Page 21 of Home Ice

“Ow.”

“Put the phone away.”

“That’s an assault on a working professional.”

“Put it away; we’re going to eat.”

He stuck the phone in his pocket and started moving bowls four inches to the left. “Can I say one thing about the arrangement of this?”

“No,” Ma said.

“On the diagonal. That’s all. If the bowls go on the diagonal, the eye travels—“

“The eye can walk around the table like everybody else.”

“Yiayia, back me up. Diagonal.”

“It’s food,” my grandmother said from the table, where she had been sitting with her hands folded, watching the two of us like we were a favorite TV program. “You put it in your mouth. It doesn’t matter where it sits.”

Max held up both hands and surrendered the point.

I pulled a plate out of the cupboard and started stacking shells while Max drifted back in beside me and stole a piece of the meat straight out of the pan with two fingers.

“Is he coming?” Ma asked. “Rafe. Or is he busy? Hockey players must be busy.”

“He’s busy on the road,” Max said, chewing. “It’s Denver, I think. Somewhere out west.”

They’d been in Denver Friday.

Tonight was Dallas. Five o’clock our time, which meant the puck had dropped while I was parking the truck.

I put the plate of shells on the table.

“Denver,” Ma said. “Does he wear a proper coat? Max never wears one that’s actually warm.”

“He’s from Saskatchewan. I think he has a coat. I think in Saskatchewan they give you a coat when you’re born, it comes with the—“

“Don’t be smart,” Ma said.

We set the table as she walked past us with the pastitsio.

The interrogation began before Max assembled his first taco.

“So,” she said. “Tell me about this boy.”

“You’ve seen him,” Max said. “You watched the videos.”

“I’ve seen the videos. I’ve seen Kelly Ripa on TV.” She pointed the serving spoon at him. “That doesn’t mean I know what they’re like. Tell me about him.”

“He’s a sweetheart. He’s the easiest person I’ve ever worked with.” Max built a taco while he talked, cabbage first. He always did that wrong. “He shows up early and thanks the driver.”

“Does he eat properly? On the road, with the travel.”

“Ma, he’s a professional athlete. I’m sure the team feeds him like he’s a racehorse. There are people hired to make sure he eats.”

Ma put a big spoonful of pastitsio on his plate next to the tacos, uninvited. Max ate it without comment.

My father finished chewing, set his fork down, and wiped his mouth.