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“Neal! Breakfast!” Elizabeth called up the steps, and then paused to listen for the pounding of her son’s sneakers on the floorboards overhead.
“PANCAKES!” she heard him shout happily from his room, and it made her smile – he was so easy to please at this age.
“Have a seat, buddy. Milk or juice?”
“Milk.”
“Syrup or jam?”
“Surp.”
El turned to carry the platter of pancakes to the dining table and looked down at Neal, who was dancing in place beside the kitchen island, hands clasped under his chin and his eyes squeezed shut. “Pancaaaaaaaakes!” he sighed up at her, his lips curling into an ecstatic smile.
“Yeah, OK,” she said, laughing. “Into your seat, Mister.” She deposited the platter on the table as Neal scampered over to his chair. Peter came into the room and she turned to kiss him hello, but then paused as the sound of pancakes being speared by a fork greeted her ears. “Hang on a second. You get two, Neal.”
“What? Aw, Mom!”
“Two!” she said as sternly as she could muster. “Last time you left half of what you took for Satchmo, and he doesn’t need the carbs.”
“Dad!”
Peter wouldn’t be swayed. “If you finish two you can have more,” he pointed out, sitting down and taking four pancakes for himself. Neal stared at him, affronted. “I’m a growing boy,” Peter told him soberly before reaching for the butter.
The family settled in to eat, Peter reading the Times Book review, El the Metro section. Neal sat swinging his legs and eating his breakfast, singing happily to himself between bites, “Pancakes, pancakes. This is the Pancake Song. Keep your fancakes and brancakes, I’ll have pancakes.”
Peter glanced over the paper at him and smiled, then went back to his reading.
“Hon, did you call the gutter guy yet?” El asked.
Peter looked up and then nodded. “Mm-hmm. He’ll come next Monday – can you leave him a check?”
“Sure.”
Peter picked up his fork and looked down at his plate to find that one of his pancakes – the best one, the one that had soaked in all the butter – was missing. He glanced at the dog, who was lying at Neal’s feet hoping for some breakfast to fall on the floor, then at his son, who was busy shoving half of a pancake that looked suspiciously like his own into his mouth. “That yours?” he asked Neal
“Mmph!”
“Uh-huh.” Peter reached for another pancake and set it atop his stack, then picked up his fork and began eating.
“Hey, hon, did you pick up the dry cleaning?” El asked.
Peter flinched. “Aw, I left it in the trunk after I picked Neal up from that birthday party yesterday. Let me go and get it.” Peter went out to the car to retrieve the dry cleaning, left it hanging in the front closet and when he got back to the table, he noticed that there were only two pancakes on his plate.
“Hon?”
El raised her eyebrows.
Peter pointed at his plate. “Thought I had more pancakes there.”
“Well you probably ate them.”
He glanced sideways at Neal, whose stack of pancakes had apparently not diminished since breakfast began, though the syrup smeared all over his face belied that fact. His son stared innocently at the ceiling humming the Pancake Song. “Drink your milk,” Peter told him and Neal grinned at him. Through his teeth, Peter could tell his mouth had been shoved full of pancakes. “Very funny.”
Neal snorted through his nose.
“Think you can put one over on the old man, eh?”
Neal continued laughing, and trying to chew through the wad of pancakes in his mouth. Soon he was choking and laughing at the same time and Peter leaned over him, patting him between his shoulder blades. “Hey, it’s OK, you’re OK. Here, drink some milk.” He fed the glass to his son and watched him swallow it down. When Neal looked back up at him, he had tears in his eyes, but he was still smiling.
“I got you, Dad.”
“Yeah, you did. Want some more? You can have as many as you want.”
“Nah, I’m thtuffed!”
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