"The Thirteenth Guest" by John Szamosi

My aunt, superstitious to no end, discovered to her horror that together with the invited guests we would be exactly thirteen at the dinner table. A more practical concern would be that her set of Herend porcelain plates numbered twelve. 

Twelve is considered a lucky number by experts, that is, ethnic groups populating the Emerald Isle and both sides of the Mediterranean Sea. Now my aunt took a more critical look at it. “Tell you what, I’ve had a nagging feeling about twelve for the longest time. It’s way too close to thirteen. And don’t get me started on thirteen! It first got a bad rap when Julius Caesar was killed on the thirteenth of March, and that was the end of the Roman Empire. And what do they have now over there? The EU? Gimme a break!”

“Maybe we get lucky and not everybody shows up,” I said.

Initially, it appeared it was going that way: We were twelve in the living room, sipping cocktails. My aunt murmured to me, “I believe everybody I invited is here. Probably miscalculated earlier.” Then, as we sat down for dinner, the doorbell rang. 

My aunt and I rushed to the door. She looked through the peephole and whispered to me, “It’s Frankie What’s-His-Face. I’m gonna tell him I found out what he did or said and I never ever want to see him again.”

I whispered back, “Frank Meloni, the retired high school principal? Ever since his wife died the only time he leaves his house is to go to the doctor or the grocery store. A lonely old man.”

“That’s why I invited him, out of the goodness of my heart.”

“And now you disinvite him and even slander him, an upright person. What are you, Calamity Jane?”

Frankie rang the doorbell again, this time longer. It also sounded louder.

“It’s only slander if the person is completely innocent. Everybody’s guilty of something or other, let him figure it out for himself.”

This was so mean I had to watch. I ran up to the second floor to witness through the window what promised to be an ugly confrontation, like the one between Julius Caesar and Marcus Brutus in the Roman Senate.

I didn’t hear the words but it was clear my aunt was giving it to Frankie pretty hard. The old man looked as if he was hit on the nose with a sledgehammer, and the package he brought with him, probably a gift, slipped from his hands. Then, shaking his head, he slowly walked to his car.

The legitimate part of the dinner was going swimmingly; the guests couldn’t stop praising my aunt’s lasagna. “And these Herend plates, I absolutely love these plates,” said somebody. Another joined in, “They’re beautiful! I hope you bought an extra, in case one breaks you can replace it to make a full set.”

Later I sneaked out to clean up the mess old man Frankie left in front of the door. It was a porcelain plate and, as far as I could tell, looked eerily similar to my aunt’s Herends.

John Szamosi is a wordsmith and peace activist who has published over two hundred short stories, satires and poems in print and online magazines.