by Beth Labonte
John looks genuinely impressed, and Dad and I both smile gratefully at Graham. I reach over and squeeze his hand. I can do this.
6
I can’t do this.
I’m sorry, but Francine and Janice are dressed like cheerleaders.
Granted, it’s better than naughty police officers or, God forbid, schoolgirls, but still. They’re wearing cowboy boots and mini skirts and more makeup than the cast of Moulin Rouge. They came to dinner straight from baton twirler practice, and in extreme disrespect to Mom, I’ve noticed Dad’s eyes have been bugging out of his head. Even worse, every time Graham looks in her direction, Francine hikes her skirt up an extra couple of inches. He finds it all very amusing, but I’m extremely close to reminding her that it was well over forty years ago when she had her last chance with somebody like Graham.
I mean, I would say all that if only they weren’t wielding batons.
“And this is what we call the helicopter!” shrieks Francine, twirling the baton up over her head and spinning around on one foot.
“I’ve been working on the splits,” says Janice. “Watch this, Graham. And a one, and a two –”
“Your table is ready, ladies,” interrupts the hostess.
Oh, thank God. Janice and Francine arrived to dinner too late to squeeze in with our already tight table for eight. So instead, they’ve been hanging around next to our table putting on their indecent little revue, and knocking into the waiters. I relax a bit as I watch the back of their heads retreat toward the far side of the restaurant.
“So,” says Babette, taking a large gulp of wine, “what were we talking about before we were, um, interrupted?”
“The wedding,” says Mom. “What else?”
“Oh, that’s right,” says Babette. “Summer, I’m dying to see your dress. You’re trying it on for me first thing tomorrow morning. And then we have a meeting with Nadine, now that the mother of the bride is finally here.”
“Sounds great,” I lie.
Nadine is the wedding planner provided by The Lakeview, and also a long-time resident of Sunset Havens. Graham, naturally, has known her for years. In fact, he was once her date to something called the Twilight Cotillion—not to be confused with the Senior Prom, to which he was Francine’s date. Bizarre does not even begin to describe this place. Also, I might be marrying Deuce Bigelow.
Anyway, Nadine is about eighty years old, and I’m fairly certain they dug her up special for the winner of the free wedding package. Like, literally dug her up. The first time we met, she kept saying something about Graham and I going into a room to consummate the marriage during the reception. I pressed the issue, only to learn that there’s this ancient tradition where the bride and groom actually go off to some room and do it, while the rest of the wedding guests stand around drinking wine and listening to Michael Bublé. She said that she just naturally assumed we would be following tradition.
I told her to please never naturally assume anything again for the rest of her natural life. I also told her to please rip any pages out of her binder that concern trading me to Graham in exchange for livestock—and, I kid you not, she jotted down a note. Upon returning home, I performed a Google search in which I found out that not only was she never the high-end New York City wedding planner that she claimed to be, but that she used to be employed by a place called Bonita’s Bridal Bonanza outside of Utica.
Of course, four weeks before my wedding was a tad too late to remedy the situation, so here we are.
I turn to Mom. “Speaking of my dress, where is it? I didn’t see you guys carry it in when you got here.”
“It’s in The Duffle,” says Mom.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s in The Duffle.”
My heart stops.
“What do you mean it’s in The Duffle?”
As if anybody could possibly forget, The Duffle is the largest duffle bag ever created. It is six-feet long by three-feet wide, and was most likely manufactured for use by the mafia. Mom and Dad like to stuff it full of socks and underwear whenever they travel, and right now they are informing me that it also contains my wedding dress. My fingernails dig into Graham’s thigh underneath the table.
“Why is it in The Duffle?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even. Trying to remain calm. “It should be on a hanger in a garment bag, not rolling around with your Fruit of the Looms!” Graham pries my nails out of his leg and gives my hand a squeeze.
Mom gives me the look of death for a few seconds, before her face relaxes into a laugh.
“Just kidding.”
“What?”
“I’m kidding,” she says. “You should have seen your face. Do you really think I would throw your wedding dress into a giant duffle bag? Do you hear her, Richard? Oy, please!”
Mom’s really laughing it up now, and Graham reaches across the table to give her a high five.
“Nice one, Joan,” he says.
I give Graham a dirty look. Nice one, sure. I suppose it was a bit funny. But still, I never did see anybody carry my dress into the house. If it’s not in The Duffle, it might very well be rolled up inside Dad’s fanny pack.
“So, Babette,” says Mom. “You and John are really enjoying all of this?” Mom waves her hand around, indicating the surrounding five square miles of Sunset Havens.
“Are you kidding?” asks Babette. “It’s a dream come true! It’s like we’re on a vacation that never ends.”
“Well, one day it’ll end,” mumbles Eric.
I laugh.
“Oh, stop,” says Mom. “John and Babette are so young. They could live here for thirty more years.”
“Amen,” says John, holding his glass into the air. I can almost see tears in his eyes at the thought of thirty more years in this place.
“You and Richard should consider moving down,” says Babette. “Especially with all the kids married off. What’s left for you up north?”
“Snow,” says Dad, staring morosely into his Manhattan.
“Don’t miss that,” says John.
“Richard, stop!” says Mom. “Just because the kids are married, doesn’t mean they don’t need us around anymore! It’s lonely enough now that Summer’s moved out of the house, I can’t even imagine living thousands of miles away.”
I look at Mom in surprise. Did she just say that it’s been lonely since I moved out? I don’t know why I’m so thrown by the idea, but I am. I always knew she’d be freaking out and worrying about me when the time came—but missing me? It hadn’t even crossed my mind. I frown and take a sip of my drink.
“It was hard to downsize and move away from our Graham,” agrees Babette. “But I tell you, it was worth it. We fly back every so often for visits, and Graham spends an awful lot of time visiting down here. I think it’s the perfect balance.”
“What about when you have grandchildren?” asks Mom. “Won’t you want to see them?”
“Of course,” says John. “But at our age, it’s okay to be a little selfish. We’ve already raised our families. Summer and Graham are welcome to bring the kiddos down for a visit any time they want.”
“And who knows,” says Babette. “Maybe they’ll decide to move to Florida.” She gives me a wink.
Fat chance, Babette.
“I don’t know,” says Mom. “I plan to be very involved with my grandchildren.”
It’s funny how grandchildren are just assumed to be happening. I mean, I would love to have kids, but I don’t think I’ve ever said as much to my mother. Also, what’s this about being very involved? I take another sip of my drink as I picture two small children—one with my face, one with Graham’s—being forced into sweaters and rubber overshoes. Maybe we should move to Florida.
“Who’s to say they’re even going to have children?” says Babette.
At that, Mom’s face totally caves in.
“Of course we’re going to have children!” I say, quickly. I probably should have kept my mouth shut, but Mom looked completely crushed. I had to
say something.
Her face floods with relief. “Oh, thank God!” She raises both of her hands skyward, and—since we’re eating dinner in a western style saloon—in the direction of a large, mounted buffalo head.
“You just shouldn’t, you know, plan your whole retirement around Graham and I having kids,” I say. “John’s right, you guys should enjoy yourselves.”
“We do plenty of things to enjoy ourselves,” says Mom, a bit defensively. “Just this summer we bought a bicycle built for two.”
“That sounds fun,” says Babette. “That reminds me of the time John and I had a few too many cocktails at Allendale—that’s our favorite of the country clubs. There are nine of them here, you know—”
“Ten,” interrupts John.
“Sorry, ten country clubs. Anyway, when we came out after dinner, neither one of us could remember where we had parked the golf cart. So, we started walking, but then we saw this bicycle just sitting there. The next thing I know, John is pedaling and I’m riding on the handlebars!”
Eric chokes on his drink. “You guys stole a bike?”
“You rode on the handlebars?” asks Graham.
“We didn’t steal it, we borrowed it. We returned it the next day.” Babette looks lovingly at John. “We would never have done anything like that back in Massachusetts. But here, life just doesn’t seem quite so serious.”
No, life certainly doesn’t seem very serious here. It almost seems like a bunch of college kids were suddenly told that there is no life after college, so they’d better just live it up now.
Dad is staring enviously at John and Babette, probably wondering why he and Mom have never done anything so crazy as stealing a bicycle. Mom is staring at them also, but with a look of absolute horror. I laugh as I picture Mom attempting to ride on a set of handlebars. I honestly don’t even know how Babette managed it, especially with the two of them smashed out of their minds.
“To tell you the truth,” says Babette, “riding that bicycle wasn’t even the most climactic moment of the night.” She gives John a wink.
“Oh, God,” says Graham, dropping his fork. He may have missed out on the nudity conversation a few hours ago, but I’m willing to consider us even.
“Look,” I say, never before so thrilled to see a tray of baked haddock bobbing its way through a crowd. “The food’s here.”
7
“Which of you assholes are ready to party?!”
I’m jolted out of my steak tips by an elderly man standing in front of our table and screaming. He’s tall and tanned—what else is new?—and wearing a light blue polo shirt with the collar popped. His snow white hair is neatly combed, and he has a very expensive looking gold watch on his wrist. If he hadn’t just swung down from the rafters like the Phantom of the Opera, and asked which one of us assholes was ready to party, I may have mistaken him for a classy guy.
“Roger!” says John, standing up and walking over to the deranged lunatic. “Great to see you!”
Is it, really? I put down my fork. Mom and Dad shoot each other nervous looks across their fish dinners.
“Everybody, this is Roger,” says John. “He’s a good golf buddy of mine. Summer, I don’t think you two have met. Rog has been on vacation for the last few weeks.”
That’s the funny thing about Sunset Havens. The people that live here actually think that they need to take vacations from their permanent vacation.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, standing up and leaning across the table to shake his hand. Roger whistles.
“Those are some juicy lookin’ tips,” he says. That’s when I notice that his eyes aren’t anywhere near my dinner plate. I clutch the neckline of my shirt tightly against my chest and sit back down.
“Well, well, well,” he continues, walking over and standing behind Mom. “Who do we have here?”
“That’s Summer’s mother,” says Babette. “Joan Hartwell.”
If Roger were a cartoon character, his eyes would have turned into two red hearts, shooting from his head on springs.
“And her husband, Richard,” she adds, quickly.
Dad sticks his hand out, but Roger ignores him. Instead, he kneels down next to Mom, his face creepily close to hers.
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” he asks. “Thou art more lovely and more temperate.”
“Oh,” says Mom, looking at him out of the corner of her bifocals. “That’s lovely.”
I raise my eyebrows. I suppose she might just be paying Dad back for the way he was watching Francine and Janice twirl their batons earlier, but still. Gross.
Roger reaches out and takes Mom’s hand. Then he kisses it. Wow. That’s a bit much. I look around the table to gauge everybody else’s reaction. Everybody has pretty much frozen with their forks halfway in their mouths.
“Thou’s skin art the color of freshly squeezed milk,” says Roger, doing a little Shakespearean ad-lib in regard to Mom’s pasty New England flesh.
Eric lets out a loud snorting sound, which sets Graham and I off giggling as well.
“My,” says Mom, blushing and looking down at Roger’s completely opposite-colored skin. He looks like he just came back from a vacation on the sun. “Thank you. And yours is the color of...of...”
Please, Mom. Please don’t say anything racist.
“Of an overcooked hot dog,” she finishes.
Okay, weird. But not racist. Mom is making progress in her old age.
“So, who are you here with tonight, Roger?” asks Babette, which I believe is code for Please go back to your own table.
“Barbara,” he says, turning and pointing to the poor woman sitting alone at a table across the room. “Second date. You know what that means.” He gives us a wink and flicks his popped blue collar, which is code for I’m going to do something later that you will never be able to erase from your imagination.
On that note, Roger heads back to Barbara, and we all return to eating in awkward silence. I glance at Mom a few times, noticing that her skin, once the color of freshly squeezed milk, is now a tad closer to the color of overcooked hot dog. I can’t believe she enjoyed that attention. Normally, Roger would have elicited nothing but an eye roll and an Oy, please. Mom’s been at Sunset Havens for less than four hours and she’s already getting hit on and enjoying it. What’s going on? This does not bode well for the rest of the week.
By the time we finish dinner, the DJ has started his set, and people are making their way onto the dance floor for line dancing. Eric puts down his fork and proudly announces that he’s been watching instructional videos on YouTube.
“He really has,” says Tanya. “Every night. We’ve had to move furniture out of the living room and everything.”
“You failed to tell me this,” says Graham, his eyes lighting up.
“I wanted it to be a surprise,” says Eric, holding his hand out as the music segues into “The Electric Slide.” Graham grabs his hand and they twirl each other out onto the dance floor. I roll my eyes. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the Hartwell that Graham should be marrying.
“Come on, girls!” says Babette, motioning to me, Tanya, and to my horror, Mom. “If you visit The Havens, you have to line dance!”
“Oh, I think I’ll just watch,” says Mom. “I’m not finished eating yet.” She starts nervously shoveling cold mashed potatoes into her mouth. Poor Mom.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know ‘The Electric Slide’?” asks Babette.
Mom shrugs.
Babette’s face changes into the same expression John’s had when Dad said he didn’t play golf. The same kind of expression I make when somebody tells me that they don’t like to read—utter disbelieve, shock, and a pinch of revulsion. If I said that golf is serious business down here at Sunset Havens, then line dancing is a very close second.
Before I can intervene, Babette’s physically dragged Mom out of her chair and off to a vacant corner of the dance floor where she begins instructing her on the proper steps. I glance at Dad and Joh
n. John’s produced a golf course map from his pocket and has it spread out across the table. Dad’s staring at it with a glazed look on his face. Tanya and I look at each other, shrug, and then head onto the dance floor.
Graham and Eric have been wedged apart by a woman that I recognize as Gil’s girlfriend of the hour, Lorraine. She’s wearing a pair of leopard print pants and seems about two drinks shy of throwing a lampshade on her head. They’re flanked on either end by Francine and Janice. Only one of Francine’s hands is visible. I don’t feel the slightest bit of remorse as I shove her further down the line and squeeze in beside Graham.
“Hey,” I say, smiling up at him.
“You made it,” says Graham. He gives me a quick goose on the rear.
“There are so many evils in this place, the dance floor was actually the lesser of them all.”
“I’m flattered. I can’t believe you’re dancing in front of your parents, by the way. Times have changed.”
I laugh, thinking back to the time Graham made me look like a manic flamenco dancer in front of Mom and Dad on the cruise ship.
“I don’t think either of them are watching me right now,” I say. I glance around and see Dad still staring down at the golf map, and Mom—
Uh oh.
As we do a quarter turn to the right, I see that Babette has ended the lesson and pulled Mom onto the dance floor. I also see that Roger is back, circling Mom like a shark. He comes right up behind her and puts his hands on her hips, violating the first rule of line dancing which is to remain in a line. I look over at Dad again. Thankfully, he’s still staring blankly down at John’s golf map.
The Mom I used to know would have looked at Roger over her shoulder, scrunched up her face as if she were performing the first incision of an alien autopsy, and told him to get lost. But this new, Sunset Havens Mom, looks like she’s enjoying herself. They shimmy to the right. They take the requisite steps backward, and then they do three simultaneous lean-backs, snaps, and forward dips.
