LAST LAUGH

She kept counting the forks— and they kept disappearing; drowning in malted milk balls.

As the lab director at a hospital, my dad always had his employees come to our house for various seasonal parties. On the day of the party Mom would be busy cleaning, decorating and setting up the table. Her place settings were intricate, with the napkins all in a row and beside each plate a precise semicircle of forks. It was a tricky operation that required all of her concentration.

On one of these occasions, my sister Linda and I were supposed to be helping Mom. Even these many years later, I have no explanation for what happened next. It was as if Linda and I were of one mind. We looked at each other and smiled. We executed our plan perfectly, as if we had rehearsed it many times instead of just dreaming it up on the spot.

Coming back from the kitchen with silverware in hand, Mom set about lining up the forks with the efficiency of a general. She counted them and decided that she needed more, so back to the kitchen she went.

Then Linda struck: She swept up several forks and casually made her way to the kitchen. As our sweet mother returned with more forks, she passed Linda, who was on her way to deposit the stolen ones back in the drawer. Mom, puzzled, stared at the table and very carefully counted again—and went back to the kitchen for more forks. We repeated the trick flawlessly at least three more times.

Finally, we couldn’t contain our laughter any longer and told Mom what we had done. I think she was so relieved she wasn’t going crazy that she didn’t have time to be mad at us.

Mom, puzzled, stared at the table and

very carefully counted again.