The mood around the dining table that night was light despite the encroaching winter. With a fire burning in the hearth and the hanging oil lamp casting golden glows across the darkly-colored room, the family settled in for stewed beef, potatoes, and vegetables, waiting for Mrs. Price’s return to the table with the stale bread for dipping.

Ben sat at the end, across from his father and tucked between his siblings Beatrice and Douglas. He shrank under the conversation, his mind preoccupied. Fidgeting with his hands, Ben contemplated how to wedge himself into the three unfolding conversations. Sighing, he knew he would resign himself to another night of being the observer.

Ben’s younger brother, Douglas, stood from the fireplace hearth, clapping his hands of the ashes from the fire he built. “There any butter?” he asked, glancing over his siblings’ shoulders. Once in his seat, Douglas, younger by four years, leaned over, his hands pressed to the table.

“Sit, Douggie,” his mother whispered, smacking his rear end as she placed down the tray of neatly sliced bread. Mrs. Price sat down, straightening out her dress as she did. “No butter tonight.”

Hands started reaching about the table, grasping at the serving utensils.

“Grace, first,” their father reminded, followed by the sounds of silverware being placed alongside plates. Hands clasped together, Mr. Price started, “O Christ our God, bless – ”

“Ben,” Mrs. Price whispered, leaning over Douglas’ shoulder.

He looked up, hands clasped in his lap. His stomach dropped. “W-what?”

His father groaned, his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “Benjamin.”

“I-I don’t – ” he stammered. He moved his hands onto the table.

“Sorry, Ben. I didn’t see your hands,” she whispered, sliding back into her seat.

“Stupid boy,” he muttered, then cleared his throat. “O Christ our God, bless the food, drink, and fellowship of Thy servants, for Thou art holy always, now and ever and unto ages of ages. Amen.”

A collective “Amen” resonated around the table, the word low and stoic. The family gently drew the Sign of the Cross over themselves before silverware clattered against plates as supper began. The three conversations resumed.

Ben stared at his clasped hands resting against the edge of the table. He felt like such a fraud. How was this not enough?

“Ben,” Beatrice whispered, her hand on her brother’s arm. She leaned over. “You okay?” Younger than Douglas by just a year, the little sister stared at him, her eyes wide and dark in the golden light.

He nodded, a wary smile on his lips. “Sorry, Bea. I-I didn’t mean t’, do that. D’you want some bread?” he asked, stretching across the table to grab a piece.

Theodore, Ben’s older brother by two years, offered two fat slices to his brother. “I know how much you like ’em, Bea,” he said, his father’s cocky smile adorned across his lips, certainly inherited. Theodore, however, had his mother’s eyes.

“Th-thank you,” Ben whispered, handing one slice to his sister.

Frances, one and a half years younger than Ben, grabbed a slice, serving herself some of the stewed beef as well. “I do not know why you coddle him like that, Theo,” she said, adjusting herself in the chair to sit slightly taller. She knew she inherited her mother’s poise and certainly wouldn’t let anyone forget it.

Beatrice rolled her eyes, sliding her chair half an inch closer to her brother.

The comfortable hum of conversation settled, Ben simply listening. As odd as it was, he enjoyed family dinners, or tried to, rather. He did not speak, lest he embarrass himself and upset his father again, but just listening was satisfying in its own right. Not speaking meant Ben could not disappoint. Just to listen was enough for him, as well. Sometimes they laughed. Sang songs. They were rare instances but magical nonetheless.

Ben served his younger sister some potatoes. “How was school?”

Beatrice stabbed her fork into the potato, holding it like a spud-lantern. She ate it in one bite. “Mr. Conklin said he’d hit me with the ruler if I kept helpin’ Alice with the ‘rithmetics.” She looked at him. “She’s not good at it, though, and he keeps sendin’ her t‘ the corner.”

“D’you need help? I could try ‘nd slip away from the store fer a little.”

“If what, Benjamin?”

A shiver ran up his spine. Ben turned, his father’s eyes removing any urge to eat from his being in a single moment. “N-nothing, sir. B-Beatrice said her friend was havin’ –”

“Alice is havin’ a hard time with ‘rithmetics,” she told him. “Ben was just offerin’ t‘ help.”

Mrs. Price sniffed. “I always said there was something wrong with that family.”

“What would you have Ben do, Beatrice?” their father asked. He pressed his hands together, elbows on the table. “I asked him t‘ count the stock this week. Couldn’t even do that.”

“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?” asked Theodore. “He did take into account the incomin’ orders fer tomorrow. So that’s less work fer us.”

“Oh? I do apologize. Is Benjamin suddenly able t‘ predict what will sell between now and when the orders come in?” asked Mr. Price.

Mrs. Price scowled as she ate. She drew in a slow breath, shoulders rising and falling steady, angry.

Ben shrank into himself.

“How could he mess up a task like that?” asked Frances, wiping her mouth with a dirtied rag. “He’s antisocial as it is. Ben should have been in heaven.”

Theodore nudged her, a disgusted look on his face. “Frances.”

“Mr. Conklin tells me ‘nd the boys that we are allowed t‘ make mistakes when we’re learnin’, because we’re learnin’,” Douglas chimed in. He nearly stood up on the chair again.

“I gave you one job, Benjamin,” his father enunciated. He sighed. “I’ll see you in my study after supper.”

No one protested. A pall settled over the table.

Beatrice grabbed Ben’s hand under the table. She met his eyes, frowning.

Douglas leaned forward. “But, but Papa, he didn’t –”

“Would you like t‘ meet me in the study after, too, Douglas?” Mr. Price asked.

Ben’s eyes glossed over. His stomach settled, sinking deeper and deeper into him that the fear and anxiety of being sent to the study meant nothing to him anymore. It was a natural moment, puncturing his weeks a handful of times, phantom burns of where his belt landed shooting across his back. It had not even been two days since his father had lashed him, harder than before; the scars on his back still unhealed. He had disappointed the patriarch. It was only fair that his punishment was in his hands.