Is there no cup for me | Ben Ebert

A man knocked on the door. Inside, a family was having dinner. There was a mother and father, grandmother and grandfather, and three children; two girls and a boy. They looked at each other across the table in silence, and then the mother went toward the door.
She opened the door and stood looking at the man.
“Yes?” she said.
“I’m here,” the man said.
The mother remained still, and after a moment said, “I can see that.”
The man took off the broad-brimmed hat he’d been wearing and looked at the mother, and said nothing.
“What is it you want?” the mother said.
“I told you. I’m here.”
“And I told you, I can see that.”
“Perhaps dinner?”
“Really?”
“Why not?”
“Are you actually insisting on that?”
“Yes.”
“It’s inappropriate.”
“I am sure it will be alright.”
The two stood looking at each other in the doorway.
“Who is it?” the father called from the other room.
“You’d better go,” the mother said to the man in the doorway. “Before he sees you.”
“It’s got to happen eventually,” the man said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Dinner.”
“You are not having dinner with us.”
“But, I’m hungry.”
“I don’t give a damn.”
“That’s very cruel.”
“Get away from our home.”
“But, I’ve waited so long. I’m hungry, really.”
“Then you are ready to wait even longer,” the mother said. She tried to close the door, but the man stuck his foot in the threshold. He leaned in close to the crack in the door.
“Please,” he whispered.
“No,” she whispered back.
“You aren’t welcome.”
“It cannot go on like this.”
“You can’t force your way in here.”
“That is not what I want.”
The door gave slightly and the man’s foot was no longer wedged.
“Christ, please just leave us alone,” she said.
“You know I cannot do that.”
“What will you do?”
“I will come in and sit down and have dinner with you all.”
“You’re crazy.”
“No. I'm tired and I’m hungry,” the man whispered. He pulled his foot from the threshold. The door swung loosely and the man took a step back.
“And I’ve waited long enough,” he said to himself, and went forward hard. His force was not met on the other side of the door this time, and he almost fell into the house. The mother was standing back against the wall that ran toward the dining room, mouth palm-covered and in staring silence.
“Dear,” the father called, again not moving from his seat.
“Shall we join the rest,” said the man, barely audible.
“Please,” came muffled from the mother.
“It’s got to happen.”
He touched the mother’s arm and took in hand the palm that had been covering her mouth. Together, they went slowly down the hall and through the archway into the dining room.
There was a small dinner table laid out, and around the table were squeezed tightly each member of the family. The father was closest to the entrance. The grandparents sat on the right and the children on the left, and at the far end of the table was an empty chair.
The man saw the empty chair and smiled and made his way around the quiet table.
He reached the chair, pulled it out, looked about at the faces for a moment, and sat with a smiling sigh, tossing his hat onto the table.
“It’s fine to sit down at a family dinner like this,” the man said.
No one replied.
The man looked around the room with the same smile on his face. The walls were fresh and clean and on them hung framed photographs suspended by wires from the crown molding.
“These are unfamiliar to me,” he said.
“We took these years ago,” the father said in a low voice.
“Okay, but they seem somehow new.”
“Not new. Only fixed.”
“Hm,” the man said while looking at the folded edges of the portraits. “That’s a fine way to say it.”
Again, the room lapsed into silence. The man looked round at everyone. All looked back, except the mother who had remained under the archway with her head lowered. The man’s eyes rested on the children.
“How old are you?” he said to the largest, the boy.
After a moment, the boy said, “eight.”
“That is very old.”
“It is,” said the boy’s father.
“Eight,” the man said, nodding. “Can I ask you something, young man? How far back can you remember?”
“I don’t know,” the boy said.
“Give it your best shot.”
“What should I remember?”
“That’s a good question. How about: can you remember when these photos were taken?”
“That’s enough,” the father said.
“Surely, you must remember.”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s enough.”
“Really, just try. Tell me they were taken not long ago. Tell me he just says so.”
“That is enough,” the father raised his voice, slapping the table.
The man’s hands went up. He scanned each face in the room with his persistent smile. No one reciprocated.
“Yes, sir. Okay, sir. It’s enough.”
Again, silence fell on the group. The table was laid, and in the center sat covered platters. The man was hungry and smelled the cooked food beneath the white linen cloths. He looked across the table at the father and began walking his fingers toward the nearest platter. Everyone, except the mother, watched his movement.
Just as he began to tug on the cloth, he felt his shoulder press and looked to his left to see the grandfather’s outstretched arm.
“Ah,” the man said, recoiling. “My etiquette. Of course, as eldest–,” and he gave a slight bow to the grandfather.
The grandfather only returned his arm to his lap.
“It’s about time, no?” the man said.
There was silence from the elder.
“You’ll have it get cold?”
Nothing.
“Come now, he cannot need assistance. I don’t believe it.”
“Really,” the grandmother said to the father, “please.”
“Why should you answer for him?” the man responded. “Has he muted? An invalid already? It’s not possible at his age.”
“It is possible at any age,” the grandmother said to the man.
“Yes. Sure.”
“And there are different ways of finding invalidity.”
The man paused speaking. His head sank.
“So, it’s true,” he said, after a time.
“Oh no,” the grandfather said, suddenly perking up in his seat, “not for me, at least.”
The man looked about the group with wide eyes, and then started to clap.
“He’s recovered,” he laughed. “A miracle of youth. I knew it was not yet time for invalids here.” The father gave a subdued snort.
“You all play so well,” the man got out between his laughs. “And you three, what actors,” he winked at the children.
The father could not contain himself now, and burst into a violent laughing fit.
“Actors?” he choked. “Just imagine, he thinks them actors!”
The man threw his head back, wiping his tears.
“You are too good,” he said. “You are all too good. What a game this has been.”
“A game!”
“You fooled me, truly.”
“We fooled him, we fooled him. How unbelievable!”
The two, alone, were in hysterics.
“And her,” the man almost shouted, pointing to the mother, “she’s a statue the whole time. What commitment.”
The mother still looked at the floor.
“Come. It’s all discovered now. Take your seat. Where is your seat?” the man got out.
“Where is her seat?”
“He wants to know where her seat is,” roared the father.
“Where is it? Where can it be?” the man said, looking around quickly, his hand flattened out above his eyes. “Do you know, young man? Where is mama’s seat?”
“We can’t seem to find it,” yelled the father. “There aren’t enough chairs!”
“There are not,” said the man. “There are simply not enough chairs.”
“Or, perhaps, it’s a problem of space!”
“Oh, we could make the room, no problem.”
“Oh, no, no. I think it’s impossible!”
“It is not,” the man said, his laughter waning. “We could easily have everyone together at the table.”
“Oh, no. We couldn’t.”
“Oh, yes. We could.”
“No, no, no,” the father said, calming as well and shaking his head.
“Yes. Let’s us have everyone at the table.”
“We will not!” shouted the father, bringing his fist down hard on the table.
Everyone started, except the man and the father. The man’s smile faded completely, and the old silence enveloped the room once more. The two were fixed on each other.
The man leaned back, breaking contact with the father. He noticed the mother shift her weight on her feet.
“Do you really not want to join us?” he said.
“The Don bars you.”
“He does not,” she whispered. “There’s not space.”
“You know that is untrue.”
“Perhaps before,” began the father in a calm voice, “when we had a larger table.”
“Will you speak for her as well?”
“But,” the father continued, “well, there comes a time when it’s pointless having so much space.”
“So, it’s a new table also?” the man said, running his fingers along the table’s edge.
“Not so new.”
“But why downsize the table? Was the old one ruined or something?”
“In a way.”
“But, what?”
“But mostly we didn’t want to look at the empty space anymore.”
The man looked at the children again, but as his gaze swept across the girls, each averted their eyes.
“Was it really so bad,” he said, “the empty space?”
“Why don’t you ask them?” the father said, pointing to the girls the man was looking at. Neither had yet spoken a word.
“Go on, girls, tell him.”
The girls said nothing, only twisting their hands in their laps.
“Do not be rude, girls, tell him about how it was having so much empty space at the table.”
Their heads bowed.
“Did you hear me, my beautiful girls? Tell him. Tell him how it was.”
“Baby,” the mother said, reaching for his shoulder from behind.
“No.” The father’s voice again rose. “He asked. He wants to know if it was ‘really that bad.’ It’s rude to ignore his question.”
“Do just that,” the man said. “Ignore it, if this is how you’ll be.”
“Oh, no. That’s impossible now.” “It wasn’t good, okay,” the mother said. “It’s a bad thing having an empty space like that.”
“Yes, dear. And girls, girls, tell him what it’s like looking at such an empty spot. Better, unfilled. Tell him gi–”
“We waited a long time before giving the big table up,” the mother intervened again.
“That’s good. Yes, we gave up,” the father said, calming once more. “And then we had a smaller table.”
There was a pause. The room was quiet and the man looked closely at the girls’ bowed heads. He saw tears streaming down their cheeks. The boy sat next to them in frozen blankness, looking forward at no one.
“And what’s funny is,” the father chuckled, “we’d all actually just come around to the smaller thing. Different, of course, but the bitching had finally stopped. Well, had…” and with his hand, he threw a gesture toward the girls.
“Good god. This is abuse,” the man said to the father.
“Abuse,” the father shrieked.
The girls could not contain themselves and began to weep aloud. The father turned toward them.
“Look, girls. He’s here, you see? He’s here now and there just isn’t enough space. Abuse!” he scoffed. “There isn’t space. The table is too small. There isn’t space. There isn’t any fucking space anymore!”
“Goddammit, boy,” the grandfather rose out of his seat. “Not in front of them.”
All three of the children were crying now. The sound of their tears filled the room and the mother went around and guided them out of their seats and toward the arched exit. The man looked at the father’s eyes. They were glass and the smile spread on the man’s face again.
“Are you really so sentimental over that thing, old man?” he said.
The father’s eyebrows rose high. “Sen–sentimental?” he barely spoke.
“Isn’t a change allowed every now and then? It’s clear it just wasn’t a good fit at the time.”
“We wanted it to fit,” cried the mother over her shoulder, stopping under the archway.
She turned around. Tears coated her face.
“And it did. It did fit. For the longest time it did.”
“For Christ’s sake, if it fit before then just bring it the fuck back.”
“We can’t.”
“That’s pure shit.”
“Do not talk to my daughter that way, punk,” the grandfather said, stepping toward the man.
The man pushed himself back hard and stumbled out of the chair and onto his feet.
“Your daughter?” he said, pointing. “Your…is that all she is?”
“And she is my wife,” the father now jumped out of his own chair. “And the mother of my children. My three children.”
The man looked all about with a dropped mouth.
“What? Do you hear what he says? Did you all hear?” he screamed, and then turned toward the children, “you do not believe it. Surely, you do not.”
“You do not talk to them. That time has ended.”
“Your children? Your wife? What else here is yours and no one else’s? Is it your family? You call yourself a father? You call yourself a man? You cannot even provide enough chairs! No wonder you had to get a smaller table. You never had enough chairs. There never was enough room.”
The grandfather pulled his wife from her chair and embraced her on the way to the other end of the table. They joined the rest under the archway. The father was there now, too, arm around the children that he held before him. They had ceased crying, and were looking blankly at the man opposite them. The grandparents settled beside the father and children and, as well, looked at the man. And the mother was there, a little behind the group. The man could see her between figures, alone, shading her forehead and eyes, convulsive.
“There was,” the father said, “only, perhaps too much.”
“You know that is a lie,” the man said.
“No. What I know is that it was unneeded. Unwanted. Useless. And it had been around too long.”
“You do not all believe that. You cannot.”
“Baby, it’s got to stop,” the mother slipped out, tugging on the father’s shirt. “Please, it’s got to end.”
“Don’t worry dear,” the father said.
He took her hand and pulled her to the front of the family. Her expression was broken and she looked at the man, alone across the table. The man stood still, looking up from his lowered head at the mother.
“He knows it’s all ended,” the father said.
The man's eyes flashed back down and swam about the set table. There were plates. One at each spot; plates and tablecloths, forks and knives and spoons, glasses and chairs, places. There were places, one for each of them standing across the table, seven places, seven chairs, seven plates, seven of everything, and one hat flung in the middle of it all.
The man looked up again. All met his eyes, except for the mother, who quickly looked away.
“And so,” he whispered, “this is your chair?”
“Yes,” the mother said.
“And this is your plate?”
“Yes.”
“Your knife? Your fork? Your spoon?”
“I cannot. No. No. I can’t. Please,” the mother wept, turning her head into the father’s chest. He held her shoulders and faced her toward the man again.
“You must,” he said. The man’s vision was beginning to blur.
“And this?” he said, lifting up the glass. “This is your cup?
“Please,” she said.
“It is yours?”
“You’re killing me.”
“And me?”
“God, please just go. Please, leave us alone.”
“Is there no cup for me?”
“No. No. Not anymore. No.”
The man set the glass down gently. He grabbed his hat from the table and, holding it close to his chest, began toward the archway. He paused to look at the portraits one last time. There were seven faces, and each photo was folded.
The family separated for him as the man continued. He stopped again under the arch, looking forward and away from the family, and then began toward the door. The mother reached suddenly for his swinging hand, but the father pulled her arm back. The man did not turn around when he went through the threshold, out of the home, and away.

Benjamin Ebert is an American minimalist short story writer based out of New Orleans, LA. His published work can be found in Zoetic Press’ Nonbinary Review, Samjoko Magazine, Vocivia Magazine, and miniMAG.