The Glass Tabletop

Bill and Steve were finishing their after-school snacks and talking about getting started on their chores. James and Marian both worked at that time, and it was up to the boys to get dinner well underway by the time their parents returned home.

"Okay," Bill said, "if you'll take care of the meat later, I'll start peeling potatoes." He suddenly cocked his head toward the sound of the radio playing in the kitchen. "That's 'Lucky Ladybug'! I love that song!" Bill placed his hands on the table as he pushed his chair back and stood up, and the tabletop, a rectangle of glass four by six feet with bevelled edges and round corners, crashed to the floor.

Both boys stared at the heap of shattered glass beneath the wrought-iron structure that had supported it. They didn't stay speechless with surprise for long.

"What did you do, Bill?" cried Steve.

"Nothing! I swear. I just lay my hands on the glass the way I always do when I get up from the table."

He looked to the left and saw gleams of glass where little pieces had flown. He looked to the right and saw a few shards glinting over there. He looked at his younger brother and was relieved to see no blood. He looked down at himself. Ditto. Neither of them had sustained so much as a scratch, but the tabletop that had held the family's meals for over five years ... their mother's pride and joy ... too attractive to cover with a tablecloth ... was destroyed.

"What are we going to do?" Steve's wailed. "They'll kill both of us when they get home!"

"No kidding," Bill agreed. "They'll never believe this was an accident. They'll think we were fighting, or throwing things." He stepped carefully away from the crystalline mess and into the kitchen doorway so he could see the clock. James and Marian were due home in about two hours. "Steve," he said slowly, "how much money do you have?"

Both of them had jobs of one kind or another. Steve mowed lawns throughout his teens, and made enough to make it worth doing. He got so much work he wore out a Toro mower every year, and his earnings were more than sufficient to cover the cost of a new one, after he had babied the old one along as far as he could. In Florida, where they lived, lawnmowing is a year-round occupation, and he learned a lot about maintaining a gasoline engine, too.

Steve had a little over thirty dollars cash on hand. Bill had only a few dollars, but the bank where he kept his savings account was still open.

Steve went to work cleaning while Bill sat down with the phone book to find a company that could sell them a piece of glass to duplicate the ruined tabletop. In only three phone calls and less than thirty minutes, he found one, got a price, and a promise of delivery within an hour.

"Keep sweeping," Bill told Steve. "I've got to go to the bank and get the rest of the money we'll need."

Bankbook in pocket, he left, and Steve continued cleaning. Wastebasket after wastebasket of broken glass went out the back door and into one of the trash cans by the alley. When all the large pieces were removed, he stopped to peel potatoes and put them on the stove to boil. Then he got the vacuum cleaner out and began to scour the floor for small stray bits of glass. Done with the dining room, he continued into the connecting rooms, since he knew how far breaking glass can fly.

He had just finished when Bill returned brandishing a sheaf of ten-dollar bills. Five minutes later, the truck from the glass company pulled into the driveway. Fifteen minutes later, the dining room looked as if nothing had ever happened.

The boys were very pleased with themselves, although a good deal poorer. As the potatoes simmered to tenderness and the meat and vegetables heated, they set the brand-new table with fresh placemats, silver, plates and glasses, confidant that the switch would never be discovered.

James and Marian arrived home and the pace of dinner preparation intensified. Soon, all was ready. James, Bill and Steve took their customary places around the table as Marian carried in the meat platter. She was about to set it down when she froze, frowning at the tabletop.

"What's wrong, Marian?" her husband asked.

"There's something wrong with this table."

James just looked bewildered while both boys stole glances around the flawless expanse of glass, searching for a label they'd neglected to remove. Marian deposited the meat platter, then reached toward a spot near the tip of her knife.

"There used to be a scratch right here," she said, puzzled. Then she pointed to a spot in front of Bill. "There was another one there." She moved her hand to a spot beside the salt and pepper shakers and lightly rubbed the surface with her fingers. "There was a scratch here that you couldn't see, but you could feel it ...." She straightened and planted her hands on her hips. "This is not my tabletop!" she announced. "I want to know what happened to my tabletop!"

Well, everything had to come out then. Just as they had feared, the brothers had to endure a severe dressing-down and were, as anticipated, accused of precipitating the breakage by fighting. On top of everything else they'd been through, they were grounded. Decades later, though, they still marvel at their mother's gimlet eyes.