Maybe the plan had worked.
Daughter Claire dragged in deep, noisy, reassuring breaths; through a sharp, Northern Irish nose; white as bleached flour. She was alert, as unique circumstances required. On the other hand: to date, nothing much had happened. Maybe nothing would. No flare-ups. Tantrums. Dictates. No thundering dismissals from Da. Nothing; life goes on. Claire would fork down her typical Sunday afternoon Belfast meal. They'd all sit in their customary spots: small Da in his higher-than-yours throne, at one end of a solemn table. Ma seated to his right: the instant helpmeet. Claire seated in her usual place; at the lower, lowest, end of the table.
As it had been for 28 years.
Claire looked, as she did each Sunday these many Sundays into the measuring eyes of Jack Stiles: father, master, patriarch, judge. And starting to show his age, she saw today; around the eyes, in the neck. Tiny eels.
Won't talk about that at all. Claire sat comfortably. Happy. For two-score years, this small chair in this darkened room had been her assigned spot. This was her place; since she'd descended from the high chair, trading in babyhood for person-hood.
And for all those years, she'd stared at Jack Stiles, having thoughts. He saw her. She saw him. Unless, of course, relatives came by to visit. Then Claire was banished to the dining-room table's lowest social rung: distinguished guests, mother midway; then other guests; then everyone's children swirling somewhere underfoot, feeding at small, set-aside tables serving only vegetables.