Charles watched them as they finished Helen's home-baked pecan pie, listening to the rhythmical click of silver on plate. Their anticipation had made them uncommonly silent throughout dinner; their traditional Sunday dinner.
He was, he had assured himself, a traditional man. Even before he went to Congress, he had insisted that they put aside everything and take their Sunday meal together. No matter what. Just like his Dad had insisted. As usual Helen roasted a stuffed bird, glazed candied yams, steamed something green and there was always a home-baked pie. She was, he told himself with satisfaction, a traditional wife, a loyal helpmate.
It wasn't an easy lot to be the "wife-of" in these days of galloping female ambition. Nor was it easy on the kids. Two in college now; Ivy League, naturally. Having a father in Congress was something to live up to, perhaps surpass. And Tony was at Sidwell Friends. The calculator in his mind clicked off figures in imaginary ratchets.
"This is a democratic family," he began. It seemed appropriate to his calling to begin like that. Above all, what he was about to say needed a good opening.
"Since when?" Jack the oldest, said, his eyes twinkling as Emmy, the middle one, giggled.
