I come off the road after my longest haul yet, and this is my greeting. Celeste sits under our dining table with her book, and Beulah grips the oven handle with both hands, so her back is to the entire open-concept main room. She doesn’t even notice someone else is here.

This is as wrong as the Chicago Tribune in ‘48. I, even, have my two candidates for the cause of the problem on opposite sides, like Dewey and Truman. Plus, if I make hasty assumptions, I’ll be as wrong as that infamous headline.

I mean: Look at Celeste. I could easily presume that she lost this round. She’s hiding under a table with her back against one of the legs. However, our daughter has a talent for putting herself in a position to win wars not battles. 

On the other hand, this looks like an interesting mystery after my lonely walk up our gravel drive. I start toward Celeste, crossing from the carpet of the living area to the hardwoods of the dining one. Ten steps from the table, I lock eyes with Celeste. She shakes her head, rolls her eyes, and flicks a hand at her mother. It’s a look that clearly establishes who’s at fault in Celeste’s mind.

I mus’n’t laugh, so my eyes jerk to the back window. At least, the view of the first couple trees before the forest outside is a welcomed sight. Anyway, I wouldn’t want to spoil my investigation before it begins and should not ignore the abandoned schoolbooks on the table.

Those books look like my first real evidence. I’ll wager homework and dinner preparation were tried simultaneously.

My steps turn toward our kitchen, and I see Beulah’s problem for the first time. Wisps of smoke rise only to the top of my wife’s normally perfect hair. Tonight though, no curl tangles her chocolate strands; nor does any braid restrain her locks. Instead, a mass of string might as well fall over her face.

I could keep my boots quiet on the carpet and the hardwoods, but tile with floor to ceiling cabinets on one side produces an unmistakable echo against the back cabinets and range. Beulah contorts around and steps to one side of the oven.

Now, my theory of homework and dinner looks mostly confirmed. The charred remains of something with a breaded-looking texture sit next to what must have been green beans before their dehydration, and a pot with what can only be described as dried cement rests at the back.

Beulah stands in front of her massacre with stains down the front of her and wrinkled, black jeans – a look that would embarrass her on most occasions.

Sincerely, I’d have a hard time choosing the worse look between Beulah and dinner. Though, I suppose that’d be like picking the worst trench at Verdun. Still, I think I’ll keep those comments to myself.

Beulah swipes her shirt and pants before mouthing “Surprise, Amos.” Her melodic voice is stifled by the situation. Surprise, indeed, though not the one that either of us imagined.

While her glistening, honey-colored eyes stare into me from behind the kudzu-look of her hair, all I can do is hold my arms toward her.

She rushes to me, and I finally get my “glad you’re back” hug.

Theory Confirmed

Beulah yanks from me, and now, the words spew like cars trying to get around my truck before an exit. I lean on the bar, separating the kitchen from the dining area.

She darts from one end of the kitchen to the other with gestures that I’m sure are meant to clarify her words, but I can’t guess the meaning of either her waving arms or her words.

I’ll wager that Celeste began the evening very much under Beulah’s feet. That reportedly led Beulah to send Celeste to her homework. That’s only a guess based on the vehemence attached to our daughter’s name and mostly pointing from Beulah.

Then, Beulah stops mid-stride with a question about whether or not I understand. I feel my mouth fall open while my eyes widen in utter confusion, but I manage to stop my head from shaking. Still, she’s looking at me for an answer.

My first thought is a confession about not catching more than three words in all of that, but I doubt that answer will have the intended comic relief.

On the other hand, I could offer commiseration, because Lord knows that Celeste has proven a handful to me too. She tried to help me with repairs to the truck one time, and it took me two days to fix what we did. However, Beulah might interpret such a comment as a criticism of Celeste, and that interpretation would bring out Beulah’s mama-bear, which doesn’t seem helpful either.

So, I should probably just keep this simple. I, finally, lock eyes with Beulah, who’s still waiting for an answer, and I say, “I understand.”

Beulah’s shoulders drop, and she starts to fall backward. I lunge forward, but Beulah catches herself on the bar between the kitchen and the living area.

The floor becomes the most interesting thing in the room, and Beulah lays out her grand plan for country fried steak and mashed potatoes for my welcome back to the South. I don’t recall her ever trying to fry anything in our 7 years together. She had to add a vegetable for Celeste, so Beulah picked my favorite.

Without so much as a blink, Beulah languishes against her bar. She describes the failure of her scheme in terms that would’ve helped the Chernobyl investigations. Not that Celeste was much [or any] help, but the fault is totally accepted for my cold welcome home.

My initial thought suggests reminding her that my welcome is not completely cold – just look at the smoldering dinner, but the humor would likely be lost, as well as unhelpful at the moment.

Next, the hug-trick comes to my mind, but I’ve already tried that, and this does not look like the time to be a one-trick pony. She needs something that will match her efforts.

I could thank her for the marvelous attempt on my behalf and confess my desire for a quiet evening and a simple meal after nearly a week on the road. However, that rings with belittlement, which is certainly not the requirement here.

Oh, wait – I’ve got it.

I take two steps from my bar to Beulah without a hug or even a touch, but enough to wrestle her attention from the floor. “Now,” I say, “do you remember that Heads-Up Display I installed in the truck last month?” She nods her head, so at least I can imagine she’s paying attention. “Well, I changed it as I left Albuquerque. I put that picture of all of us hiking through our woods as the background image. That way, each mile looked like one inch closer to you. I don’t care if they ever send me that far again, but you’re with me every mile.”

Beulah smiles for the first time since I walked in, and I’m fairly confident that Celeste takes a seat at the table.

With that, I give one nod, as I did with the successful installation of the HUD. Then, I pivot with a boot squeak that would please any drill sergeant and walk to the refrigerator.

What’s for dinner?

The scarcity in the fridge suggests that it’s 1938, so I try the freezer, and there, beneath chicken nuggets and four bags of vegetables, is one oven-bake pizza. I announce this as our dinner selection for the evening, to which Celeste hardily agrees.

Beulah walks to the oven before automatically setting the preheat temperature, and the tension in the room evaporates better than the smoke off the beans. While everyone’s relieved, no one feels like they’re moving on. Beulah’s mechanical through her motions, and Celeste does her best to hide her glances to the kitchen.

So, I scan the living room; we could put on a movie. That would provide distraction enough, but that doesn’t really get us anywhere. There’s another option though.

“While that gets ready, Celeste, do you think you can build a castle in the living area worth you defending?”

After Celeste’s squeal fades a bit, I invite Beulah with a hand on her shoulder, “Come on, dear. I’m quite sure that pizza can bake itself. Besides, without a queen no castle is worth defending or storming.”