by Julia Glass
“Well. That’s something.” Anthony looked weary.
“It’s time to go home. We don’t dance anyway, do we?” Ira scanned the room for the newlyweds. Joe was dancing, tenderly, with Jonathan’s grandmother. Jonathan was surrounded by a group of friends who were drunkenly hugging him, one after the other. Or maybe they weren’t drunk. Maybe they were sincerely moved, and they were unafraid to show it.
“Fine. Let’s go.” Anthony stood and, skirting the dancers, made straight for the coatroom.
Ira had no choice but to follow. He glanced at the grooms, hoping for a quick wave, a gesture of joy and gratitude, but both men were soundly cocooned—yes, that was the definitive word.
They waited in razorlike silence for their coats and then, on the street, for the valet to retrieve their car.
“At the risk of deepening this chasm,” Anthony said suddenly, “I have one thing to say, and then I’m done. I think we need a big celebration. Of us. It’s time. And you know what? I’m up for an act of defiance. I see so many divorces. I’m getting fed up that they pay our grocery bills.”
“I know,” Ira said gently. “That is discouraging. I, on the other hand, see lots of little boys and girls propose to each other, hold hands, and trade kisses. They treat true love like the lark it ought to be.” But so totally and tragically isn’t, he did not say. Yet how could he not admire Anthony’s yearning for an “act of defiance”? What if marriage was just as noble when it meant no as when it meant yes?
Anthony, as promised, said nothing more. Their car arrived, and Anthony drove them home.
Unless they were invited to someone else’s place, Christmas was a lazy, low-key holiday for Anthony and Ira. They decorated a small tree—the kind you could put on a table, like a flower arrangement—and they exchanged a few gifts, luxurious yet practical (the cashmere sweater, the stack of intelligent mysteries, the copper saucepan). No stockings, no gimmicky gadgets from Brookstone, no fruitcake or mince pie, no mistletoe or holly. And God, no endless CDs of “Jingle Bells” as tarted up by Ella, Elvis, and Bing.
This year, Clover had invited them to her apartment in Matlock for “afternoon cheer.” Ira feared that she had some scheme up her sleeve, involving Anthony and the kids, but Anthony assured him that if they were socializing, this would put a damper on any custody-related business in the future.
“And hey,” he said, “you’re always telling me you like the people you work with there, but I never get to meet them!”
“That’s because you’re so busy.”
Anthony turned away from the recycling bin, where he had just put the folded tissue paper from their gifts. “Ira, that’s a crock.”
Clover lived in the top floor of a converted carriage house. She’d lit dozens of red candles and put on the Messiah. They were the first to arrive.
“Welcome, troubadors!” she said when she opened the door.
“We forgot our lutes, I’m afraid,” said Ira.
“My son’s studying the Middle Ages,” Clover said to Anthony. “So we were just talking about the arts back then. Such as they were, with all the ambient warfare and violence. Not a time I would choose to have led a former life!” She put their coats on a bench—a cast-off church pew—against the wall. Glancing around the large, raftered living room, Ira wasn’t surprised to see its scattershot collection of funky furniture: a fifties formica table, a vast rococo wall mirror whose glass was brindled with age; an old postcard carousel, its porcupine prongs painted cobalt blue and hung with hats for every season. It looked more like a Christmas tree—more festive and gaudy—than the actual tree set up for the occasion.
Clover’s children sat on the couch, huddled together over a hand-held device of some kind. Clover made them put it down, stand up, and shake hands. Ira offered small talk about vacations as the highlight of the school year. The girl, Filo, was extremely pretty, a nymphlike vision of what her mother must have looked like at nine or ten. Lee was aloof, nodding for yes, lips clamped in that all-suffering Take me back to my people facial expression of boys at the cliff of puberty.
Clover took their bottle of champagne to the kitchen. When she returned, she offered sherry, eggnog (sober or sauced), hot cider, and Shirley Temples. “Seltzer’s available for Scrooges,” she said.
Anthony proclaimed himself a Scrooge. Ira accepted a glass of sherry, though the thought of anything rich and sweet made him feel vaguely depressed.
Anthony wandered toward a side table (formerly the wrought-iron pedestal for a sewing machine) displaying framed photos. This was his habit in any new home they visited. It used to annoy Ira, who claimed that it seemed too nosy—but Anthony argued that people put those pictures on display wanting them to be perused; wanting questions to be asked, stories about their lives brought forth. (“Who’s this grande dame in the amazing flapper?” “Is this Provincetown?” “Don’t tell me that’s you in the Jim Morrison T-shirt!”) With rare exceptions, said Anthony, people want to talk about family almost more than anything else. “If there’s one thing my work has taught me,” he liked to say, “it’s that we’re all tribal in the end.”
As if on cue, the doorbell rang—and in walked Clover’s dad.
“Percy! Merry Christmas!” Ira exclaimed.
“Greetings,” Percy answered, crossing the room to shake hands. He looked around, frowning slightly at the candles burning on a nearby windowsill. “Where is everyone? I expect the sharing of ‘cheer’ to be a populous affair.”
“Just family and the best of friends,” said Clover. “I don’t do cattle calls.” She took her father’s coat.
Percy examined Ira. “Which makes you a best friend, correct?”
Anthony walked over and introduced himself.
“Percy made the new school possible,” said Ira, not that Anthony didn’t know this. Ira had told him a number of “Mr. Darling” stories.
“I gave it a new skin, that’s all. One might say that the school went through a molting process.” He accepted a glass of eggnog from Clover. “Hail,” he called out to his grandchildren, who’d reimmersed themselves in electronic play. “Set that gizmo down and practice being social. It will serve you well in life! Come tell these folks about the real world beyond our castle moat.”
“I grew up in New York,” Ira said to Lee.
“Yeah?”
“Well, Forest Hills. Which might as well be Fargo. But I got into the city a lot when I was your age.”
Tight-lipped nod.
“Queens is cool,” said Filo. “I have camp friends from there. And I mean, we live in Brooklyn, so it’s not like we would dis the outer boroughs.”
“Tell them about your camp,” said Clover.
Which led to Filo’s description of a horseback-riding summer camp an hour from Matlock, for which she was already signed up and counting the days.
“My daughters were deprived of such luxuries,” Percy declared.
“Daddy, we had 4-H, remember? It was the old-time equivalent,” said Clover. “You can stop doing this thing where you compare what you gave us to what parents give their children now. I’m sure we’re overdoing it.”
The doorbell rang and Robert entered, along with an older man who appeared to be his father. Yes, Ira noted, they had the same tawny brown eyes, the dad’s framed by tortoiseshell glasses. The dad also wore a cornball tie with red-nosed reindeer leaping in diagonal rows.
Clover rushed over to hug them. “Where’s your mom?” she said to Robert.
“On call. She dropped us off and said to say she’s sorry.”
“How can she be on call Christmas Day? She’s the boss!” Clover laughed, but she was frowning. “She didn’t mention that this morning.”
“Somebody called in sick or something. You know Mom. Dr. Perfect.”
The father did not back up this statement but made his way toward the other guests. Right away, he introduced himself to Ira and Anthony. He was a plain-looking man—perhaps he’d simply aged out of Robert’s appealing lankiness,
the bearish thatch of dark smooth hair—but he was admirably fit and had, Ira noticed with envy, beautiful teeth. His skin, though patchy from the cold, looked young, symptomatic of a life with few concerns, a temperament unclouded by neuroses.
Douglas shook Anthony’s hand for an extra beat or two. “I know I’ve heard your name,” he said. And then he laughed. “Ah, yes. The Python. I have clients who’ve been tempted by your services. Tempted to empty their bank accounts, I might add!”
Ira watched Anthony react. He chose to be amused. “Clearly we have a juicy conversation ahead of us.”
“The Python?” said Percy. “Keeper of the fateful apple?”
Anthony seemed to be considering his answer when Douglas said, “He’s been known to squeeze his opponents so hard—and so subtly—that they have no choice but to cough up their hidden assets.”
Percy continued to look aggressively baffled.
“We’re talking divorce court, Dad,” said Douglas.
Anthony was now the center of attention—which he loved, no matter what the circumstances.
“So, you’re an engineer to the splintering of society,” Percy said cheerfully.
“I would rephrase that,” said Anthony. “Restorer of the peace where atomic war was imminent.”
Percy laughed loudly. Douglas joined in, though a minute too late to look like he found it all that funny. Filo and Lee stared at the older men as if they’d arrived at this party from another planet.
Robert came out of the bathroom and called to his cousins, “Want me to set up your Wii? I’m dying to give it a go.”
Without a word, the children fled, vanishing with Robert into another room. Ira felt marooned, since Robert was the one person he’d genuinely hoped to see at this gathering.
Anthony and Douglas stood at the drinks table, deep into gossip or shop talk. Was Robert’s father a divorce lawyer, too? The world was a pathetic place if two out of five adults were involved in that line of work.
“Ira,” said Percy, shocking Ira by using his actual name, “don’t you have a family demanding your presence on this sacred day?”
“My family’s Jewish—though not in any meaningful way. They do a seder. Light the menorah. That’s about it. Fourth of July gets the biggest party out of my mom.” Even Ira’s bar mitzvah had been a tepid affair: more time spent in recitation at the temple than partying at the hired room of the local JCC.
“You live here?”
“Here?”
“Matlock.”
“Oh no,” said Ira. “Are you kidding? Lothian’s where we … live.”
Cat out of the satchel, sweetheart. Oh when would that voice shut up?
Percy nodded toward Anthony. “Your roommate would be the Python.”
“He would.”
“Your karma must balance his out. For every trust fund he plunders, you nurture another young soul.”
Ira heard his own laugh as verging on manic. “Well. That’s a blunt way to put it.”
Clover joined them. “Daddy, did I hear someone call you ‘blunt’ again? Do I have to ask you to behave?” She glanced at Ira. “What did you say?”
“I said,” said Percy, “that young men who wrangle small children without losing their wits deserve citations of valor.”
Ira laughed, again hysterically. He set down his sherry and reached for a cheese puff. Suddenly he was hungry. So much for the four-thousand-calorie nuptials.
Heidi, Evelyn (no Maurice), and Ruth happened to arrive all at once. Ira was relieved and made his way to greet them, though this meant that, rudely, he abandoned Percy. The man seemed brilliant, even likable, but fearsome. Ira felt too fragile for fearsome. He was afraid that if they spoke for another ten minutes, Percy would come right out and ask why Ira was dragging his feet on marrying the Python. (Was it perhaps because Anthony was the Python? Now there was a provocative question.)
The party grew no larger, and an hour later (once Clover had flushed her children out of the room with the TV), Ira looked around to see Anthony engaged in serious conversation with Robert, Lee at the fringes. Somewhat pathetically, Ira had stuck with the easy company of his coworkers, leaving Douglas paired with his father-in-law.
He heard Percy say, “Trudy isn’t really on call, is she?”
Douglas hesitated. “She’s exhausted. This time of year does her in.”
“It does everyone in. Or is she baking cookies for all her patients?”
“Take it up with Dr. B. I have little influence when it comes to her physical movements in the world. And how about your other half? Where’s Sarah?”
“Prior commitments,” said Percy. “And let’s not exaggerate, shall we? Last I looked, I was all here, a glorious whole.”
Suddenly Robert was standing beside Ira. “Hey, big dude. How’s life with all the micro-dudes?”
“Just fine, but taking a break is even finer.” Ira wondered sometimes if what he enjoyed most about Robert was his youthful ease, his glib sweetness.
The boy shifted from one large foot to another, like a horse. “So,” he said. “Turo and I were thinking we might decorate the tree house for the auction.”
“How brilliant!” said Ira. “We even have our theme. Woodstock. The invitations will instruct everybody to ‘dress countercultural.’ ”
“Aunt Clo’s idea. Yeah. So how does a tree do counterculture?”
“Grows against the grain? Listens to Donovan; you know, ‘Jennifer Juniper’?”
“Dude.” Robert groaned with amusement.
“The mini-dudes will want to help,” said Ira, trying to hide how pleased he was at his own pathetic jokes.
“Word,” said Robert.
“Where is Turo? I thought we passed him on our way over.”
Robert shook his head. “Turo’s at a friend’s place, in the Square, for Christmas. I think he’d rather hang here, but he said he couldn’t mooch for two holidays in a row.”
Ira nodded, though he was sure that as he and Anthony had turned onto Percy’s lane, he’d seen Turo standing in the woods. He’d said nothing to Anthony, who was ranting about a case involving three children with two drug-addict parents. Ira had waved, but Turo probably hadn’t seen him. Was he on skis? Though what did it matter? It hadn’t been Turo after all.
The week in New York was, in a word, restorative—never mind that they ran themselves ragged dashing from one attraction to the next, as if desperate to take in every play on or off Broadway; every fashion sale, from Barneys to East Ninth Street; every newfangled work of art, from Dia to Williamsburg. They ate ridiculously well: Italian in Chelsea, Japanese in TriBeCa, French on Gansevoort, Thai in Queens (an accidental find the day they visited Ira’s parents).
Perhaps they got along so well, and loved each other’s company so much, because they were constantly in motion. And then they were in bed, in the dark, where any introspective conversation they shared—inevitably and deliciously weary—would be about Richard Serra or Stephen Sondheim or the beet-red suit by agnès b. that Anthony was almost but not quite brave enough to buy. (“Maybe if your nickname in court were the Rooster,” said Ira when they left the store on Prince Street. “Cock of the Walk,” Anthony suggested. “The perp walk,” Ira said, and they laughed wantonly for the next two blocks, drawing the envious irritation of everyone they passed.)
Ira realized that while he often missed New York, he had lost the prickly need to behave, when he returned, as if he were anything other than a tourist. Likewise, he felt surprisingly tolerant of his parents’ ingrained habits and tastes, once as tough as gristle for Ira to digest. It helped that Anthony accepted them as they were (his own parents were equally if differently bizarre), but for the first time, Ira accepted Anthony’s acceptance, understanding what it really meant.
On the night of their visit, Ira’s mother made a casserole of broccoli, chicken, and cheese—mixed with a can of Campbell’s mushroom soup. This had been Ira’s favorite meal as a child, and why should he tell her that the allure of such f
ood had dimmed almost as soon as he left home? So of course she made it every single time he returned—and as everyone finished their salad (served first, American style, with salmon-colored tomato wedges and dressing from a bottle), she would ceremoniously remove the immortal Corningware dish from the oven and set it down on the familiar heart-shaped trivet.
She would smile proudly as she focused both love and caution on carrying the hot dish to the table. In the past, Ira had often looked away from her smile, embarrassed. But this time, he was touched by her faithfulness to this ritual, and an odd thought occurred to him. He’d had a happy childhood, as childhoods go. He, the child, might not have been happy all or even most of the time, but his surroundings had been remarkably serene and cheerful. That was the “hood” part of childhood, the context, the environment, ecosphere—call it what you like. Ira had taken a course in grad school dedicated to the nature-versus-nurture debate: what makes a child grow up with a particular accent or a bad temper; prone to depression or excess weight; alcoholic; sporty; religious?
Ira’s parents beamed at Anthony, as if he already were their son-in-law. Wasn’t this the very best you could ask of your parents, at this point in life? This and your favorite food from ages seven to seventeen?
It dawned on him, so abruptly that he nearly choked on his rice pilaf: Inner Ira, resident cynic, had not come along on this vacation.
“Memory lane, Mom,” said Ira after swallowing the first salty bite of the casserole.
The first day back at school, Ira and Evelyn arrived before everyone else, so they were the ones to discover the damage wrought by a frozen pipe. Evelyn cajoled Matlock’s only plumber into putting them at the head of the day’s list. Even so, the children’s bathroom would have to be closed for the morning.
Ira realized that the task of soaking up the small lake in the hall would require more than a mop. E & F’s part-time custodian, who brought his own equipment, wouldn’t show up until the end of the week.
Up at the house, once he’d climbed to the back porch, Ira could see that Percy Darling was awake, eating breakfast at the kitchen table.
