“Gay?” asked the figure-skating judge. “Him, I mean.”
“Definitely not.”
My father said, “Maybe Daphne didn’t want this very nice conversation to get stalled on the topic of her unfortunate marriage. The good news is, she got in and out of it without undue suffering. Isn’t that right, hon?”
Were we all intimates now? I guessed so because the Bernie Madoff client, a woman named Suzanne with bangs that appeared to have been shaped over a juice can, said, “I hope you took him to the cleaners.”
I lied, and said, “I sure did,” with a fake jaunty laugh.
“Soup’s on!” came Geneva’s bellow.
My father and I exchanged private smiles. We’d never had a buffet Thanksgiving dinner. As the only man at the table, he sprang to his feet first and stood behind his chair until all his tablemates were heading for the kitchen.
There we found, on every available surface, foil serving pans of turkey, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, two kinds of stuffing, green beans almondine, Brussels sprouts, coleslaw, cranberry sauce, a cut-glass gravy boat, and (labeled) vegetarian lasagna. Both my father and I exclaimed over the bounty, he more enthusiastically than I because the crinkly aluminum trays, side by side, reminded me of what a shelter’s steam table might be offering this day.
Back in the dining room, my father was again standing until all were seated, plates piled high except for the Bernie Madoff client who looked proudly and purposely emaciated. Dad asked, “Do New Yorkers say grace?”
“Why not!” Geneva cried. “Have at it!”
The other therapist, with a shawl around her shoulders and wearing a dress of fabric that had ribbons woven through it, said, “OR we could go around the table and each say what we’re thankful for.”
I always hated public thanks. There were eleven of us, and my food was getting cold. Geneva, with a drumstick in hand, said, “We can eat while we give thanks. And drink! I’ll start right there: I’m grateful for your excellent reds and whites, and the rosé, which ain’t easy to find in the fall. And to Deborah for the gorgeous pumpkin pie. You won’t believe it, but she made it herself.”
“Pumpkin chiffon,” Deborah the ex–Martha Stewart employee corrected.
We went around the table, this time counterclockwise. Thanks were variations on the theme of not being alone on Thanksgiving . . . meeting all of you . . . Deborah said she had a new job, was starting Monday at the Food Network. Suzanne was grateful that her daughter was pregnant, knock on wood, after three rounds of in vitro, due in April. I said I was thankful that my father lived only four blocks away and was adjusting to city life like a champ.
He said, “Ditto. How lucky does a dad get?”
The woman who’d been fired by Leona Helmsley said, “Sorry. I have nothing.”
“No,” my father said. “It can’t be that you have nothing to be thankful for? Kids? Friends? Nieces? Nephews?”
She picked up her fork, then put it down. “Okay. How’s this: I’m grateful those hurricanes didn’t hit New York.”
We toasted that and picked up our forks. I soon went back for more gravy on the dry breast meat I’d taken too optimistically. Geneva joined me in the kitchen. “You’re coming with me to New Hampshire on Saturday, right? For the reunion? I signed you up. And whoever manages the website wrote back asking if you were June’s daughter.”
“I never agreed to that.”
“Yes, you did! It’s the fiftieth, for Chrissake! I mean, how much more do you need as a sign that this fell into my lap at exactly the right moment in time, like it was preordained?”
Back at the table, I dropped the subject. Had my father overheard us? Apparently not; he was looking anything but concerned, conducting a conversation with blue-eyed, pleasantly plump Paula, the woman who needed gratitude prompting.
I asked Geneva on my way out, loaded down with leftovers, “If I went, how would we get there?”
“Car service, of course.”
Later, I asked myself if agreeing to go would kill me. The fiftieth would never come around again. Would in-person attendance help me understand why reunions were so magical to my mother that none could be skipped?
I called Geneva in the morning. I said okay, I’d go this once. But please know I was not in any way endorsing a future documentary. I added two conditions: It would be a day trip versus an overnight stay. And that we’d leave New York early enough for me to return two books to the Pickering library that had been overdue for a year.
8
Teacher’s Pet
In the back seat, on the cold, dull gray ride to Pickering, Geneva declared, “Your mother didn’t have great boundaries.”
“Patently obvious,” I said.
“At the same time, kind of a snob.”
“In what way?”
“Status. Jobs. Successes and failures. Her scribbles made a lot out of what they ended up doing versus their stated goals at eighteen.”
This is when I learned that Geneva, dressed in voluminous stiff black silk that fell straight from the shoulders and a fur-collared red coat, had made a study of the graduates’ dashed dreams. The class of 1968, she reported, reading from her iPad, had submitted these answers to the question Ambition?: Approximately one-quarter had answered either “happiness” or “success.” Girls had predicted wife, teacher, beautician, nurse, dress designer, bookkeeper, secretary, stewardess, store buyer, social worker, occupational therapist, one professor, and one opera singer. The boys had higher reaches, among them architect, artist, author, aviation mechanic, foreign diplomat, farmer, doctor, lawyer, Major League pitcher, “take over my father’s business,” navy, army, air force, forest ranger, hunting guide, traveling salesman, chemist, journalist, draftsman, mechanic, TV technician, aeronautical engineer, foreman at General Motors, director, millionaire. The more philosophical answers included: “Improvement.” “To see the world.” “To go to Hawaii.” “Success in math.” “A useful life.” “Early retirement.” “To be friends with everyone.”
“Talk about gender stereotyping. It makes me wonder about the school’s guidance counselors,” Geneva said.
I agreed, yes, very traditional roles. But at this moment, my main takeaway was that the yearbook was no longer in a bank vault. “You brought it with you?” I asked.
“Of course! What’s the expression—‘You can’t tell the players without a scorecard’?”
“And what do you intend to do with it?”
“Get feedback.”
“In what respect feedback?”
“To the comments, obviously. What else is there? What’s my story? Would I have fished the yearbook out of the trash if it were just a bunch of head-and-shoulder shots?”
“No way that’s coming with us.”
Geneva nudged the briefcase as far from me as the back seat floor allowed. “I don’t think that’s your decision.”
“Really? Then good luck! You’ll be like the evil fairy who shows up at Sleeping Beauty’s christening: ‘Nice to meet you, unsuspecting guy who came looking for a nice time. Would you like to see what snarky Mrs. Maritch wrote about you?’”
“I don’t interpret her comments that way.”
“Oh, really? Who’s fifty pounds heavier, who’s a failure, who’s wearing the same dress she wore at the last reunion?”
Of course, Geneva would have to introduce a mediator. “Sir?” she asked, leaning toward our driver. “Let’s say at seventeen your ambition was—I don’t know—to head up General Motors, but then reality set in and you ended up as a driver for a car service. Then an ex-teacher wrote ‘drives for a car service’ next to your yearbook photo, would you consider that a put-down?”
He turned off the radio but didn’t answer.
“I was being hypothetical. I have no idea what you put down under ‘Ambition’ in your yearbook.”
The driver said, “We didn’t do yearbooks in my country,” quickly amending that America was his country now.
I asked where he’d c
ome from.
“From one of the oldest civilizations in the history of the world!”
“Greece?” I tried.
“Rome,” said Geneva.
“Egypt!”
“I’ve never been,” said Geneva. “And I guess it’s too late for that now. What a mess.”
I thought it best to get back to my anti-yearbook argument since we were now one exit from Pickering. “It’s either it or me,” I told her.
“What’s either it or you?”
“The Monadnockian. Either it stays in the car or I do.”
“Why do you care? You threw it out!”
“I’m not protecting the yearbook! I’m protecting the feelings of the graduates. Good luck enlisting them for a documentary after shoving their faces in it!”
“How else am I going to identify people? What about context? It’s going to be a bunch of sixty-something-year-olds—”
“With name tags! That’s for sure. And mine will say Daphne Maritch, which should be all the social lubricant you need.”
“As if you’re going to recognize everyone and make the connection back to their . . . their pasts! Their former selves now living lives of quiet desperation?”
“That’s it, isn’t it? All condescension. If they’re still here, going to a reunion, they’re failures?”
“I need it,” she said, almost a whimper.
“That’s how you want to present yourself, a stranger who signed up as other.”
She turned away and stared out the window. “Factories,” I heard her murmur. Even in profile, I could tell she was pouting, waiting for me to negotiate or apologize. I didn’t.
“What’s your decision?” I asked.
She turned back to face me. “Okay. But here’s what I want: Presuming there are name tags or place cards, I want yours to say, ‘Daughter of June Maritch.’”
“It’ll be obvious. I don’t have to announce it.”
“Yes, you do. With a Sharpie.”
“Which you no doubt brought with you?”
Finally, a grudging smile. “Of course.”
I opened the black satin evening purse that had seemed right for an occasion asking for “cocktail attire.” I reapplied lipstick in the mirror of the small faux-jeweled compact.
“Looks vintage,” Geneva noted. “Was it hers?”
I closed the purse. Before she could spot the JWM, I said no.
A tuxedoed man and a tiaraed woman were checking in guests. I asked them what the round orange sticker on our name tags meant. The woman pointed to her own badge. A gold star, she explained, meant classmate, a silver star was for spouses, blue for plus-ones. Orange meant “other.”
I started to write the agreed-upon designation under my name but got no further than “Daughter of . . .” when an envelope slid toward me. I looked up. The hostess said, “I put you at his table.”
“Whose table?”
“Open it,” said Geneva, with a nudge.
Handwritten on a note card bearing the seal of New Hampshire, it said, “I saw on the website that you were attending. I hope to talk to you this evening. Sincerely, Peter D. Armstrong.”
I asked the woman which table. She tapped my name tag, as if I had never before set foot in the country of catered dinners. “That number there. Table five.”
“Do you know this guy Armstrong?” Geneva asked her.
“I know everybody,” she said.
“I’m here on something of a scouting trip,” Geneva continued. “I’m a documentary filmmaker.”
Were these two greeters chosen for their neutrality and frozen smiles, for their New Hampshire election-coverage nonchalance?
Because their badges announced them as Albert Knight and Gloria (Hink) Knight, I asked, “Married classmates?”
“Married now,” said Gloria. “Since our fortieth.”
“Birthdays?”
“Reunion,” the husband said. “We were put at the same table.”
“Were you high school sweethearts?” I asked.
Apparently, this was not a polite question. Albert checked with Gloria, who said, “We went to the prom together.”
“Then what?” said Geneva. “Broke up? Married other people?”
Gloria said, “No. Just each other.”
Albert said, “Twice.”
Gloria added, “Not our fault. We were teenagers the first time, which I wouldn’t recommend to anyone.”
“I’m surprised they put a divorced couple at the same table,” Geneva said.
“People knew we were . . . amicable,” said Gloria.
“Look who’s here!” Albert boomed, seemingly relieved to direct his attention to new arrivals. And to us: “Coat check’s to your right. Enjoy the evening.”
Gloria tore two tickets from a roll, entitling us to one alcoholic drink per guest. “Cash bar after that. Soft drinks on the house.”
Only a few yards from the reception table, Geneva said, “Pregnant straight out of school, I bet. Maybe even prom night. I was tempted to ask if they have a kid who’s exactly fifty years old.”
“Please don’t embarrass me,” I said.
The woman on coat duty, a gold-starred Beverly Swierczek, was dressed in scooped-neck silver lamé contrasting with her spray tan; her fingernails were dark blue with zigzags of silver.
“Did you pull the short straw?” Geneva asked her.
Her welcome smile faded. “Sorry?”
“This job. I hope you won’t be stuck here all night.”
“I’m on the reunion committee. I don’t mind.” Unexpectedly, she winked. “I’m a single gal. Everyone who attends checks his or her coat, emphasis on the his.”
“Smart,” said Geneva.
We entered the function room, which was smaller than I expected, about a dozen round tables draped in burgundy linen. Centerpieces were shellacked gourds and pine cones; at each place setting stood an airline-size bottle of maple syrup. Had I expected a big banquet hall? WELCOME, 68ERS! WE MADE IT! proclaimed a banner hanging from the beams.
“Bar first,” said Geneva.
The featured drink was a Tickled Pink, prepoured and lined up, awaiting our ticket redemption. With the pretty drinks in hand, we wove our way to table five. There were four seats occupied so far, two couples, all smiling hospitably. The men stood until we’d shaken hands and took our seats. One wife, coal-black hair in an upsweep, said, “You’re the New Yorkers!” She pointed to the name tag pinned to her black lace bodice: She was Donna; her husband was Dave. The other couple, both elfin and white-haired with matching rimless eyeglasses, introduced themselves as Ritchie and Mimi Perry.
I asked if all four had been classmates. Donna said, “Yes, but we winter in Florida now.”
“Ritchie and I are both from here,” said Mimi. “Though he was born in Laconia.”
Ritchie said, “I wouldn’t expect you to remember us—arrangements were made with your father—but we are Perry Funeral Home.”
“Of course. I thought you looked familiar. You did a lovely job.”
Wouldn’t this be a good time for someone, anyone, to extol the memory of their famously devoted teacher or at the very least rote-reply about my having their thoughts and prayers?
But then we were eight as two women took their seats. More introductions. They were Roseanne and Barbara, friends going back to junior year when they tried out for varsity cheerleader. Their shrugs and wistful smiles indicated they hadn’t made it.
Mimi said, “But runners-up automatically make the PHS pep squad.”
“And then we both went to Plymouth State,” said Roseanne.
“Where we met the guys we married. And get this: Our husbands worked together at Travelers,” said Barbara.
“They’re skipping tonight?” asked Geneva.
Both women laughed. “They haven’t been to one of these since our—do you remember which one?”
“Tenth,” said the other. “That’s the reunion where you want everyone to know you got married.”
“Interesting,” said Geneva, managing to convey in one word that the opposite was true.
Mimi said, “Daphne is Mrs. Maritch’s daughter.”
“Wow!” said Roseanne. “Is she here tonight?”
There was an intake of breath around the table. Mr. Perry took the reins, explaining in a somber professional tone that Mrs. Maritch had passed away a year ago last month.
“I’m so sorry!” said Roseanne. “Was it on the class Facebook page?”
I said apparently not.
Geneva said, “Facebook page. I’ll have to get on that,” prompting Donna to ask what her connection to the class was.
“I’ll let Daphne answer.” She turned to me. “Since you’re so worried about what I might say.”
Did the others hear the peevishness in that? I said, “Geneva wants to make a documentary about . . . well, you explain because I’m not sure.”
“Maybe after I’ve had another drink,” said Geneva, fishing the lime slice out of her otherwise empty glass.
“About us?” asked Mimi.
“No,” I said.
Geneva fired off a sarcastic Ha! followed by “She wishes no.”
I took over lest Geneva’s amplification point to my mother’s poison pen. “Ms. Wisenkorn was inspired by the yearbook, so to the extent it contains your photos, it would include some of you. But right now, it’s only . . .” What? Notes on paper? In Geneva’s head?
Luckily, something else was distracting her. “Other tables have food,” she said. “Fruit cup, it looks like.”
Dave said, “With a scoop of orange sherbet. Those are tables one through four. We’re next.”
“Food committee,” his wife said proudly.
It was then that our final tablemate appeared, holding a glass of red wine. He was tall, gray-haired, dressed in an expensive-looking suit. All four women looked happy if not triumphant. “Peter!” I heard. “Pete!”
Was it merely his distinguished good looks and sartorial splendor that made everyone proud to have snagged Peter Armstrong for table five? He asked Barbara, who’d taken the seat next to me, if she minded scooting over one because he had very much hoped to speak with Miss Maritch.
Good Riddance Page 5
