by Brea Brown
Heidi’s parents, Walter and Mary Jo, know how to do this, having married off two other daughters already. Not to mention, this isn’t Heidi’s first engagement party. Let’s not forget that. Yeah. This may be a tad more awkward than I even imagined. And I imagined “awkward” on the scale of chirping crickets, fake laughter, sweaty armpits, and the kind of drinking that usually ends badly.
As my Prius glides to a stop and I jam it into park next to the curb, a voice as real as the one on the radio says to me, It’s not too late to drive away. Nobody’s seen you yet. Pull a U-turn, and—
“Nate!”
My brother bursts through the front door and tiptoes through the yard ornaments and muddy snow to get to the salt-stained sidewalk. Goofy grin on his face, he peers through the passenger window and shouts, “C’mon! What’re you doing, sitting out here? We’re waiting for you!”
I alight from my car. “Hey,” I say, failing to achieve the level of “I’m-cool-with-this” enthusiasm I was aiming for but figuring he has enough energy for both of us.
“I’m so glad you came, man. I was starting to think you weren’t going to.” He meets me at the front of the car and grabs my arm, as if making sure I’m not going to bolt.
I run my hand through my hair. “Uh, yeah. I, uh, overslept.”
I was in bed, with the covers over my head, until less than an hour ago, so it’s almost the truth. Close enough for today, anyway.
He pretends to believe me. “Well, come on in. The party’s in full swing. Plus, the game’s about to start. We need to get all the crappy speeches out of the way so we can turn on the TV.”
My brain almost doesn’t know which part of his statement to hate the most. “The party’s in full swing” means several of our relatives are already loudly drunk; “the game’s about to start” refers to the Packers game I’m going to have to get drunk to pretend to care about; and “all the crappy speeches” may refer to something I’m supposed to take part in, but I don’t have anything prepared, and there’s no way I can wing something gracious and coherent.
I decide to focus on the most alarming thing: “Speeches? Am I expected to say something?”
While dragging me into the house, he laughs, but he doesn’t turn around, so he can’t see the growing terror on my face. “Good one, best man! No, this is my gig. You already had your chance with Heidi.”
I laugh nervously and try to stay conscious as I remember with relief that the bride- and groom-to-be are the ones who talk at the engagement party. “Yep. Blew it,” I mutter, barely getting the words out before he comes to a stop, pulls me forward to stand next to him, and puts his arm around my shoulders in a jovial squeeze.
“Hey, guys! Look who decided to finally show up!” he practically yells into the crowded open-plan living/dining/kitchen area of the Plotzler home.
The entire assemblage quiets. “My brother and best man!” Nick announces, squeezing me harder.
Mom tilts her head, squints her eyes, smiles, and mouths an, “Oh!” as in, “Look at my darling boys, such good friends!” when I know she’s really thinking, “Oh, poor Nate. As soon as things settle down, I need to corner him and interrogate him about his mental state.”
My other head-shrink parent is… strangely absent, I note, searching the room for Dad. Before I can get too far into my survey, though, Heidi almost tackles me with a hug of her own.
“Hey, Nate! Thanks so much for coming and for agreeing to be Nicky’s best man!”
Please, make it stop. The public Nate sandwich is unbearable. And it’s going on forever.
Finally, I wiggle my way loose and give what I hope is a bemused chuckle. “You may not be thanking me after you hear what I have in mind for the bachelor party.”
Heidi’s megawatt smile freezes, and her eyes deaden. Uh-oh. I know that look all too well.
“Just kidding,” I say unconvincingly, pulling her back toward me and giving her a fierce noogie.
She ducks from my reach, trying to smooth her long, blonde, shiny locks. “Nate!”
Nick shoots me a dirty look and lets go of my arm, raising his voice to be heard over the guests who have returned to their conversation and plates of food during our threesome. “Now that everyone’s here…”
He launches into a long, sappy speech, including the entire story of his and Heidi’s relationship, to-date, starting at The Cheesehead over a year ago (What the fuh…..?!) and ending at Lake Wenskaug, where he proposed to her during a romantic picnic. The women are lapping it up, complete with goo-goo eyes and “ooh”s and “aah”s. Heidi looks like she could probably have an orgasm right now in the middle of her parents’ living room.
The men, on the other hand, look longingly toward the door to the den, where they’ll be watching the football game after Nick shuts up. Or they focus on the food on their plates. Or employ their best poker faces to hide their “Can-you-effing-believe-this-guy?” reactions to Nick’s smooth delivery. I hope my poker face is working better than Uncle Mort’s. I also hope it’s better than the face I used when I lost all that money to Uncle Mort in an actual poker match at my parents’ Fourth of July barbecue.
Finally, Nick stops talking, and he and Heidi kiss like they’re alone in the room. After about ten seconds, my psychological discomfort manifests itself into physical fidgeting. I avert my eyes and scratch my ear, willing the two lovebirds to stop making out. Much longer, and I’m not going to be able to silence the annoying voice in my head that wants me to acknowledge that I know exactly what it’s like to kiss those lips (Heidi’s, not Nick’s). And other things.
“Oh, shit, I need a beer,” I hiss, wishing I hadn’t said it out loud but figuring the resultant end to the makeout session is worth it.
While I’m cracking open a beer and chugging it with my back turned to the rest of the guests (as if that means they can’t see me), Heidi begins her speech. I’m congratulating myself on how well I’m not listening to what she has to say when some of her words filter through.
“…and I thought I’d never find a man who would measure up to the example of husband and father my dad has always been, until Nicky.”
My fist tightens around the empty beer can, creating a loud, metallic crunch. I don’t have to turn around to know everyone’s staring at me.
Heidi giggles. “Oops. No offense, Nate.”
Everyone else nervously titters, too.
I take a deep breath through my nostrils and face the audience. “Hey, none taken. I think it sort of went without saying, but… Please. Go on.”
To everyone’s chagrin, she does go on. And on. And on. And on. Finally, after several choke-ups and restarts, she wraps it up, and we endure a slightly shorter, more chaste kiss to underscore her love for my brother.
“Alright, then. Go, Pack, Go!” Uncle Mort says, making a beeline for the den. Several people, including Heidi’s siblings, Hans, Greta, and Sonya, follow.
I dig in the ice-filled sink for another beer.
Mom sidles up to me. “I’m proud of you,” she says in greeting.
“You have such low standards.” After three long gulps from my drink, I rest, stifling a carbonated burp behind my fist.
She rubs my upper arm. “I know this isn’t easy—”
“It’s not about ‘easy’ or ‘hard.’ It’s uncomfortable. That’s all. Everyone’s staring at me, expecting me to… I don’t know. Break down sobbing? Punch Nick in the throat? Beg Heidi to take me back? What are they expecting?”
“I think they want you to give them a sign that you’re okay, that you’re happy.”
I snort. “I’d be a lot happier if I weren’t under the microscope. Oh, and if people wouldn’t tiptoe around me. Or treat me like the second-place finisher in an arm wrestling competition. It’s been three years. I’m okay. Really.”
I feel her staring at my profile, so I force myself to turn my head and look down into her eyes, eyes that are so much like mine, it’s almost creepy. Holding her gaze, I say firmly, as if saying it to b
oth of us, “I’m okay. It’s… it’s fresh, alright? He just told me Friday night. I’ve hardly had time to process the news, you know?”
“I do know.”
“Yeah. Everyone knows. Everyone’s known for a while, obviously. This is not an impromptu party.” I wave my hand at the bedecked room.
I shut up and stop gesturing when two of Heidi’s siblings come closer to graze at the nearby buffet. We smile painfully at each other and make stupid small talk.
“Still a nurse, Nate?”
“Yep. Still nosy and self-righteous, Greta?”
Fine… I don’t say that, but I want to.
I actually say, “Yep. Nothing’s changed for me. Well… for the most part.”
Heidi’s big brother, Hans, pops a cheese cube in his mouth and says while chewing, “I see you still don’t watch football.”
“And I see you’re still thirty pounds overweight, carrying that ‘sympathy weight’ from your wife’s last pregnancy, four years ago.”
Yeah, I don’t say that either.
Admitting to not liking football in this town—especially if you also possess male genitalia—is tantamount to treason and blasphemy, combined. And it’s the favorite pastime of the other 99.5% of people in this town to give people like me shit for not liking football. Like it’s the worst thing possible, ranking right up there with pedophilia and being a Vikings fan. I’m surprised I haven’t been strung up, or worse… evicted from the city.
“Right-o. Still not my thing. I do enjoy fútbol, though.”
This prompts a disgusted snort from Hans. “Soccer. A bunch of pansies, compared to American football players.”
I’d like to see him sprint up and down a soccer pitch for nearly ninety minutes straight and see if he still thinks soccer players are pansies, but I merely concede, “If you say so,” since it’s not worth my breath to argue with him.
“Good seeing you again,” Greta and Hans say at nearly the same time, making us all chuckle woodenly before they head back to the den.
As soon as they leave, I return to my conversation with Mom. “Don’t worry about me, alright? I’m fine. Do I wish you hadn’t made Nick ask me to be his best man?” She opens her mouth to protest, but I cut her off, laughing. “Trust me, I know that was your doing. I’m sure he has six or seven golfing buddies he’d rather have asked.”
“He only has one brother.”
“And I bet he’s thankful for that most days.”
“You joke, but he loves you. This has been stressful for him. You know, he almost broke up with Heidi before it got too serious, because he was so worried about you. I convinced him you’d be fine, that you only wanted him—and Heidi—to be happy.” She hugs my arm. “Don’t prove me wrong.”
Pulling my third beer from the ice, I say, “I am fine,” punctuating my statement with the hiss and pop of the can’s pull tab. “I’d be better if they’d refrain from playing tonsil hockey in front of everyone, but… I guess you can’t have everything.”
She laughs. “Gosh, that went on forever! I almost reminded them their parents were in the room, but I didn’t want to sound like a fuddy-duddy.”
“Speaking of parents, plural, where’s Dad?” I ask, hoping to permanently change the subject.
“Oh, he’s around somewhere. Watching the game, most likely.”
I’m not all that concerned or interested in his whereabouts for his sake. I’m more curious as it relates to me. I’d prefer not to be cornered for a man-to-man today. I know he’s only trying to help, but sometimes his heavy-handed pep talks do the opposite of what he’s intending, and they depress the crap out of me.
With a parting pat on my bicep, Mom says, “Slow down on those beers, huh? Load up a plate and go watch the game.” She moves off, flagging down Heidi’s mom to compliment her on the food and the decorations.
I look down into the nearly empty can in my grip and sigh. She’s right; nothing good will come from getting drunk at this thing. At the very least, I’ll have to get someone to drive me home. But I’ll need to keep drinking to watch the game. It’s a real conundrum.
Not hungry—at all—I decide to seek out some different company, some people with whom I’m more comfortable. Since I’ll be forever relegated to the kids’ table at these joint family things, I might as well get chummy with my peers.
*****
When I round the bottom of the basement stairs, I see ten kids, aged nine and younger, clustered around a board game on the floor. It almost physically hurts to look at some of them, especially Heidi’s sister Sonya’s three blond boys, because they look so similar to the mental image I once had of the kids in my fantasy life with Heidi.
Most of her nieces and nephews were babies when she and I broke up, so they don’t remember me, but the oldest ones do. I stitched Kingsley’s eyebrow when he split it open on the corner of a coffee table one Christmas. He’s the first one to acknowledge my presence now.
“Hey, Uncle Nate!” The nine-year-old, unaware the title he’s given me no longer fits, scrambles to his feet and points to the board on the floor. “We’re gonna talk to dead people with the Ouija Board.”
His announcement shakes loose my irrational and self-indulgent melancholy, and I have to stifle a laugh. “Cool. Mind if I play?”
Seven-year-old Remus scoots so I can squeeze between him and his four-year-old brother, Percy. I place my hand on the pointer, or planchette, and wiggle my eyebrows across the board at Hermione. The eight-year-old giggles.
“We’re gonna ask to talk to our Grandma June. She died,” Hermione informs me.
“I heard about that,” I say seriously, “and it made me sad. I liked Grandma June.”
June, who’s been dead for a couple of years now, was Heidi’s grandma and the kids’ great-grandmother. She and I kept in touch after the break-up, and she once confided in me that she thought I was probably better off without Heidi.
Oh, Grandma June… I wish you were here today.
In addition to Greta’s gang, Hans’ three daughters—Amber (eight), Ruby (six), and Violet (four)—and Sonya’s three—Jude (six), Justin (five), and Jeremiah (three)—surround the old Parker Brothers game board. Since Kingsley’s the oldest, he takes charge of asking the questions of dearly departed Grandma. Hermione has a pencil and a pad of paper, which she says she’ll use to write down the letters for the longer answers.
“Grandma June, are you in Heaven?” Kingsley intones earnestly.
Nothing happens. Bless their hearts, none of them has figured out that someone has to move the planchette. I gladly take up that responsibility and move it to Yes.
The kids squeal, and I struggle to keep a straight face.
“Do you like it in Heaven?”
I slowly and smoothly nudge the pointer around the board, resting briefly on each of the letters: F-O-O-D-I-S-G-O-O-D.
When Hermione reads the words in their entirety, she glances at me, as if to verify that’s what Grandma June meant.
I shrug and pull the corners of my mouth down in a contemplative frown. “I hear the food’s excellent in Heaven, so that makes sense,” I state.
She nods earnestly.
Next question: “Are you here in this room with us?”
Uhhhh…
Yes.
More squeals.
“What do you want us to know?”
The felt pads on the legs of the pointer squeak against the laminated game board. E-A-T Y-O-U-R V-E-G-E-T-A-B-L-E-S.
“Eat your vegetables?” Remus questions, his freckled nose scrunched up. “Grandma June’s upsessed with eating.”
I hang my head and fake-cough to hide my laughter.
Amber pipes up, “Let me ask the questions. You ask dumb ones, Kingsley.”
Seemingly unoffended, Kingsley yields to his peer.
“Ahem. Grandma June. Who do you think is more handsomer, Nick or Nate?” she asks, all business-like. I can tell by the giggles from the girls that this is not a new topic.
“Now, g
uys…” I say. “Grandma June doesn’t—”
I jerk the planchette into motion, making a beeline for the “N” on the board. Widening my eyes at the kids, I say, “The next letter will give us our answer…” pretending to anxiously wonder. Our hands take the quick jump from the lower row of letters to the “A” directly above the “N.”
I gasp. “Grandma June!” I fan my face with my free hand. “Thanks, but… we all know Nick is the handsome one.”
“Yeah!” Amber agrees a little too quickly.
“Nuh-uh!” say Hermione and Ruby in unison.
The boys all make gagging noises.
“Who cares?” yells Jeremiah.
“You were pushing the thingy!” Amber accuses her Team Nate cousins.
“Was not!” Hermione insists, shoving the planchette for real. “If I was pushing it, it would move like that. Grandma June was moving it!”
“Ladies, ladies…” I coax. “Settle down. It’s just a game. For fun.”
“But Uncle Nate, they’re cheating!” Amber cries.
“Are not!” Hermione insists. “And anyway, stop calling him ‘Uncle Nate.’”
“What else are we s’posed to call him?” Kingsley asks, his forehead wrinkled.
All eyes lock on me, and while I try to figure out what, exactly, I am to them now (nothing, I finally come to the depressing conclusion), Hermione butts back in with, “I don’t know, but I heard Mom say to Dad that we have to walk on our tippy-toes around you. Why? Do you like to pretend you’re a ballerina? I like to pretend that sometimes.”
“Me, too!” Ruby pipes up.
“Nobody has to tiptoe around me,” I assure them all.
“My daddy said Nick was the better choice, and my daddy’s always right,” Amber boasts.
“Tell that to his cholesterol levels,” I mutter before smiling brightly and sing-songing, “Let’s talk about something happier, like… super-viruses.”
“Wait!” Kingsley shouts. “What do we call you? I always call you Uncle Nate, but now I’m not allowed?”
