Jacqueline: Banana

"Who drew on this banana?"
Oh God, here we go again.
"No-one drew on the banana, Robert."
"Didn't they?"
"No."
She knows someone has.  She knows who it was.
"Bananas draw on themselves, do they?  Clever bananas."
She wills him to stop, and there's an ominous silence, only broken by the scrape of wood against teflon.  She raises the spoon and watches the bolognaise sauce bubble - counts one, two, three, four, five.... and simultaneously sharpens here senses.  She has her back to him and needs to take care.  She need to defuse.
"Bananas just don't behave themselves these days do they?" she says with which she hopes is a laugh in her voice.
"Oh don't try and be funny.  It doesn't suit you.  I want to know who drew on this bloody banana!"
He's louder now, perhaps nearer.  Difficult to tell.  She shouldn't have told him that no-one drew on it, because she knows, and he knows.  Worse, he knows that she knows.  No wonder he gets angry.  Better to tell the truth from the start, whatever the..    She hears the front door slam in the distance, then the quick tread up the stairs.  He betrays nothing.   Jack's home.  She places the spoon carefully across the pan, arranges a smile, and turns her head towards him, reluctantly looking into his eyes.
"Darling, would you put the plates on the table?  The spaghetti's almost done."
He stares at her, and she can see the muscles at the side of his jaw working.  This can't go on.  The banana, without warning, wings its way over her head and smashes into the tiled wall behind her.  She doesn't move, but wonders how she didn't see it coming.
"I will NOT have fucking food messed about with in MY house!" he shouts.
She waits, feeling the corners of her mouth begin a smile at the contradiction, and stops it.
"You're right." she says, probably too quickly, and opens the cupboard door for the plates.  She senses something then, and knows that Jack's standing in the doorway.  She places the plates carefully on the table, glances up, and sees that he's reading the scene accurately.  The tension, as always, is palpable and she watches him as he walks nonchalantly around the table where Robert is still sitting, picks up the banana from where it's landed on the draining board, and examines it closely.
"Don't worry," she says, as lightly as she can, "dinner's practically ready."  She looks hard at the back of her son's head, silently transmitting, pleading.  She watches as he takes the banana to the pedal bin, drops it in, and then slowly draws a chair from under the table, and sits down.  She waits.