Sunday dinner

Max's Roasted Chicken


David noted the crocheted cloth that covered the dinner table. And he didn’t miss the fact that Liz had a new hairstyle. The aroma from the serving platter caressed his salivary glands. And when he pulled up a chair, passion or serendipity sat down once more.
Grandma Doyle, “Nana” to the seven others at the table, was in her favorite place, next to David, “Okay everybody quiet down. Liz, go ahead and say Grace today, I’m too tuckered out.”
The dining room hushed. Nana closed her hands, propped up her head, and shut her eyes in prayer.
“Heavenly Father,” Liz said softly, “We thank You for your everlasting love. Stop that Timmy, you wait for the meal with all of us.”
Timmy, seven years old, had a black eye. He squirmed, and bowed his head.
“Thank you Lord for helping David. He passed his bar exams. We also thank you f…”
“Crack!” Nana’s lower denture eased from her bottom jaw. It landed, dead center, on her dish.
Timmy leaned toward the old woman, “Go Nana! Spit out the other one!”
Nana sat motionless; head cradled between her fists. Her remaining denture sprang from her mouth, followed the same route as the former, and landed on her dinner plate. A tooth separated from its mount and spun like a piece of candy corn.
Liz looked hard at Grandma. “Nana, are you okay? You’re awfully pale.”
David leaned close to Nana and then turned to Liz. “I don’t think she’s breathing.”
“Do something!” Liz shouted, “Nana, Nana, wake up!”
David grasped Nana’s forearm, “You okay Nana?”
The old lady moaned. Her chin slid from her fists, and her head fell to her plate.
Little Timmy beamed, “If Nana ain’t gonna eat her pie today, can I have her slice?”