The Empty Table

* Content warning: allusions to violence & sexual assault *

The empty table yawned in front of her. In the absence of a tablecloth its mahogany surface, waxed and polished to within an inch of its life, threw off distorted reflections of the room.

Sconces became glowing pools, the face of the grandfather clock stretched into a menacing grin, and her own, still figure bulged and twisted.

It was almost time for dinner.

Breaking out of her reverie, the woman set about laying the table with mechanical efficiency. The heels of her shoes tapped in counterpoint with the clock’s ticking as she stepped towards an old oak sideboard, pulled open a drawer, and produced a crisp, white tablecloth. 

In a single movement, she threw the linen over the table’s dark surface. Even out of sight, those strange reflections lodged in her mind like a popcorn kernel in the teeth. 

With practised hands she smoothed the crisp fabric before returning to the sideboard to fetch place mats, cutlery, and heavy brass candlesticks.

Each utensil — knife, fork, dessert spoon, soup spoon — was laid down precisely. They gleamed expectantly in the soft light of the dining room. 

A bowl of lilies, pale and waxy, was fetched from the kitchen to act as centrepiece. Taper candles, pure white, were twisted into candlesticks and lit with cook’s matches. Napkins, white linen, sat beside each of the four place settings bound in silver rings. 

The roast was in the oven, along with potatoes, parsnips and carrots keeping warm on the bottom shelf. On the stove, fresh garden peas steamed beside pans of soup and homemade gravy. A basket of Yorkshire puddings, their exteriors perfectly crisp, nestled beneath a tin-foil covering.

The oven had a warming drawer for plates — a feature which, a few years prior, had excited the woman no end. Such small pleasures.

She uncorked a bottle of Merlot with a satisfying pop, and tipped the syrupy contents into a decanter. Everything was in place for Sunday dinner. Everything except the diners. 

Soon they would take their places, each set neatly as the cutlery and glassware. A neat family, tucked away in their country home.

The woman poured herself a glass of wine and sat quietly to await the diners. It was a small glass — moderation always. Beyond her kitchen window, the English countryside was obscured by trails of rain. Though it was only four o’ clock the cheerless sky had begun to darken, tinging the hedges and copses and little stone cottages grey-blue.

A pair of headlights approaching brought warmth to the scene. They were coming home.

The woman stood, smoothed non-existent creases from her skirt and approached the porch, checking her reflection in the hall mirror as she passed. Not a hair out of place, nor a single smudge of lipstick on her teeth. She contorted her mouth into a studied smile and opened the front door.

Her family huddled beneath a large black umbrella. Her husband — bespectacled, tall, wiry — held it aloft to cover their two children. The boy, blonde hair combed back to reveal a porcelain brow. The girl, plaited pig-tails resting neatly on a pinafore dress. 

“Welcome back, darlings,” the woman said, leaning forward to deliver her husband an automatic kiss on the cheek. 

“How was the museum?”

The man smiled wryly. “Gallery,” he corrected.

“I thought it was the Natural History Museum today?”

“No, no — National Gallery — you must have misremembered.”

She was certain he had said “museum” this morning. A crack began to peak through her smile but was quickly plastered over.

“Of course. Silly me.”

Her husband shrugged off his dripping macintosh, unlaced his shoes and went to warm himself by the log-burner as the woman helped her children out of their wet things. 

She warmed a loaf of crusty white bread while they washed their hands and took their places at the table. A wine stain had appeared on her tablecloth, its feathery edges spreading unevenly. A bruise.

“Couldn’t rustle up a clean one for Sunday dinner?” A low voice over her shoulder. She turned.

“I could have sworn it was…” she trailed off. He was holding a large glass of Merlot.

“Sorry, darling,” she said. 

He smiled indulgently and squeezed her shoulder on his way to the head of the table. She served four steaming bowls of French onion soup with the warm bread, taking for herself the end of the loaf nobody else would eat. She abhorred waste. 

Her husband took one mouthful of the soup before making liberal use of the salt cellar. 

“Did you season this, darling?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Hmm.”

An awkward silence fell until their daughter piped up. “I think it’s nice.”

Her father chuckled.

“Well, your taste buds aren’t quite developed yet.”

He reached for the butter.

“Speaking of taste — I think your brother has quite the eye for art.”

The boy beamed. 

“Spent an age with the old Dutch masters today, didn’t you? Got lost in Monet’s garden."

The boy nodded. The woman turned to her daughter.

“And what was your favourite part?” she asked.

“The gift shop, I should imagine,” her father interjected. 

The girl looked dejectedly down at her soup and continued to eat in silence. 

Soon, the roast was ready. The woman set it in front of her husband along with a carving set, which he wordlessly took up. She smiled down at him and made her way back to the kitchen, heels clacking against the spotless floor as she went.

His voice drifted through from the dining room. “Why don’t you go and help mummy bring through the dishes?”

The girl appeared at her mother’s elbow and, together, they carried several serving trays into the adjoining room. A gravy boat followed.

The man doled out slices of chicken onto four white plates, saving the choicest cuts for himself. The carving dispensed of, he helped himself to mounds of trimmings.

“Can you pass the stuffing, darling?” he asked, scouting the heavily-laden table.

“I’m sorry — I didn’t make any.”

“A roast dinner with no stuffing?” 

He playfully elbowed his son.

“What do you think mummy’s been doing all day?” he said, winking. 

The woman reapplied her smile. Her son turned towards her, genuine puzzlement on his face.

“What were you doing today, mummy?”

“Well dear, I —”

Her husband cackled, cutting her off.

“I’m sure she did the best she could.”

He swigged his wine, reached for the decanter, and topped up the glass. A deep burgundy drop escaped and slid down its stem onto the tablecloth. 

Red. Blood red, the woman thought.

“The thing you have to remember about mummy is she’s always got her head in the clouds. Don’t pout, darling, it’s one of the reasons I fell for you and I’m only trying to help.”

Her expression hadn’t shifted a millimetre. 

“It just means she needs us to keep her right.”

The boy, growing weary of this exchange, asked what was for dessert.

“Not until you’ve finished your veg — you need to eat it if you want to grow big and strong,” said his father.

The boy yawned. Across the table, the woman watched his distorted reflection in the mirror-bright gravy boat. His mouth became a vast tunnel on its convex surface.

The girl yawned in sympathy, stifling it behind a raised hand. She had been taught that openly yawning was unladylike. 

“There’s no dessert today.”

The woman spoke suddenly, decisively. 

To her husband’s surprise the children did not protest. Indeed, they appeared bored by the conversation. Their eyelids drooped. The girl rested her chin in her hands.

“Elbows off the table,” her father chastised automatically. But she hardly seemed to hear him. 

He turned to his wife. “Is there really nothing for dessert?”

She shook her head.

“I know you’re watching your figure, darling, but there’s no need to starve the rest of us,” he huffed.

A sweet, cloying smile spread across her lips.

“There’s no time for dessert today, dear. You’ll be off before you’ve had time to finish the main course, actually.”

He frowned. “Off where?”

A soft thud. To his right, the boy had slumped onto the table, upsetting a glass of apple juice. Its contents seeped into the tablecloth, adding a rusty stain to the red one.

Across from him, the girl’s elbow drifted outward. She gradually lowered herself, coming to rest with arms folded across her plate, head nestled on her overlapping hands.

Both children could be heard breathing deeply.

“Off where?” their father repeated.

His eyes widened and darted back and forth between the two unconscious children. 

“Look,” he spat. “You’ve bored them to sleep with your nonsense.”

His wife continued to smile, revealing her white teeth. She peered into his eyes, and watched with detached interest as their pupils swallowed up the irises. He cleared his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He panted.

His knife and fork fell to the table from his trembling hands.

“Darling, something’s wrong,” he gasped. “Call an ambulance!”

She observed him calmly.

“I can’t. The storm’s taken out the phone lines, and you know there’s no mobile signal out here.”

Fear danced across his reddening face.

“I could drive you to the hospital. But through this...” she gestured to the window.

“And with my driving being so hopeless — as you always say — I doubt we’d make it in time.”

She leaned back in her chair.

“The children won’t wake up for a few hours. There’s nothing to be done but talk.”

He attempted to stand but quickly fell back to his seat.

“You…bitch,” he stammered. “You fucking…poisoned me — didn’t you?”

“In a way,” she replied mechanically. “But you poisoned me first.”

“What the fuck…are you talking about?” he panted.

“For years you poisoned me. Every single day. Don’t look so confused — you knew exactly what you were doing.”

She rose to her feet and began stacking plates.

“Between the lies, and the backhanded compliments, and the criticism, and the snide remarks — not to mention the outright insults — you put poison in your words.

“You wore me down and it took me so long to see where the wounds were coming from. All I did was put a little hemlock in your soup.”

Leaning over the table, she picked up his plate and stacked it with the others. She gathered the empty glasses into a neat phalanx.

“It was the easiest way to stop the poison. One of my silly little detoxes.”

She chuckled humourlessly. 

“Things could have been a lot messier. I’ve been thinking about what Tereus did to shut up Philomena. Do you know what he did?”

She tidied the candlesticks onto the old oak sideboard.

“Of course you do — you read Ovid at boarding school, didn’t you? You’d never let me forget you were privately educated.”

She stepped into the kitchen and returned with a damp cloth to wipe down the place mats.

“I’ll remind you anyway,” she said conversationally.

“After he raped her, Tereus cut out Philomena’s tongue and cut off her hands — so she couldn’t tell a soul. She turned into a nightingale at the end of the story. I wonder if you’ll turn into anything.”

She slid the clean place mats into their drawer.

“I’m sorry,” her husband gasped.

She gazed down at him, her smile finally faltering.

“No, you’re not,” she said gently. “You’re sorry I realised what you were doing.”

She shook her head briefly, and her words became clipped once again.

“Well — people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. And if you ask me, poisoners ought to keep an eye on their own food.”

Her husband’s breathing came in shallow bursts. His head lolled forward and his eyes closed.

She inhaled deeply through her nose and continued to tidy. The boy and girl were scooped up and deposited on the sprawling living room sofa. On the coffee table she placed a note and a satellite phone.

Back in the dining room she cleared the table, loaded the dishwasher, and folded the heavily stained tablecloth. 

The empty table yawned in front of her.