“Hey, Pooh,” I say, kissing Debbie’s cheek. She’s immaculate as usual, dressed for dinner in a short black skirt and powder blue sweater, her hair pinned up off her face. She is severely beautiful, like a polished sculpture, and I wish she would wear her hair down sometimes and look a little less tucked in, a little less like someone who has forgotten to exhale, someone inches away from taking offense at something.
“You came,” she says.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you hate me?”
“‘Hate’ is such a strong word.”
She smirks. “Go to hell.”
“Language, Deborah,” my mother says sternly. “You’re getting married, for heaven’s sake. Try to at least sound like a lady.”
“You look skinny,” I say. Debbie’s always been an aspiring anorexic, cheered on enthusiastically by our mother.
“I have to fit into that gown.”
“She looks perfect!” my mother snaps at me. “For heaven’s sake, Portia, garnish the brisket, don’t bury it alive.” She turns to me. “So how are you, Douglas?”
“Same old same old.”
“I was worried when I couldn’t reach you.”
“I’m fine.”
She gives me her best you-can’t-fool-me look over the rim of her wineglass. Whenever I picture my mother it’s always this image, large knowing eyes floating disembodied over the rim of a wineglass. “Did you bring Russell?”
“He’s outside, playing ball with Dad.” She nods and looks away. “How is Dad?” I say.
Her expression darkens and she waves her hand. “Every day’s an adventure. He’s discovered sex again.”
“Mom!”
“He wants it all the time now. It’s a wonder I can even walk.”
“Jesus Christ!” Debbie says.
“Language,” my mother says absently, snapping her fingers twice at her. “The other day, your father chased me around the house for a half hour before Rudy could calm him down.”
“How’s Rudy working out?” I say.
“I give it another two weeks.” She pours herself some more wine, even though her glass is still half full. She sighs, a deep, dramatic, Oscar-clip sigh. “I love the man, I really do. But he’s going to kill me.”
“Speaking of which,” Debbie says, turning to me. “I’ve been thinking. How would you feel about giving me away?”
“We tried for years, Pooh. No one wanted you.”
“Be serious,” she says.
“Dad should do it.”
“Dad’s insane, or maybe you haven’t noticed.”
“He’s just occasionally befuddled. He’ll be fine.”
“I can’t take that chance.”
“It is what it is, Deb. If he’s a little bit off, people will understand.”
“This from the man who hasn’t left his house in a year,” Debbie says, shaking her head in disgust.
“What’s your point, Debbie?”
“Nothing, Doug. I have no point.”
My mother puts down her wineglass, nervously anticipating an explosion, but Claire walks in just in time. “Hey, Ma,” she says, kissing her cheek and stealing the wineglass in the same motion.
“Where’s Stephen?” my mother says.
“He had to go out of town on business.”
“That’s a shame.”
“He’ll get over it.” Claire takes a long swallow of wine, which she shouldn’t do in her condition, so I give her a look to remind her, and she raises her eyebrows defiantly to tell me to back off. “Hey, Pooh,” she says.
“I wish you both would stop calling me that,” Debbie says softly.
“Yeah,” Claire says, nodding her head sympathetically. “That’s probably not going to happen. Am I right, Doug?”
“It’s funny, because I’d just been thinking that it was time to stop calling you that, but then you made that bitchy comment about me not leaving the house … ”
“So it’s unanimous,” Claire says brightly. “How’s the wedding shaping up?”
“She doesn’t want Dad to give her away.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“Claire!” my mother says, snapping her fingers at her. She can swear like a sailor when the moment demands it, but she hates hearing her children swear because it makes her feel old.
“Jesus!” Debbie says. “Have you met Dad? He’s the one running around half naked in the front yard.”
“He’s your father.”
“Oh, fuck off, Claire!”
If my mother snaps any faster, her fingers will start a fire.
My sisters and I start going at it, at high speed and in three-part harmony, and when my mother’s snaps have fallen hopelessly behind, she silences us by slamming her fist down on the counter hard enough to rattle the hanging light fixtures. “You were an ugly baby, Deborah,” she says.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s true,” my mother says, leaning back and closing her eyes. “You looked like a troll. A swarthy little troll. I was embarrassed to take you out with me. But your father, he loved you. He thought you were the most beautiful thing on God’s green earth. He couldn’t wait for you to wake up so he could pull you out of your crib and sing to you. He showed you off to everyone like you were the crown jewels. It didn’t matter what you looked like. You were his beautiful little baby.”
We all look at my mother. She’s never told us this before, but it’s very possible, likely even, that she’s making it up on the spot. She’s never been above some creative ad-libbing if it will enhance her performance. She opens her eyes and fixes Debbie with a steely glare. “He may be impaired, but he’s still the same man who looked at that ugly child and saw his beautiful daughter, and he will be the one to give you away.”
Debbie looks at her, flushed with exasperation. “You’re all delusional,” she says.
“We’re your family, sweetheart. Deal with it.”
“This isn’t a family, it’s a freak show!”
“Come on, Pooh,” I say softly. “It’s Dad. What’s the worst that can happen?”
And that’s when the baseball comes crashing through the kitchen window. Portia shrieks and throws herself to the ground; Claire drops her wineglass, which shatters on the imported tiles of the kitchen floor as the window erupts into a spray of glass over the food on the counter. Outside, Rudy can be heard shrieking, hysterically, and moments later, my father’s sweating face appears at the broken window. “Everyone okay in there?” he says, panting lightly.
“Fine, Dad,” Claire says, shaken.
Portia gets back to her feet, quietly invoking the Virgin Mary in Spanish as she brushes herself off.
Russ appears in the window next to my father, looking nervous and guilty. “Fuck,” he says.
My father’s eyes come to rest on the baseball, nesting perfectly in the center of the wild rice salad, and then he looks up at me. “Little help, Doug?”
I retrieve the ball from the salad, flick off a few clinging bits of rice, and toss it through the window frame. He catches it in the mitt and smiles at me. “The boy can hit,” he says delightedly, and then disappears back into the yard.
It seems to me that in a normal family, this would be the part where the bride bursts into tears over the ruined celebration, and the mother of the bride swoops in to comfort her and reassure her that everything will be okay. But I could be wrong. I don’t know very much about normal families. I just extrapolate from what I’ve seen on television.
“God almighty,” my mother says, exhaling loudly and taking a swig of wine right from the bottle. “That man won’t rest until he kills me.” Then she reaches into the oversized designer purse perched on the stool beside her and ransacks it until her fist finally emerges clutching her trusty bottle of Vil Pills. “Forget it,” she says to Portia, who is examining the spread to see what can be salvaged. “Throw it all out.” She pops a yellow pill and washes it down with another swig from the bottle. “We are not serving food with glass
shards in it. This isn’t prison.”
Debbie, meanwhile, is suddenly all business. She whips out her cell phone like a six-shooter and turns her back on us. “Mike, hey, it’s me … no, just a typical day at the asylum. Listen, change of plans. My dad kind of trashed the dinner … Yeah. No, he was playing baseball, don’t ask … Yeah. You may want to prepare them for that … Mike, now would be the absolute perfect time for you to not bring that up, okay? We’re going to improvise. Just get us reservations at the Surf Club. Yeah. Seven-thirty. Call me once you have it confirmed … Okay … Me too. I’ll be waiting for your call.”
She snaps her cell phone shut with authority and turns back to face us. “Problem solved,” she says with a strained, self-satisfied smile.
“And that’s why they pay you the big bucks,” Claire says.
“I got food poisoning the last time I ate at the Surf Club,” my mother says.
“Mom,” Debbie says, her voice low and menacing, like a distant thunderhead.
My mother shrugs. “I’m just saying. I didn’t leave the bathroom all night. It was coming out of me like Niagara Falls from both ends.”
“Jesus Christ, Mom!” I say.
“Sometimes at the same time,” she says, lost in her reverie.
“We should have just eloped,” Debbie says miserably, collapsing into a chair. “We should have just gone to Vegas and been married by an Elvis.”
“Don’t worry, Pooh,” I say. “At this rate, everyone will have all the weird out of their system by your wedding day.”
Debbie gives me a dark look. “Everyone,” she says, “is just warming up.”
Right then, I almost feel bad for her. But then I revert back to thinking that it serves her right for scoping men at my shiva, and I can feel the festering resentment grab hold of me once more. “I’ll go help Dad get ready,” I say, suddenly needing to be away from my little sister.
“I’ll help you help him,” Claire says, pinching Debbie’s cheek on the way out. “Is it any wonder we’re so fucked up?” she mutters under her breath to me.
“Don’t anyone order the fish,” my mother calls after us. “Word to the wise.”
13
THE CRYSTAL CHANDELIER THAT HANGS IN THE cavernous dining room at the Surf Club is dimmed for ambience, emitting just enough wattage to make the diamond wedding bands and gold watches of the patrons twinkle like stars in the evening sky. The faces of the diners are bathed in the soft amber glow of their table candles, making everyone look like they have great tans, and the low din of hushed conversations is accompanied by the musical clinking of silverware on bone china, and a jazz combo playing off to one side. We’re twenty minutes late for our reservation, because Dad got absorbed in a Seinfeld rerun while he was getting dressed, and could not be convinced to put his shoes on until it was over.
Mr. and Mrs. Sandleman, Mike’s parents, who have driven in from West Hartford for the occasion, are waiting with him at the bar, and everyone stands around awkwardly while Debbie introduces Russ and me to them. I’m the only one in the family they haven’t met, since I missed the engagement party a few months back, having had a prior commitment to get drunk and seethe with resentment that night. “This is my older brother, Doug,” Debbie says. “You know, the one whose wife died in a plane crash and who’s now a hopeless mess who can’t stop feeling sorry for himself long enough to pull his shit together?”
Okay, she doesn’t say it exactly like that, but that’s clearly what she’s implying.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Mr. Sandleman says. His hand is damp and cold from holding his drinking glass. He is short and squat, with thick glasses and a bushy mustache that make him look like a political cartoon.
Mrs. Sandleman gives me a hug. She is soft and fleshy and smells like air freshener. “We read your column online every month,” she says. “It’s really very moving.”
“Well written,” Mr. Sandleman declares. At least, I assume he does. You can’t actually see his lips move behind his mustache.
“Nice to meet you both,” I say, unable to look directly at them because of the pity oozing like sludge out of their eyes. Pity, I’ve learned, is like a fart. You can tolerate your own, but you simply can’t stand anyone else’s.
“This is Russ,” I say. “The son of my dead wife, who seems determined to fuck up his own young life at any cost, and whom I seem powerless to help.” Or something like that.
“Hey,” Russ says.
“Doug,” Mike says, awkwardly shaking my hand and slapping my back. We haven’t spoken since I skipped the engagement party. He’s been letting Debbie do all the negotiating. Big mistake. “Thanks for coming. It really means a lot to us.”
“Don’t mention it,” I say.
“Listen. I know the timing of all this sucked. And believe me—”
“I mean it, Mike,” I cut him off, sharper than I’d intended. “Seriously. Do not mention it.”
He looks like he’s about to say something else, but something in my expression that I’m not even aware of manages to shut him up. I glance into the mirror behind the bar to note the exact look so that I can store it away for future use, but the maître d’ has stepped in front of me to lead us to our table, and all I can see are my eyes, which don’t look particularly threatening.
Once we’re all seated in the dining room, my father undergoes a miraculous transformation. Sitting at the head of the table, he is completely in command, looking handsome and elegant in his pin-striped suit, his thick silver hair brushed back, staring down through his gold-rimmed reading glasses at the wine list. He speaks to the sommelier authoritatively, questions him on vintages, and then orders two wines for the table, folding his glasses and sliding them into his breast pocket, and you’d never know this was the same guy who was shagging flies half naked in his front yard an hour ago. “Sweetheart,” he says to my mother, raising her hand to his lips. “You look as beautiful as the day I met you.”
“You’re just saying that because it’s true,” my mother retorts, but she’s smiling. Before the stroke, Stan never engaged in public displays of emotion, and after a lifetime of his consistently stolid demeanor, it’s still somewhat disconcerting to hear the unbridled affection in his voice.
“We made love for the first time in her parents’ basement,” he announces, turning to face Mrs. Sandleman, who turns red and seems unsure of what to do with this particular nugget of information.
Russ snorts into his water glass. Claire picks up a butter knife and mimes hara-kiri.
“Okay, Stan,” my mother says, squeezing his arm.
He turns to look at her. “You were wearing a white silk blouse, and no bra, and we had one of your father’s Sinatra records playing.”
My mother smiles and takes his hand. “In the Wee Small Hours,” she says, nodding.
“That’s the time you miss her most of all,” he sings hoarsely, kissing her hand again.
“He loves Sinatra,” my mother says to the Sandlemans, blushing profusely.
“Subject change, please,” Debbie says.
My father nods. “So,” he says, addressing Mr. Sandleman. “Phil, is it?”
“Howard.”
“Howard, then. Tell me again what business you’re in?”
“Commercial real estate.”
“Ah.”
Phil was my father’s younger brother who was killed in Vietnam, and whenever my father reaches for a name, Phil seems to be his default response.
When the wine arrives, my father tastes it and nods his approval to the sommelier. After all of the glasses have been filled, he lifts his glass and says, “I’d like to propose a toast to the happy couple.” We all raise our wineglasses except for Claire, who raises her eyebrows at me instead, before demonstratively grabbing a glass of water.
“Debbie,” my father says, turning to face her. “You’re my little girl, and no matter how far you go, and how much you grow, that will never change. And now, as your wedding day approaches, I just want you to know h
ow proud your mom and I are of you, not because of all you’ve accomplished so far, but because of the kind of person that you are. I can still see you in your little pink whale pajamas, curled up on my lap and singing to me about the itsy bitsy spider. I remember it like it was yesterday … ” His voice trails off and his eyes are suddenly brimming with tears. “Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, I still expect to see that little girl come running into our bedroom, dragging that stuffed frog you had, and take a running jump up into the bed to cuddle with me.” He grabs a cloth napkin from the table and wipes the tears off his face, looking around at everyone. “I’m still in here,” he says fiercely, apropos of nothing.
And now I can see that Claire and Debbie are both crying, and I can feel the hot wetness building up in my own eyes.
“Stan,” my mother says softly, staring at him through her tears.
“It’s okay, Evie,” he says, clutching her hand in his free one as he clears his throat. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, no matter how old we all get, you three will always be my children, and Debbie, you will always be my baby girl.” He raises his glass higher. “To Debbie and Phil.”
“Mike!” Debbie snaps at him, and I want to throw my plate like a discus and cleanly sever her head.
“Right,” my father says. “To Debbie and Mike.”
The dinner goes on, the way these things do. Debbie talks to Claire and Mrs. Sandleman about the flowers and the band, my mother drinks steadily and charms Mr. Sandleman with war stories from the theater that we’ve all heard a million times before, and Russ excuses himself for a minute, is gone for fifteen, and comes back with his eyes glazed over. “You had to get high right now?” I whisper to him. “It was so important?”
“It was a biological imperative, dude. It is fucking intense in here.”
“It’s just dinner with the family.”
“Come on, man. It’s like there’s a hunk of C4 strapped to the table and we’re all just waiting to see when it will detonate. I can’t believe you dragged me here.”
“You invited yourself along, remember?”
How to Talk to a Widower Page 8
