"In Pursuit of Pancakes"

Peter was the first to breakfast that morning. When the barest vestige of father's footsteps emanated from the stairwell, he sat upright, jumped silently from his bed, and rushed past his brothers' resting places to the top of the stairs. Notes of frying pancakes drew him past his father who, just now awakening the other boys by way of a "breakfast time" call, showed a glimmer of surprise through his bearded face. Peter had been awaiting those footsteps, silently planning, no, plotting his break for the stairs for the last fifteen minutes. Though it would be a difference of not three seconds before his two brothers followed his footsteps, in the game of public image, seconds could make a difference. But if his rush had the intended effect, he did not know, for to look for more than that brief second to his father's eyes was to betray his intentionality, and one must appear natural in their being fit for an early hour. As such, he gave the customary pause of greeting, muttered “good morning,” and continued down the stairs to the finishing line of the kitchen.

"Good morning, Peter," father replied, beginning his own descent towards the buttery aroma. Was that a fatherly pride that Peter heard? He could not be so sure, but he confidently envisioned its twinkle on his father’s face. That small smile, remembered from such monumental achievements as his three sons’ piano recital last Sunday, had surely slipped on as soon as Peter’s back was turned. The planning, plotting of fifteen minutes had had its effect. This morning, it would not be Charles, nor Martin, but Peter who was to succeed.

*     *     *

“Competition,” Charles thought, “can only be won virtuously when the rules of the game are followed completely”. Now, the pre-breakfast race, being a competition between the three brothers, had two rules, both unspoken, and simple as they were, those two rules had to be followed. Firstly, the race started when father’s call was heard, and secondly, on passing father, there was a pause, lest he realize the greediness of the competitors and put an end to the fun. If not for the rules, all would be chaos, sleepless nights would pass in anxious waiting to no avail, and the natural order of the morning would surely dissolve. “Granted,” Charles continued to think, “that was not to say it was a totally fair competition.” After all, with his bed being closest to the door, he had a natural advantage in the race down the stairs. But then again, Peter, as the oldest, had the faster run, and therefore should be able to make up  the extra distance, for Peter always managed to win in tag, freeze tag, hide-and-go-seek tag, and all other varieties of virtuous sport. And as for Martin, the youngest brother, he had not the disposition of the victor, and was therefore not deserving of victory. His location, just farther away from the stairs than Charles, was certainly a help to the young Martin, for he might as well become used to the loss, being as he was, one of unvictorious acceptance in his slower speed. Charles could proudly say that he had never disobeyed the rules, and that most of the time he was the primary trodder of the kitchen doorway. He was therefore the most virtuous of the competitors, for not only did he win with virtue, but with virtue did he win the most.

And yet, as unbelievable as it was, the image appeared to be more than a mirage on the landing, and as Peter spun himself around towards the next flight he turned his face toward Charles, locking his fierce blue eyes with Charles’ own and letting the sides of his mouth tilt upwards ever so slightly. “That,” Charles thought, “is the face of pure cunning, intentional deception, irksome violation of natural order in our so so peaceful world.” The first rule, stalwart and clear until this moment, had been broken. With a newfound blaze of righteous fire, Charles leapt down the first flight, clearing it in two jumps, letting his feet smash into the carpeted stairs with each. His brother, slowed by the pause before father, lost two stairs of his lead in just those few seconds, so great was the speed at which Charles started his descent.

As Charles neared his father however, it became clear that his speed was to no avail, for the customary pause would ruin any chance of catching up. What was he to do? To let his brother win was to no longer defend proper sportsmanship, but to not pause was to not participate in that good sportsmanship himself! “Oh, to be caught between a rock and a hard place. Should one choose the rock and at least be sure of its nature, or is the nature of a rock simply to be a hard place?” Where does the greater danger lie? Would it be best to rush past his father and show to Peter that the early start did not help his victory, or would it be better to serve one's own moral character? At lightning speed Charles found his conclusion. To let Peter win would be to betray the rules forever, for victory, even without virtue, would be victory nonetheless. No, better to break those laws just once and save himself from an eternity of brokenness. It was better to teach Peter that virtue would prevail. Besides, he would not see the rush. And with those thoughts in mind, Charles spun past his father, taking the next leap towards his brother just a few steps down.

*   *   *

At a large wooden table in a crowded kitchen, three brothers sat. One’s face had a smile, one’s had tears, and one’s was contentedly neutral, awaiting the pancakes which had been stowed in the oven to keep warm. A two-year old wept from the second floor, awoken by recent crashing on the staircase. A full minute of silence, broken only by the toddler, had passed since the first set of feet had crossed the doorway, and fifty eight and a half seconds had passed since the next. The smiling Peter turned towards the neutral Martin.

“Those pancakes sure do smell good! I sure hope we do get around to eating ‘em soon. And maple syrup’s out and forks and knives, looks like it should be eating time!”

“Well,” Martin responded, “ I could eat and snore!”

“It’s eat a horse, and it is just too bad that something woke Emma up,” Peter replied, tilting his head toward the ceiling. Charles mumbled something nasty under his breath.

“What was that, Charlie?” Peter pressed.

“You carin’ about how something’s supposed to be said?” The boy shot back.

“Hm? You mean I shouldn’t help him know things?”

“I mean it doesn’t matter to you.”

“Well, what do you mean by that then?”

“I mean,” Charles accused, “that all last week, I saw you setting twenty-three minute timers, and you know you only play piano better than me cause you're older and you’ve played for longer. We’re supposed to practice twenty five.”

“Yeah? Well you ever heard of approximation? Besides, show the timer to Emma and she won’t tell the difference,” Peter retorted.

“Well she sure told the difference when you made me stomp after you this morning!”

“I made you stomp? The way I see I am coming down the stairs peacefully and you start down in a big huff!”

“Well I wouldn’t’ve started huffin if you wouldn’t’ve started sneakin!” Charles cried.

“Well I wouldn’t’ve started sneakin if it wouldn’t’ve been unfair!” Peter cried back.

“Unfair!? Who you mean by unfair?”

“I mean that your bed’s been closer to the stairs since the day it was put there and it’s nothing I can do except to get up early if I want to be first!”

“But getting out early’s not allowed! And you’re faster!”

“Not allowed by who! Do you make the rules? Who said I can’t get up when I want to and come down the stairs when I want to too! And faster? If I’m faster, I should win the race!”

“Papa’s coming!” Martin exclaimed, and the room fell silent. Father walked into the kitchen, holding the sniffling two year old, who had been gradually calmed with promises of food. Father set Emma next to Martin, moved to the oven, and took out a tray. Stacks of hotcakes, glistening with butter and ready for luscious syrup to be poured, were brought to the table. Two to each boy, one for the toddler, and hardly a dent made in the golden stacks. But to Charles, all was gray. His rush had been to no avail, breaking the rules himself had led to nothing, and Peter had still won. No one else seemed to see what had been at stake, the heroic effort Charles had put forth to save the order of that morning. No, the blame had gone to him, for making noise, for rushing down those stairs in pursuit, for not even bothering to greet his own father. Now, as the hot buttermilk pancakes were devoured and breakfast conversation commenced, Charles ate tasting nothing, and sat in silence.