict said: "It's a very big table. Seats nine or ten. It was built in France in 1804."

"How did your family get it?"

"Not sure about that. PawPaw picked it up somehow. He won't tell anyone."

Heather said: "Top secret classified stuff."

"It's got a metal plate at the head. Copper. Says: 'Lyons, 1804.'"

Dymphna said: "So we think it should go to one of us. When PawPaw passes."

"Because we used it first."

"And even though we're only three now."

"I hope you see it some day. It's really beautiful."

Heather concurred. "It's the most beautiful table I've ever seen."

Michael asked: "So where is it now?"

Dymphna answered: "It's in storage. PawPaw put it there."

"All wrapped in bubble wrap." That was Benedict talking.

"It got to go somewhere."

"We just don't know what the old man has in mind."

The conversation, having been exhausted for a time, moved on to Heather's marriage to Michael. What were their plans? They didn't know for sure. They were going to roll with it for a while. No, no family was invited. You guys fight too much. Can barely have you seven in the same room. It was with friends and friends alone. As they'd already said, they were going to roll with it. Yes, perhaps that. They certainly weren't trying to prevent it from happening. Only time would tell.

Three months later, in October, Heather and Michael drove into the deepest suburbs. They came to the newest section of the reach; houses were to the left of them and farm fields were to the right. And there they came to a tiny house standing sole on the farming side.

"Wow," said Michel. "Did he design it himself?"

Heather said: "It's all his own design. He's been living there for ten years."

"All alone?"

"He's got a nurse living with him these days. For about five years."

Though there was only one car in the driveway, they parked on the dirt roadside. On the other side of the road ran a line of nearly identical houses complete with gigantic two-car garages behind a sidewalk. Michael would have been hard-pressed to tell one from another. The old man had purchased ten acres and he swore he wasn't going to ever sell. He really enjoyed laughing at the developers who showed up almost every other day.

They walked up to the house. Heather knocked on the door. The door rattled loosely.

"Where will everyone sit?"

On the grass out back. Bondi was bringing a huge number of sandwiches and Air Force was bringing a couple cases of wine.

The door creaked open. The nurse was middle-aged. She smiled. Heather said: "Hi, Deb. This is my husband Michael."

Deb stuck out her hand. "Hello, Michael."

"Hello, Nurse Deb."

"So how's PawPaw today?" That was Heather speaking.

Deb nodded. "He's doing okay today. He's pretty happy about turning ninety-five though he hates showing it."

Deb and Heather and Michael went inside, into a small living room. An old man sat in an orange recliner, staring. Heather went up to him and kissed his cheek. "Happy Birthday, PawPaw."

He grunted then said: "Thank you, my dear. And who's this guy?"

"This is my new husband Michael."

"What happened to the old one?"

"I..."

"I'm just goin' on. I knew you'd gotten married but I didn't know the name. So hello Michael. You a mute?"

"A mute?"

"You a parrot?"

"It's your birthday."

"Thanks. Heather's the peach of my orchard. If you bruise her, I'll kill you."

In the end, Michael took this advisory to heart.

Then came the arrivals. Bondi came first, with her carload of sandwiches, her husband, her son with wife and infant daughter, and her second (unmarried) son; then Benedict with two of his children and two of his grandchildren; followed by father Denim; and Dymphna came, with her son Patrick and Patrick's wife and two children; then there was Air Force with three cases of wine and his first wife Angela for some unknown reason along with his son and his son's wife (who appeared to be related somehow to Angela); then dear Agnes, the oldest of the bunch by three minutes or more, with her two sons and their wives and three or four children; and finally the seventh of eight, Celeste who'd come alone because her husband didn't like going out.

This dynamo sorted itself out over the next hour as the various horizontals of the family tree made common cause, with children playing farthest off, young adults slightly closer to the house, the middle aged closer still, the senior citizens in the shades of decorative yard trees, and the eldest of the lot, ninety-five that day, in his orange recliner which had been moved to the yard by two of the young adults. The wine was flowing most freely nearest the house, but some including Heather weren't drinking; Heather had to drive.

So loosely grouped were PawPaw, Agnes, Benedict, Dymphna, Air Force, Bondi, Celeste, Denim, Heather, and Michael, along with three or four supernumeraries.

The pleasantries were plentiful until PawPaw said: "I haven't decided anything yet."

Everyone except Michael was certain what he was talking about, and because of the looks on the faces Michael could see, he guessed, accurately.

Air Force said: "It's on our minds because I guess it's important to each and every one of us."

PawPaw laughed and said: "I'm no jackass like that Lear fellow. I ain't showing my hand till I cash out; or maybe I will; or maybe I'll never."

They went into the arguments, back and forth, everyone participating, while PawPaw sat and watched the game, thoroughly entertained. It should go to the older ones because they were the first to eat at it; it should go to the younger ones because they were the last to eat at it. Since there were only three of the former, it could find its home more easily because the choice was but three; since there were four of the latter, they had thirty-three percent more potential utilization of it. The latter, being younger, would get it eventually after a couple years, so the older ones should get it first.

PawPaw put a stop to all this dialectic, saying: "It's not a matter for the arguments you're all making. This table is a very special table. You've got to understand, I don't consider a table to be something that's dead. It's not dead; it's very much alive. It's been stuck in storage for I don't know how long. In all that time, it's changed. It's chemistry, kids! There's all sorts of life going on in it. So I respect it, maybe crazily, like it's a family member--my family member. It's what I got left, and so, see, there's got to be a right place for it. I haven't decided the place--I'm expecting to see the place it should go before I kick off. And when that happens, that's where it'll go. So you all might as well give up on the arguments. This isn't going to be decided here. So: case closed."

Everyone was quiet for a moment. There was no match for this cranky old bastard. Michael, being an outsider, wasn't feeling the same inhibitions borne of blood the others were, so he said to PawPaw: "I never thought of a table being alive."

PawPaw nodded. "It's very much alive, and changing as we speak."

Feeling very brave, Michael drank to all: "That's mutability. What do you think? You're mostly mutants here, so I can't think of a better bunch to ask. Do things change, do they stay the same, do we change in observing, or do we observe differently every minute?"

The issue of table-ness took centre stage like they were having a Platonic dialogue. For an hour everyone offered opinions. Michael somehow moderated the whole thing. Air Force figured it was the observer that changed. "We get older, we find teachers aren't gods. Big people aren't gods. But they didn't change; we did. Mutability is in the heart."

Agnes said: "Love fades. People change. Too many vectors are involved to call immutability."

Denim offered: "There's time's arrow. You can't un-break a rack."

Dymphna had an opinion. "Everything stays the same, and it's just all circles in circles. Karma. What goes around, comes around. Bhagavad-Gita."

Celeste: "It's all just chaos. Nothing stays the same, observer or observed, for a single second."

Benedict had an opinion. "We're always the same. We're souls. Whole lives are like witnesses to a parade."

Bondi. "It used to be chaos, way long ago. But history changed--in year zero. Then it got ordered."

PawPaw laughed. "The way I see it, you're all off, by just a little. Get to your 95th, and you'll understand more."

The birthday party somehow came to a close. Kisses were general, and good wishes sincerely meant were exchanged.

Walking to the car, Michael said to Heather: "You're totally sober. You could have had one-and-a-half, I understand."

She said: "I haven't been drinking for a while. Haven't you noticed? Can't you read between the lines?"

Michael read between the lines. "That was quick," was what he said.

 

 

EPILOGUE

 

Next day, Heather came home after seeing her obstetrician-gynaecologist. Michael jumped up from the couch. "So, what's the word? Healthy?"

Heather pulled from an envelope a translucent thing like an x-ray. It was a sonogram. She said: "We're getting the table." She handed him the plastic sheet.

Michael looked at it.

One, two, three, four.