by Lisa Samson
Maybe he just got tired of keeping appointments.
I have to give my father credit. He examined the eyes of all races, and no sign saying “No Coloreds” ever besmirched the windows of his practice. I guess he didn’t have to deal with any of those decisions once he became a bricklayer. He sure was glad to lay aside the malpractice insurance, too. But don’t get me started on lawyers! God knows I could write a lifetime of columns on them alone.
6
We try to have these family meals at least once a month, and for the life of me I don’t always know why. Brian constantly looks at his watch, waiting impatiently to begin his next conquest. Brett does nothing but complain, and she hardly ever smiles these days. I tell you, I hate looking at her anymore. And to try and give her advice? Whoa. Just don’t. Mom’s okay when we’re all together, treats us all the same, but she unwittingly pits us against each other in private. When I’m with her, all she can talk about is Brett; when Brett’s with her, she goes on and on about me. Brian’s her baby boy. She talks about him to him. No wonder he’s a selfish pig. Don’t get me wrong, I love him. I really do. I even like him, when I don’t start adding up his vices and shortcomings. I just want to wring his neck because he never seems to learn. How is it some people keep making the same mistake over and over again and never learn?
Tonight we’re dressing up. Lyra requested it, and my sister loves an excuse to spend money on a new outfit. Rusty wears khaki pants, a blue button-down, and loafers. I pull on my brown reunion dress. The kids flit about in light, summery clothes: Lyra, blond perfection in a paisley sundress, Trixie in floral bloomers, and Persy in plaid shorts and a light yellow polo shirt.
We file in the back door of the restaurant. Rusty makes the huggy-kissy rounds and settles in the dining room with the little kids to keep them out of the way. Mom pours him a glass of wine, and she sips hers while they chat like the chums they are. Those two can converse for thirty minutes about nothing but nothing.
Brian’s jerking saucepans at the range. “Hey sis.”
“Hi Bri. What’s cooking?”
“Soft crabs, veal, asparagus, grilled endive.”
“What’s our starch?”
“Just bread. Made it after lunch. I’m grilling that too, with a little olive oil and a garlic rub.”
“Mmm. Sounds good.”
“Naturally.”
I wrap myself inside an apron. “What can I do?”
“Clean the endive and cut them in half. Spread on a little extra virgin.”
“Got it.”
We work side by side in silence, listening to the dining-room murmur. Rusty’s laugh resounds, and I notice a smile creep onto Bri’s face.
“I’ll bet you’re glad to have him home.”
“The kids are beside themselves.”
“He’s a good dad. You found a good one, Ivy.” Bri’s always saying that about Rusty.
When I compare Rusty to Brian and Harry, I actually thank God for him. “Lord knows this family needed him.”
He adds more butter to the beurre blanc. “You said it. Brett’s husband is such a twit.”
“What makes you say that?”
A shrug. “Never mind, I’ve just never liked the guy, is all.” It’s more than that. I can tell. But I’ll let it slide for now.
New voices mingle with the others. Brian sighs. “Well, troubles arrived. I wonder which of the evil twins Brett coaxed into coming?”
“Does it matter?”
Brett birthed two daughters. Ashley and Margeaux. If that doesn’t beat all. They’re not twins, actually, but just a year apart and as spoiled as a twenty-year-old jar of herring, they more than deserve the nickname. I listen. They’re both out there.
Brian removes the sauté pan from the heat. “Wonder what they’re wearing tonight?”
“Something highly inappropriate, I’m sure.”
“I can’t understand why Brett lets them dress the way they do.
I mean, an exposed butt crack isn’t attractive on any woman.”
I purposely fail to remind him that he consistently dates women who dress just like that.
He checks the soft crabs in the oven. “Now Lyra, there’s a class act just waiting in the wings.”
“She does have a tasteful flair, doesn’t she?”
We’re going to be so disillusioned when she turns into a typical teen. And yet I hope. Every so often a girl stays sweet. And she is fourteen. Surely we’d already be traveling a rough road if things were going to go that way.
Now with Trixie, I anticipate awful. Awful, awful. Slammed-doors, sneaking-out-of-the-house, profanity-filled-IMs awful.
Brian wraps the bread in some foil. “Maybe they’ll stay out there awhile longer.”
“It’s a safe bet.” My sister and her girls never help out at these things.
“Would you get out the serving pieces when you’re done, Ive?”
“Sure thing.” I brush the oil on the last of the endive. “These are ready for the grill. Table set yet?”
“No. Shoot. Would you?”
“Lyra!”
She peeks her head in. “Yeah, Mom?”
“Would you get the table set?”
“Most definitely.”
She disappears back into the fray. She’ll know better than to ask her cousins for help. These things you learn young. I hear her bossing Persy, though, in fabulous big-sister fashion. Poor Persy! I’m sure he’s rolling his eyes right now. But he’s obeying her, regardless.
I don’t scold her, classifying this incident as noncritical. You see, Lyra was born blue. That moment made any fear I’d ever experienced unravel into insignificance. The medical staff tried procedure after procedure, my throat constricting more tightly with each excruciating second until I thought my heart would stop. The threat of a communist takeover and of subsequent torture is nothing compared to watching your own baby suffocate. And then Rusty grabbed her from the doctor’s arms and belted out the “Hallelujah Chorus” in her ear. On the fourth “hallelujah” that little thing gasped and began to breathe, turning bright red, the most beautiful color I’ve ever seen. It’s been her favorite song ever since, and her life has become a living hallelujah. I gave her to God right then and there. I mean completely to Him, in a way I can’t quite explain. I knew I could trust Him no matter what, and that trust went so far as to know He’d make something special out of Lyra.
I peep through the small, diamond-shaped window in the swinging door, careful not to let anyone see me. Lyra sets out the cutlery at express-train speed, sure of herself. I grieve a bit as I take in my sister and her two girls dressed in beautiful designer clothing. Lyra’s outfit, one she made herself and worked so hard on this spring, simply can’t compare. And I’d like to say she is like Cinderella among the wicked stepsisters, those ugly things dressed up like birthday cakes, their faces bulbous and lacking compared to Cinderella’s loveliness. However, Ashley and Margeaux resemble perfect pop princesses. Flat stomachs stretched between sharp hipbones peeping above their low, slender miniskirts, gold belts twinkling in the spotlights. They’re tanned and fit from working out at the country club and playing tennis. Just gorgeous. Life really isn’t fair when playing by the rules of the world.
But Lyra plays by different, more lasting rules, and when I picture these three in the future, I see only one with the ability to invest herself in others and so live fulfilled. Lyra will probably feel plain around them for years to come, possibly forever, but they will feel shallow and without purpose. There. Having bashed two young girls and proclaimed them deficient, I feel better.
Really, I do. I’m a twit. But I’m an honest twit.
Brett’s dressed in slimming black silk-crepe pants and a long gold-brocade jacket with a mandarin collar. Her hair’s always perfect too. Dark brown with subtle streams of gold, cut with a deft razor in face-and-neck-brushing wisps at a tony salon down in Mount Washington. She bugs me every time she sees me to do something with mine, but never offers to pay for a t
rip to the salon. She could. She’s loaded. It’s not that I want a handout, but if it’s so important to her, she needs to either put up or shut up. Shut up would work just fine for me. If anyone knows she’s not the gal she used to be, it’s me.
Brian turns off the final burner. “Okay, sis, let’s fill the platters.”
You know, they could at least offer to help, those girls. At the very least, they could poke their heads in to say hi.
Brian and I work quickly, in our usual swinging rhythm much like a cadence sung by Old Blue Eyes. The sound system fires up some Tony Bennett.
“Well that’s good,” I say.
“Oh yeah.”
“Let’s try to keep this nice, Bri.”
“I’ll try, but sometimes Brett makes that thoroughly impossible. Ready?”
“Is that a serious question?”
At least Rusty’s here to tame the horde, God bless him.
Rusty stands to his feet as I enter the room, arms full. What a gentleman. “Let the feast begin!” The benediction accompanies a reach for one of my platters.
Mother and Lyra clap, and Lyra hurries back into the kitchen and reappears with the bowl of asparagus and the platter of endive as Brian and I lay down our platters. The veal smells gorgeous, and the soft crabs, well, I’m not going to be shy there! There’s two for each, but I’m counting on Persy to eat only one, so that’s three for me.
After we line up the food along the center of the table, we sit down, and Rusty does the honors of saying grace. We hold hands, Lyra squeezing mine, her warmth lending me some strength for the conversation that lies ahead.
Amen.
“Amen!”
Unfortunately Brett has enthroned herself on my left.
She rests a hand on my thigh. “Is that veal?”
“Oh yes. Brian really splurged.”
“And soft crabs.”
“Aren’t they gorgeous?”
“Well, this leaves my girls out, Ivy. They hate seafood and positively won’t eat veal.”
“What?”
“Frankly I’m surprised you’d serve that meat, the way those poor calves are raised.”
“It’s not like that. This is free-range veal.”
“Still. Poor baby cows.”
“There’s endive and asparagus, too.”
“Oh please. Girls! Just eat the vegetables and bread. Obviously you all weren’t taken into consideration when this meal was planned. But then what’s new?”
Where’s Mo with his backhand when you really need it? I shake my head slightly at Brian, who’s turning a charming shade of magenta across the table. Don’t say a word, bro, I vibe.
She puffs. “On second thought, why don’t you girls go over to Paolo’s and get something you can eat?”
“You will eat.” Did I really just murmur that?
“What did you say, Ivy?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m choosing to let that go.”
Lyra jumps up. “I’ll go grill up a couple of chicken breasts.” Before I can stop her, she’s gone.
She doesn’t deserve this role, but at least she can handle it. And she does grill a great chicken breast.
She pokes her head back out the door. “Wine sauce, guys?”
“Absolutely.” Ashley nods. She’s the nicer of the two. She folds her arms across her bare stomach.
“Plain for me,” Margeaux orders—yes orders—as she flips through a magazine.
Brett: “See? Perfect! You know, Ivy, you could learn a lesson or two from your daughter. That child is an angel.”
At least she adores Lyra. It keeps me from disowning her and her tedious offspring.
Rusty raises his glass. “Time for a toast!”
“Hear! Hear!” Mother does the same.
“To family. Related, no matter what!”
“Cheers!” we all say and clink our glasses. Well, almost all of us. Margeaux’s reading her horoscope. I’m glad we got the uncomfortable stuff out of the way early.
We sit at a table for two now. Just my sister and me. A candle cuts the gloom of the empty restaurant.
I love her. When all the sludge is pumped away, she’s my sister and I love her. Her marriage is falling apart. The time-honored adultery story. I forgive every miffy remark she made earlier. I’m surprised she showed up at all. I’m not surprised, however, that I made no attempt to give her the benefit of the doubt. I’m a boob.
Bottom line: I wouldn’t trade places with Brett for one second, not even for a million dollars or a week on a desert isle with Ralph Fiennes.
She’s crying. “I thought this would be the good one. I really thought this one would work.”
Marriage number three, fifteen years in length, and despite her golden baubles and her golden glow, she feels like she’s not enough for anyone right now. I’m glad Lyra cooked the chicken breasts for my nieces. They’ve spent their lives with adults who spend their lives trying to make up for their mistakes, and always in the wrong way, with clothing, jewelry, parties, and good schools. No wonder they measure affection in terms of what they can get from a person.
And now, another divorce, and perhaps a trip to Europe or Tahiti to ease the pain. Marcus will leave and probably try to continue to see the girls—I mean they were four and five when he married their mother—but Brett won’t let him, and the girls will suffer more than anyone. She’ll spend half her divorce settlement attempting to purchase their mental health from places like Neiman Marcus and Club Med, or whatever resort spa rates these days.
I feel so sorry for them.
If Rusty hadn’t come along, this could have been me. Sure, he’s absent most of the time, but we are a pair. No. We’re a unit, he and I. I can’t imagine life any other way. It’s why his absence pains me so much. I guess the day I should really begin to worry is the day it stops hurting.
“When did you find out about her?”
“Last night.”
“How?”
“An anonymous phone call. My gosh, it’s so typical!”
“Did he deny it?”
“No. He was actually relieved.”
“As if he deserved that.”
“Exactly. Way to go, Brett, you did that creep a favor! Perfect!” I pour more water into her glass. “So what’s next?”
“He says he wants to work things out, but—”
“The trust is broken.”
“You got it.”
“Is it the first time? The first woman?”
“I didn’t ask. I’m not ready to hear the answer.”
“Do you know who called?”
“It was a man.”
“Maybe the other woman’s husband?”
“No, her father.”
“Eww. How old is she?”
“I’m not about to ask.” She taps her fingers on the tabletop. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it myself. He’s been working late way too much lately. And you know, Ivy, I’m not the type to check up on him.”
“Well, why would you be?”
“Exactly. He’s suggesting we go away together to patch things up. As if it will be so easy.”
“I’ll check up on the girls.”
She shakes her head. “They’ll be fine, and I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”
“Good girl.” I’m trying very hard not to offer any advice. Brett’s going to do what she’s going to do anyway. “We’re here for you. You know that.”
“Thanks.”
“Keep me posted, though, would you?”
She purses her lips, and I grab her hand. “What I mean is, whatever you need, okay? I know we don’t always get along like maybe we should, but I love you.”
Her lips relax.
I don’t know what more Marcus could want in a wife. Brett is a golden goddess. Toned. Smooth. Glittering like a fairy.
“Brett, I’m not here to judge you, and I don’t want you to think I’m going to sit around and compare our lives. I mean really, you’re a successful, beautiful woman.” (I
take a deep breath for the building-up speech.) “You look ten years younger than you are. You run a thriving shop, your children are gorgeous, and they’re getting great grades in college. You’ve made a beautiful home. Frankly, Marcus must be a fool to jeopardize all that. You are a great lady, and you will get through this. I promise.”
“I wish I felt like that woman right now.”
I lean over to her and fold her into my arms. She smells like Chanel; I smell like kitchen. She looks like an actress; I look like a tired mom. She wears silk; I wear rayon. She’s got the drive to succeed; I possess the drive to survive. And together we’ll see this thing through.
We have to. She’s my sister. And we own a bond that only sisters can own.
Mr. Moore’s house wins the award for Most Cheerful on the street. A few years ago, before his mother died, he painted it her favorite colors, yellow and rose. Moss-green shutters tie it into the landscape and render my plain old white house more boring than a lecture on cell division. It always gives my heart a lift.
He doesn’t sleep much, so I know he’ll welcome my ten o’clock knock.
“Ivy Jane! Come on in!”
He steps aside as I amble into the entryway. He painted much of the interior in peaceful shades of blue.
“I brought you some leftovers from our family dinner. A soft crab, some veal.” I hold out the takeout container.
“Oh my goodness. This’ll sure beat the Manwich I made tonight.” He takes the box. “Hold on while I put this in the fridge. You got a minute?”
“Always got time for you, Mr. Moore.”
“I’ll make us some tea. Have a seat in the living room.”
I was hoping he’d invite me in. Mr. Moore doesn’t know it, but he’s my confessor, my wise man. On second thought, maybe he does know it but doesn’t mind.
No couches congregate in the living room, only comfy chairs that don’t match. Two florals, a plaid, a book-binding pattern, two solids, and somehow it all works. Built-in bookcases testify to my friend’s interests. Planes and seafaring vessels and the history thereof, gardening, gemstones, Civil War, theology. I choose a floral chair, swivel around, and grab a book about eschatology, something in which I have very little knowledge and very little interest. I leaf through the pages reading nothing, thinking only about Brett.
