Dinner at the Millers

The Millers had recently moved in next door when they invited us to dinner.

Showing up wearing a tie, already I felt uncomfortable as Mr. Miller greeted us in a stained, sweaty T-shirt and ripped jeans.

"Come in, come in," he led us into the foyer, a muddy room filled with boxes. As Mr. Miller turned away from us, I exchanged a discreet eyebrow raise with my wife.

"We're having pot roast. No problem with that?" We shook our heads.

"Great. Sit down, sit down," he pulled out chairs for us. Then he walked to the stairs and yelled, "Jeffy! Dinner!" A thunderous stomping introduced a small boy. He sat at the table, his legs dangling while he crossed his arms.

Mr. Miller headed into the kitchen when a woman walked in and sat down next to the boy, smiling at us.

"It's so nice to meet our neighbours!"

I nodded as Mr. Miller set out a pot roast. Platters of peas, buttered bread, and stewed tomatoes adorned the table.

"Dig in!" So we did. All except for Jeffy.

"This tastes terrible!" he complained.

His father cast him a dark look that he chose to ignore.

For the rest of the night, Mr. Miller remained stone-faced.

The following week, the Millers invited us over again.

He set down the platter, smiling at us.

"New recipe," he said. "Hope you like it."

We began to eat, and it was delicious.

"So," I said in an attempt to make conversation. "Where's your son today?"

Mr. Miller grinned. "Oh, he's here."

"Upstairs? Shouldn't he join us?"

A shadow passed his face, becoming an embodiment of all the horrible things I've ever seen. Mrs. Miller sat primly, grinning the whole time and savouring her food.

"He already has," he said, pointing to the meat.