Why'd you have to say that?

Before dinner, my mother-in-law Ellen serves Little Caesar's pizza and cheesy bread to our nephews who are holding their knives and forks expectantly.  My brother-in-law Aaron is one of those dads who has apparently decided that kids won't consume anything but chicken nuggets, pizza, goldfish, chocolate milk, and various kinds of juice.  Ellen asks each of them what color tupperware cup they'd like.

"Owange," says George.
"Lellow," says Lee.

Once the boys get their pizza, we watch them eat (our salmon is still grilling on the barbeque pit outside).

"Don't hold your knife crooked.  Hold it like this or you won't be able to cut your pizza," Aaron says to George.
"Like this?"  George struggles to cut his cheesy bread with a butterknife.  He seems used to constant corrections.
"Is that good?" I croon at Lee, who is in a special class at school for slow learners.  He has some kind of speech impediment.
"Yee-ah!" he sings.  He's been humming since Ellen placed the food in front of him.

In my in-laws' dining room, we have assigned seats.  I'm sitting next to my husband Brian.  Next to him is his seven year old nephew George, then Ellen (who has dubbed herself "Grandmama," Montreal-style), then the five year old nephew Lee, then Brian's brother Aaron, then my father-in-law Olav (dubbed "Bestifor," Norwegian-style).

Brian's brother Aaron has driven in from Florida--he and his two sons in his black Chevy stationwagon that he bid on over the Internet.  (Brian had noticed a new sticker in its window when we drove up: Romney 2012).  Aaron is a single dad: we heard, through Ellen, that he and his ex-wife Lisa divorced a few years ago, and she moved into the house next door. Aaron is a manager at a construction company and remodels houses for a living; he'd bought and renovated the house next door with the idea that he would use it as a rental property, and we're guessing he had Lisa move there partly to help her out and partly to make custody visitation easier.  No one talks about what this must be like for George and Lee: weekdays at Mom's, looking out the window at Daddy's house but not going there, and weekends at Daddy's house looking out the window at Mom's.

We can only guess how this housing situation is affecting Aaron since he doesn't talk much about anything but his interests, of which there are few.  Over the years I've deduced that he likes Sci Fi TV shows, cars, craft beer, raw fish, hunting, guns, pure breeds of cats and dogs, and Libertarianism.  He doesn't eat vegetables or fruit, he has two close friends, and we can't tell if he's had any dates since the divorce.  Now, we see him when he drives the kids in for a visit.  Lisa is never mentioned by anyone.  Even George and Lee seem to be aware that nobody wants to bring her up, but every once in a while they slip and puncture all of our pretending.

We adults finish our salmon and asparagus while the boys run off to play matchbox cars in the den, and Ellen calls them back to the table to eat dessert with us.  There are large squares of fruit in a bowl: honeydew melon, watermelon, and mango, and there is a small storebought strawberry cheesecake.  Ellen places these on the table to a few oohs and ahhs (dessert is never discussed, either) and we aren't sure if the boys are going to touch any of it.

Lee hears "cake" and wants some of that.  George peruses the fruit.

"The red one's watermelon," I say.  Ellen loads his plate with one of each kind.

"What's the green?" says George.

"Honeydew," says Brian.  "It's a melon."

"I want some yellow watermelon," says George.  He pierces a tough slice of unripe mango and saws it with his butterknife.  "I had this kind with my Daddy before."

"You did?" says Ellen, looking at Aaron.  Aaron shrugs.

"Yeah," says George.  "With my other Daddy.  At mom's house."  I look at my plate and take a bite of cheesecake, then another.  "I have two daddies," he says matter-of-factly.

"George, hold your knife straight," says Aaron.  "Not like this, like this."  He demonstrates with a chopping motion of his hand.  We all watch George saw at his Mango to no avail.  Finally, his knife slides through and hits the plate with a clunk, and we can at least be relieved about this.

"There you go.  It's hard as a rock," I chuckle.  Brain's the only one that chuckles back.