What was wrong with people? The heels of June sandals clicked as she paced the kitchen floor.

She glanced at the range.  The steak and potatoes were, by this time, about room temperature.  As probably the soup, which sat upon the dining room in a tureen.   She had already placed a cloth over the crystal salad bowl.  The ice, which had chilled a bottle of concord grape juice was nearly melted.  And her children were restless - moreso Robert, who would have been more than fine with a hotdog; the boy had planned a BugOut business meeting - which, of course had to be cancelled.  

Monday through Saturday, dinner at 6pm, washed hands and clean clothes, required.  The second Waterfeld house rule.  The first rule, of course, was: be ready for church nlt 9am, and 5:30 pm.  Dinner at 2.  Needless to say, Robert was less than overjoyed to have the day so segmented.

Molly was hungry too, but she held off from eating anything to tie her over; she wanted to lose 15 pounds in time for school.  Atleast keeping it off would be easier this year - since, per a recent announcement, the vending machines were gone, and the cafeteria would no longer serve any dessert items.  In addition, both breakfast pastries and sugary cereals would also not be available.  

A bit after 7, was announced by the hum of a certain cadillac pulling into the drive, followed by the creak of the door leading from the kitchen to the garage.  Ward set his briefcase upon a little table just inside the back foyer.  The story was written all over his face.  Waterfeld rule number 3:  sometimes dinner has to wait, because - in the real-world - not everyone pulls their weight.  

Ward kissed his wife on her forehead.  The family sat down.  Ward gave the blessing.  The dishes were, of course, first passed to Ward - whose income made it possible to have things like, steak, beautiful china, a ten room house, warm clothing, beautiful dresses... then Robert, Molly and June.  Robert glanced out the window, the daylight was fading - the boy's important agenda thwarted...because of some as*hat, at Dad's office ...

Both parents cast a sympathetic eye toward their son.  The boy was twelve, old enough to run and play after dark.  But Ward's and June's childhood ... different times, very different.  The family conversed about this and that.  But one thing neither parent wanted to think about - let alone mention, in front of their children, or anyone else's, was a certain newsarticle.

The kid had been found - in a ditch.  An empty brown bottle was upon his/her person - and this blogger cares not to go into detail. He/she was still alive, barely, when the EMT's transported him/her, but the youngster died enroute.   The person's birth gender was not disclosed, pending family notification, but the youth's age was estimated to be between 12 and 14.  

While June was describing some archeological find, somewhere in...where was that place again?  Well, that was Waterfeld rule #4:  no electronic media at the table.  Ward's phone, buzzed from within his case.  He glanced over, but whomever was calling could wait a half hour or so.  Ward had no issue, if he ended up in his office until ten or eleven o'clock - that came with the territory - but the dinner hour?  That was family time.

Ward's eye caught the front cover of a certain paperback.  Upon it was a woman, wearing a shapeless dark red dress, upon her head was a white bonnet, which hid her face.  Peeking beneath the paperback was a spiral bound steno-pad, beneath that was Molly's pocketbook.  Molly flinched, upon recalling having parked the book to read Kelly's text - the next hour or so, the two teens texted each other about ... teen stuff.  The book forgotten.  The evidence was clear enough.  Her father's direct eye contact spelled one word:  Busted. 

Ba-uug  OUT!  "Daddy, may I be excused?"  With a nod of his father's approval, Robert was gone!  Ward arose from the table, walked over to retrieve his cell.  He then stepped into his office.  "Help!" Molly whispered as she and her mother cleared the table and began rinsing the dishes and vessels.  Needless to say, June was somewhat ill at ease, since, it was also clear enough, she was an accomplice.

An hour or so later:

"But Daddy, it's on the summer reading list."

"Molly, bring it to me."

"FINE!"  The teen stomped from the livingroom, stomped through the kitchen, and into the back foyer.  She had so wanted to add that she'd already read it twice, but her blunder of having left it sit, now had involved another person.  Her mother.  Molly handed the book to her father.  Steely eyed, she then spoke.  "Father, if I may be excused, I so much want to go and read REBECCA OF SUNNYBROOK FARM!!!"  The girl turned and bounded up the steps, then slammed shut her bedroom door.

He calmly turned to ascend the steps, but his wife stepped in front of him.  "Ward, please!"  His wife's moist eyes, met his steeley gaze.  He whispered something in her ear, as he gently nudged her aside.