What are you supposed to do with two forks?
|“I can’t get this hook, Father,” says the boy, struggling to unlatch the top fastener on his winter coat.
“Here, William, let me,” says the father, removing his gloves, blowing on his hands, and bending down.
William looks over his father’s shoulder. The grounds of the Wagon Wheel restaurant lie under the blanket of tonight’s pure white snowfall and glisten in the silver of a full moon blazing among torn clouds frozen in place high above. “Got it,” says William’s father. “The hook was bent. Now let’s go in and have dinner.”
William has heard his parents and their friends talk about the Wagon Wheel. Sometimes the grown-ups would go there for someone’s birthday, while William watched television or played Parcheesi at home with the sitter. He had never been to the Wagon Wheel, had never imagined he would ever be here.
Someone in a cowgirl dress leads them to a table. When William sits down, she unfolds an enormous menu in front of his face. William struggles to hold the menu upright in his hands and has no idea what to do with it. “Father,” he says, “I don’t know what I want.”
“I’ll order for you, William,” says his father. And he does -- cheeseburger, fries, cole slaw, a vanilla milkshake. William doesn’t like vanilla.
When the food arrives, William looks down at it. There are two forks on one side of his plate. “Which fork should I use, Father?” he asks.
“The larger one, William,” says his father.
On the drive home, William looks up through the car window into the night sky. Tomorrow they will visit his mother in the hospital, but he has a feeling she is already up there, sailing through the clouds with the silver moon. “Hi Mom,” he whispers. “It’s me, Willie.”
(Word count: 300)