by Reid, Penny
“Quinn?”
I glanced at Janie, her upturned smiling face, her expectant amber eyes.
“Yes?” I said.
“Did you know that comity of handshaking originated in remote antiquity? At that time, human beings lived on hunting. If they happened to meet a stranger, they would throw their hunting tools aside and open their hands to show the person that they weren’t a threat.”
As she spoke, my attention flickered to my mother who was watching Janie with rapt attention. As soon as Janie finished, my mom stepped forward and touched her elbow.
“I was just cutting carrots, but I have no other weapons on my person.” She was smiling at Janie. She was smiling at her as though she liked her.
“Oh, me neither,” Janie responded with a warm smile. “But I imagine Quinn probably has a gun. But don’t worry, he has a license for it.”
My parents’ attention turned to me, and I had no choice but to stand still under their scrutiny. An uncomfortable moment passed while Janie glanced back and forth between us. I noticed her neck had flushed red and splotchy.
I knew what would come next. Janie would try to fill the silence with more facts.
But no gushing of information arrived, because my mom stepped out of the house. She stood directly in front of me, gave me a half smile, and wrapped her arms around my waist, her cheek pressed against my chest.
Startled, I glanced from the top of her head to Janie.
Janie’s eyes were wide, and she lifted her chin to my mother. When I frowned at her, Janie mimed a hugging motion and lifted her chin more urgently, mouthing the words, Give your mother a hug!
So I did. I wrapped my arms around the woman who’d raised me, who’d loved me until she didn’t, and she responded by sniffling against my jacket and squeezing tighter.
I swallowed a building lump in my throat and, for no reason in particular, my attention turned to my father. His stone-faced expression was gone as he looked at my mother’s head tucked against my shoulder, then his eyes lifted to mine.
They were wet.
The world tilted on its axis because this was the closest I’d ever seen my father come to crying.
* * *
Navigating the next hour was like being on a movie set from my childhood with no script.
My mother hugged me for a long time. This only ended after Janie, unable to contain herself any longer, lunged at my father and gave him a hug too. He was so surprised he started to laugh, which made my mother laugh. Then Janie laughed and gave my dad a kiss on the cheek.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“For laughing at me. I’ve never liked the sound of my laugh so much,” she said, then stepped back and apologized for being forward, and tried to explain that hugging—in some cultures—was more intimate than kissing, therefore she should have asked permission first.
My father responded by grinning at me and scooping her back into his arms. The hugging on the front porch finally culminated in a group hug between my fiancée and my parents, which I was forcefully pulled into by both Janie and my mother.
Then I was led into the house, my overcoat and suit jacket were taken, a beer was placed in my hand, and we were standing in the kitchen of the house where I grew up.
I didn’t know where to look. I didn’t know what to say, or how to talk to these people. Janie seemed happy to fill the silence, standing at my side with her arm around my waist and her hip against the counter.
She talked about her inability to knit, the origins of knitting, fiber as an art, the cultivation of carrots, the origins of the Easter Bunny, variations of rabbits, the reprehensible treatment of Irish immigrants in the United States during the Industrial Revolution, the largest rodents, the plague, modern viruses.
Janie was nervous. But as I glanced at my parents, this time really looking at them, I realized that she wasn’t the only one. I saw my mother looking at me as though I might disappear. When I caught her, her expression turned anxious and sad.
I tried giving her a small smile. She returned it with a larger one.
My father appeared to be absorbed in all the information Janie related. Occasionally, he’d stop her and ask a question, request clarification on a point or a fact.
When Janie had told me that she’d contacted my parents, all I’d felt was shame and a growing sense of dread. I don’t know what I was expecting when we arrived, but it wasn’t this.
Eventually, Janie separated herself from me, tied on an apron, and began helping my mother with dinner. They spoke about elementary number theory, about how Janie had been taking a free masters course online offered by Stanford University.
My attention caught on a picture held by magnets to the refrigerator and, upon recognizing it, my lungs hurt like I’d inhaled smoke from a fire. Without premeditation, I crossed to the fridge and stared at the picture.
It was of me when I was twelve. Next to it was another picture—of me, Des, and my father—taken on my first fishing trip. Another hung next to it of Shelly and me when I was six; she’d painted both of our faces with makeup.
The fridge was covered in pictures, and none of them were recent.
I felt rather than saw my father stand next to me. He didn’t speak at first, just watched my profile.
Then he said, “Do you remember that trip? You caught the largest fish.”
I nodded, staring at the photograph. “I remember.”
“You look confused, son,” he said; his blunt words were not a surprise. For better or for worse, he was always blunt. He was also always careful with the words he used.
My eyes narrowed on the picture then slid to the side to meet his. He was watching me like he knew what I was thinking, like he was just waiting for me to say it out loud.
“I am confused,” I admitted. “I thought you would have….” I didn’t finish the thought because it felt disrespectful to say out loud that I thought my parents would have burned all pictures of my image, or cut me out of them.
If the roles had been reversed, I would have done that.
He studied me for what seemed like a long time. His hair was almost completely gray now, and deep frown lines had carved themselves between his eyebrows.
“I regret….” He started, stopped, cleared his throat before continuing. His voice was low so as not to be overheard by the ladies present. “I’ve regretted for a long time what happened, what I said to you, when your brother died.”
I stared at him. My shock must’ve been plain because this man of few words kept speaking.
“Your mother and I were blinded by grief, but that’s no excuse. It was wrong what we said, how we acted. It was dishonorable, and we both regret how we treated you. I hope you can forgive us.”
My throat tight, I responded automatically. “No. There is nothing to forgive. I deserved it.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did. I may not have….” I glanced over his shoulder. “I was responsible.”
“You weren’t.”
I met his eyes again, was surprised to see his expression full of remorse.
I shook my head, said between clenched teeth, “You did nothing wrong.”
He placed his hand on my shoulder, his head shake mirroring mine. “We did, and we’re sorry for it. And we’d like to make it up to you, if you’ll let us.”
“I’ll eat almost anything, but my friend Elizabeth hates mayonnaise.” Janie’s voice was at my back, her hand on my hip. “Excuse me, guys. I need to get out the mayonnaise for the deviled eggs. I was just telling Katherine that I’ll eat almost anything, but that Elizabeth hates mayonnaise. I think it must have something to do with the texture, because she also doesn’t like pudding. I’m not implying that she has a sensory processing disorder; it’s just that soft, gelatinous foods make her gag.”
My dad’s hand dropped and he stepped away. His eyes arrested mine for a beat then moved to Janie. “Sensory processing disorder?”
“Yes. Extreme sensitivity to textures—
in food or fabric or really anything that has a texture.” Janie pressed on my hip to move me out of the way. She smiled at me as the fridge door opened, hiding us from my father’s view. “Sometime people just need some time to process the way things feel—to get used to it before making a judgment about it.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. I was still disoriented by my father’s words, but I pressed my lips together in order to communicate that I understood her heavy-handed attempt to speak of both Elizabeth’s aversion to mayo and my present discomfort.
She shrugged, wrinkled her nose. “I’ve tried pushing her into eating it, but it never works. So I’ve learned to be less pushy.”
“You’re still pushy,” I said, taking a swig of my beer. After what my father had just admitted, I needed something stronger.
“I’m not that pushy…am I?”
I let my eyes travel over her face, enjoyed the shape of her eyes when they were wide and curious, noted that she wasn’t wearing any lipstick. This meant I could kiss her later without any evidence.
“Yes. You are that pushy.”
Her mouth twisted to the side, and I knew she was biting the inside of her lip. She let the fridge close and held the mayo jar between both of her hands.
Then she blurted, “But you must like it if you want to marry me.”
“I do like it.” I stepped closer and gave her a quick kiss, momentarily forgetting where I was.
Or maybe I didn’t forget. Maybe I wanted just such a moment in my parents’ house with the woman I loved as if we belonged here, all of us together.
When I looked up, I caught my dad glancing at my mother. He was smiling.
* * *
My father didn’t bring up my brother again. He said almost nothing leading up to dinner, which was typical of how things were when I was growing up. He was never a talker. I’d learned from him early on that the less you spoke, the more people listened.
But quiet in this house was atypical. Between my brother Des, Shelly, and my mother, the house was never quiet.
Everything here was the same—the furniture and carpets, the pictures on the walls—and nothing felt right. I kept thinking about the last time I saw my parents. My mother couldn’t even look at me without crying.
My father’s apology felt too fast, too soon, and—as Janie would say—dissonant with reality. I trusted that he meant it, but I didn’t understand it. I’d lived with the guilt of my part in my brother’s death for ten years. Since walking into the house, I was choking on it, and the apology only compounded it.
The only thing that kept me from bolting out the door was Janie. I think her presence created a buffer for my parents and me. She was the necessary conduit through which we could co-exist. I saw her as a reminder in this house full of history and memories that things had changed and would continue to change. I was no longer a selfish, dumbass teenager. I was trying to be more.
Janie and I were setting the table. She followed me with the silverware as I set the plates and glasses on the table. I could tell she wanted me to talk about what I was thinking, but she didn’t push. She seemed to sense that I needed some time with my thoughts.
My mother brought out dinner. I realized once all the food was assembled that she’d made almost all of my favorites: sausage with gravy and mashed potatoes—otherwise known as bangers and mash—deviled eggs with ham and pimento, butternut squash, carrots with brown sugar, and homemade brown bread.
The smells made my mouth water and I was bombarded with memories. During grace, I could feel my mother’s eyes on me, so I glanced up.
She was a mixture of anxiety and hope. She made no attempt to hide her emotions.
I wanted to say, “I don’t merit your hope or your worry. I don’t deserve to be your son.”
Instead, after grace, I said, “This all looks really great. Thank you.”
Her smile was immediate and her response sounded a little breathless. “Well, it’s not every day we get to…I mean, we’re just so happy you’re here. Both of you.”
A brief moment of silence stretched, because I didn’t know what to say. Again, I wanted to ask her how she could be happy that I was there. I wanted to know how they could possibly think that I deserved an apology. Part of me wanted to shout at them, ask how they could stand the sight of me.
“I’m happy to be here,” Janie blurted. “I hope I set the silverware right. I forget if the spoon goes on the inside or the outside of the knife. Usually, at home, Quinn and I only use the utensils needed for any given meal, so, usually just a fork, unless we have steak or chicken, then we also have a knife. Of course, soup needs a spoon.” Janie scrunched her face, looking a little frustrated. “Sorry, that’s all very obvious.”
“Do you know what you’re serving for the wedding?” My mom asked Janie in a gentle voice.
Janie sighed. “I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m not suited to plan a wedding, not a real one. I think I told you the last time we spoke on the phone that I still haven’t found a location for the reception. Everything, all the other parts, really revolve around the reception location.”
“You don’t have a place reserved yet?” My mother exchanged a glance with my father as Janie cut into the sausage on her plate.
“No. Honestly, nothing has been accomplished. Planning a wedding is like organizing a beauty contest for cats. It feels like the ultimate effort in futility.”
Then, a second later, Janie mumbled mostly to herself, “I guess I shouldn’t say that, because there is a feline beauty contest in Bucharest, Romania every year.” She turned to my father and added, “Over two hundred cats participate, and the winner gets a little cat crown. Although, I have no idea how they secure it to the cat’s head….” She picked up her wine to take a sip.
I couldn’t help saying, “Maybe you should enter the kitten contest.”
Her eyes flew to mine, widened, and she covered her mouth before the wine she’d just sipped ended up on the tablecloth. I felt bad that I’d made her choke, but I was pleased to see the first signs of a blush spread up her neck.
“Do you have a kitten?” my mother asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“No,” Janie croaked.
Then, addressing my mother, but still holding my gaze, Janie quickly added, “I’m sorry, you were asking me about the wedding.”
“Oh, yes. Well…I know that this is your special day, and it’s about the two of you—the love you have for each other—but….” My mother hesitated, and her eyes caught mine. “But if you haven’t already found a place in Chicago and you don’t have your heart set on getting married there, I wonder if you would consider getting married in Boston.”
I masked my surprise by chasing a bite of mashed potatoes with a large gulp of beer.
“In Boston?” Janie asked; her tone made her surprise obvious.
“Yes. I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped. I was thinking about it after our last call. So I checked with the Irish Club and they’re holding the date for me, just in case. If you had the wedding here, we could have the entire family, and I could help with the planning.”
“It would mean a lot to your mother.” My father said this to me, though his eyes were on his plate.
“It’s not about me,” my mom said, a frown directed at my father. She shifted her attention back to Janie. “It’s about you and Quinn. It’s about starting your life together and celebrating with all your friends and family, who should be there to support you. And of course your family must be taken into consideration, so if Boston is too far then just forget I said anything.”
“To be honest, my family doesn’t need to be taken into consideration. I’m not saying this to be unfeeling; it’s really just the way things are.” Janie said this with no malice. In the past, she’d remarked that her family’s dysfunction was one of the laws of thermodynamics.
“What about your parents?”
“I’m sure my dad will come, if given enough notice and we reimburse his travel expenses, regar
dless of location. My younger sister is a sociopath, and I don’t know where she is. Quinn might know. But I don’t think we want her there…” Janie shook her head at the thought, and I suppressed a grimace at the mention of Jem.
Janie didn’t notice. “My older sister can’t come. The last I heard she skipped bail on a conviction for prostitution; she was running an escort service on the West Coast. Besides, June often turns what would typically be a normal event into an awkward and uncomfortable function. She came to my college graduation and tried to solicit my favorite professor. We don’t really keep in contact.”
“You and your sister, or you and your favorite professor?” My father asked.
“Neither. I’m afraid that bridge was burned when she cornered him in the men’s room.”
My mom stared at Janie for a long moment, absorbing this information, then asked, “What about your mother?”
“She’d dead.”
My mother’s eyes widened. I read both sympathy and shock on her expression. “I’m so sorry.”
Janie gave her a smile meant to ease her mind. “Thank you, but she wasn’t around very often when I was young. I have very few memories of her that don’t involve the botched preparation of vegan dinners.”
My mother’s gaze drifted to and searched mine. She appeared troubled. She also appeared determined.
“Speaking of dinners, these sausages are delicious.” Janie’s voice was a little higher pitched than usual, and I knew she was trying to change the subject. Discussions of her family—really, the aftermath of discussions and people’s reactions—always made her agitated.
“My partner gave them to me. You remember Tom?” My father asked me, spooning more mashed potatoes on his plate. “He goes moose hunting in Canada every year, always brings back sausages.”
“M-moose?” Janie asked.
Something about the tone of her voice caught my attention, and I glanced at her, did a double take as she’d suddenly become pale.
“Yep. Moose.”
