Thanking him profusely for such a generous treat, I agree, consigning Mia to the back where my Powerpuff Girl is still sleeping. Ordinarily, she wakes up as soon as I stop the car. Apart from the appalling traffic, it’s an uneventful journey to the East End. Zoë awakens about two thirds of the way there and asks to sing, which means an invitation to all of us. She likes it when Mia and I run through the shows we did in after-school and camp programs when we were kids: Oliver! Annie, Bye, Bye Birdie, Grease, Peter Pan, and You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown. Mia was one of the best Lucys on the planet. Of course that review has to be filtered through the eyes of her then eight-year-old kid sister, but she really did internalize the role and I think she’s always seen being the queen of crabbiness as a sort of badge of honor. Zoë loves it when Charles and Mia rock the car with their rendition of “Summer Nights” from Grease, reprising the roles they played when they met at the Cultural Arts summer camp up in Pearl River sixteen years ago. She and I chime in on the doo-woppy choruses. I bite my tongue, resisting teasing Mia about that being the last time she ever played the “good girl.”
As we roll into Sag Harbor and pass the Whaling Museum, Zoë starts bouncing up and down—as much as the booster seat will let her. “We’re almost there!” she announces, clapping her hands, then turns the almost-there-ness into a chant that lasts for the next few minutes. I finally allow myself a moment to enjoy the surroundings. There’s a surprising amount of foliage for late November, though the leaves on the trees have lost their burnished luster. I turn off the main drag and pull into my parents’ driveway, giving the Marsh honk of the horn, then shut off the engine and catch my breath. I think I’ve been holding it ever since we left the Upper West Side.
My parents emerge, my mother wiping her hands on a hot pink dishcloth and my father carrying a small, yellow-ruled notepad and pen, to which I believe he must be surgically attached, as he never seems to be without them.
“I love it when the babies come back to the nest,” Tulia says to no one in particular as she takes the cake from Charles. “Why, thank you. This looks stunning as usual. Another masterpiece.” The master baker blushes a bit and says something modest and self-deprecating, to which my mother responds in kind and their exchange threatens to become an Alphonse-Gaston “after you” routine.
Charles finally gets out of the car and stretches. I don’t think he’s moved a leg muscle in three and a half hours, for fear he’d ruin my birthday cake. Yet another thing over which I can self-impose a little guilt. “Now I’m nervous,” Tulia teases, properly greeting him, “with a real chef at the table tonight.”
Zoë, released from her booster seat by Mia, has launched herself full throttle into my father. She’s got her arms around his waist and is blowing raspberries against his tummy, just the way he always did to us when we were little. She’s laughing her head off, thinking this behavioral reversal is a hoot.
“Hey Dad, hey Mom,” Mia says, giving each of them a peck on the cheek. “What can I do to help?” She follows our mother into the house.
“How’s the celebrant?” my father asks me.
I stand in their front yard, inhaling the aromas of autumn…the decaying leaves, wood-burning fireplaces—one of my favorite scents ever—fresh, crisp air, and the mélange of fragrances emanating from my mother’s kitchen. “Better, now, Daddy,” I reply. “Sometimes…sometimes, you know, everything’s moving so fast that you forget…” I inhale again. “You just…it’s that…”
“I know,” my father says softly. He gives my shoulder a little squeeze. “Come inside when you’re ready.”
He’s always been able to decipher my shorthand.
There’s a log or two blazing and crackling away in the fireplace in the living room. The rooms are numerous but small given the cost and difficulty of heating large spaces back when the house was built. My mother takes its landmark status very seriously and has been quite keen on keeping the interior design as period-accurate as possible. If you’re not prepared for it, you think you’ve been thrust into a time warp. Don’t enter the parlor and living room expecting to see a wide-screen TV blaring one of the Thanksgiving football games at no one in particular. You have to know where to find it—upstairs, tucked into an 1830s armoire, along with the DVD player and my Dad’s state-of-the-art stereo system.
Zoë is now out in the yard, playing croquet with her imaginary friend Wendy and with my parents’ Irish Setter Ulysses, perfectly safe, taking out her second-grade frustrations on the wooden ball, fighting with Wendy over whose turn it is. I walk into the kitchen to see how I can help my mother. Mia is garnishing something. Happy Chef has been put to good use adding the finishing touches to a ginger-carrot soup. Orange for Zoë. I give my mother a kiss.
“Well, we can’t have the child starving, can we?” she says. “Everyone should enjoy the Thanksgiving bounty.” Charles holds out a wooden spoon for her to taste the soup. “What is that?” She makes little tasting-smacking sounds. “Did I put that in there?”
“Nutmeg. No, I did,” Charles says.
“I like it! I’ll have to remember that for next time. You girls were terrible eaters,” Mommy reminds us. “Clairey, you still won’t eat anything if you think it smells bad.”
This is true. Bologna and peanut butter were crossed off my dietary list decades ago. Ditto for most cheeses, with the exception of cream, cheddar, smoked gouda, American, ricotta, mozzarella—and mascarpone, since no one in her right mind could give up tiramisu.
“Where’s the bird?” Mia asks.
“Oh, yes, the turkey!” My mother opens the oven and peers in to check on it. “Meet Hedda,” she says proudly. Yes, we have a Marsh family tradition of naming the turkey every year.
“What?” Mia says.
“Hedda Gobbler!” my mother crows. She thinks this is hysterical. “Don’t you get it? It’s—”
“We get it, Ma,” Mia says, shaking her head.
I chuckle. Leave it to a Marsh to invoke Ibsen.
“What are you wearing, sweetheart? I love it. Let me look at you.” My mother wipes her hands on the fuchsia cloth and goes over to explore Mia’s outfit, fingering the drapery as Mia poses and twirls.
It’s only then that I actually take a good look at my sister’s regalia. It just shows how preoccupied my mind has been, with all the stresses of getting out here. She’s wearing a sari. Her dark hair has been smoothed into a bun with a henna’d center part. She’s replaced her gold nose stud with a tiny, ruby ladybug and her arms are laden with narrow golden bangles.
“Thanksgiving commemorates the meal shared between the Pilgrims and the Indians, right?” Mia says. “So I thought it would be fun to dress as an Indian. The other Indians. I mean, why do the expected? The predictable? Besides, since when has this family ever had a totally traditional Thanksgiving?”
“I think you look beautiful,” our mother says. “It suits you.”
“You don’t think it’s a little…I don’t know…offensive?” I suggest.
“To whom? Unless Mia’s intention is to mock another culture—which it isn’t, sweetheart—?” she says, looking to her older daughter. Mia shakes her head. “—then I think it’s lovely. After all, people from Eastern nations sometimes wear Western dress, and they’re not poking fun of us. At least I don’t think they are. This is how designers get their brainstorms, Clairey. By the way, your earrings are lovely.” She comes over to more closely admire my lacquered autumn leaves flecked with gold dust.
“Thanks. I made them. A couple of years ago. I thought you’d seen them before.”
Tulia shakes her head. “I’d remember. Sweetheart, they’re wonderful. You were always so clever with jewelry design.”
“I guess it’s in the genes,” I say, giving her a hug. She smells like patchouli and allspice. I poke my head out the back door of the kitchen. “Zoë? Wendy? Time to come inside. Granny Tulia has some snacks for you.” I pour some cheddar-flavored Goldfish into a bowl and hand it off to her as she scampers past me. “So, who won?�
�� I ask, referring to the haphazard croquet game.
“Ulysses. But he cheated. He kept pushing the balls through the wickets with his nose.” She skips off toward the parlor to find her grandfather.
“Claire, would you finish setting the table, please?” Tulia asks. “Everything is right where it usually is.”
“Of course.” I peek into the dining room to see what still needs to be done. My mother has covered the table with linen cloths of cranberry and burnt orange. Handmade bayberry candles in sterling holders flank the centerpiece, an abundant cornucopia of seasonal fruits and vegetables, including some funky-shaped little squashes, russet-colored Indian corn, and a pineapple—a symbol of hospitality. I start counting place settings. Tulia has already distributed the napkins and the goblets for wine and water. I need to add the flatware for…wait…Tulia and Brendan are two. Mia and Happy Chef make four. Zoë and I are six. The table has been laid out for seven. Although my parents are extremely permissive, I highly doubt that the imaginary Wendy or the four-legged Ulysses are being asked to dine with us.
“Mommy,” I call to the kitchen. “You’ve got this set for seven.”
She comes into the dining room and surveys the table. Then her mouth falls open and her eyes register horror, a living facsimile of the ancient Greek mask of tragedy. “Oh, God, Clairey. I must have forgotten to tell you! I thought it would be nice for Zoë to have her daddy at Thanksgiving Dinner, so I invited Scott to join us.”
Chapter 7
My mother doesn’t have a malicious fiber in her body. So I know, to her own way of thinking, her intentions must have been kindly at some point. “You…invited my ex-husband?” I stammer, barely able to form the words.
“It’s a holiday. Two special occasions, in fact,” she adds, referring to my birthday celebration. “I really did think it would be a treat for Zoë to see her father on Thanksgiving. You can’t stop her from adoring Scott. I thought you and he were…all right with each other; that you were amicable. Aren’t you?”
“A treat for Zoë is a trick on me. Wrong holiday, Tulia.” Suddenly, I’m a child again, life isn’t fair, and I stomp off angrily into the living room.
“What’s the matter, pumpkin?” my father asks, glancing up from his writing tablet.
“Scott is.”
“She didn’t tell you?”
“She just did. Does that count?”
Daddy shakes his head. “You know it’s not like your mother to be manipulative. She probably really believes she mentioned it. She invited him a few weeks ago. She thought it would be lovely for Zoë.”
“So she says,” I reply glumly. “Some happy birthday.” I look over at him. His mind is only half on me. Typical, but that’s who my dad is and I’ve grown used to it over the years. It doesn’t mean he wasn’t listening. “What are you doing?”
“Putting the finishing touches on your poem. You Marsh women always make fun of my indifference to tradition, so I thought I would use a classic form this year. You’re getting a sonnet.”
“Cool,” I say, still working on the fact that my mother has invited my ex-husband to celebrate Thanksgiving—and my birthday—with our immediate family. If Tulia’s hair weren’t its completely natural shade, I could swear her brain had been addled by the chemicals in her hair color.
There’s a knock at the door. “I want to get it,” Zoë shouts, and comes barreling through the living room from somewhere, Ulysses right on her heels.
I realize that she hasn’t been prepped to see her father, so I try to avoid the potential catastrophe that this surprise might cause. “Sweetie, maybe I should—” But the door is open and it’s too late. Zoë releases a yowl, like a cat whose tail has just been trampled by a Doc Martens, and runs screaming from the room. I had a feeling it would be bad, but I had no idea it would be this bad. Then I see why. Oh, God. Zoë was right. Can I run screaming from the room, too? Scott has brought his girlfriend, Serena Eden.
“M-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-m!” I yell, a primal scream. My father plays the ultimate spectator as my mother enters the room. Her face falls and I quickly do the math. Scrawny, raw-food-vegan-nuts-and-berries-eating restaurateur makes eight. Clearly Serena was not on the guest list.
“Excuse us, please,” Tulia says to the new arrivals. She takes my elbow and pilots me into the kitchen, leaving them on the doorstep, unsure whether or not it’s okay to cross the threshold.
“I’m going home. I’m taking Zoë and we are going home. What were you thinking?” I whisper.
“What was he thinking, is what I’d like to know,” my mother hisses. She looks completely defeated. My mother isn’t good at coping when things don’t run according to plan. She lives in her own world—that, granted, is shocking pink—and deviation discombobulates her (ironically, since this family does nothing but stray from the straight and narrow). “Besides, what’s she going to eat?”
“I’ll go pick some grass for her,” Mia says, joining the discussion. She’d gone to placate Zoë, who now refuses to come out of one of the upstairs bedrooms.
“Are they still standing in the doorway?” I ask.
Mia checks and nods in the affirmative. “They don’t look like they want to be here any more than we want them. Does that bitch always look green, by the way? She might want to eat something—I don’t know—brown. At least she’ll look healthier.”
This reminds me that my daughter is still eating only orange food. Did June Cleaver ever have these problems? Or Bonnie Franklin on One Day at a Time? And I don’t recall Bonnie’s ex-husband darkening her doorstep with his skinny new fling. Schneider, the ubiquitous super, would have cold-cocked him with a ball-peen hammer.
“Well, what’s done is done, so let’s make the best of it,” my mother sighs. “Mia, would you add another place setting, please? As far away from your sister as possible. Claire is sitting to Daddy’s right.”
“How ’bout the dog house?” Mia mutters and exits into the kitchen.
I pour myself a double sherry and contort my face into a mask of cordiality, welcoming Scott and Serena inside. Boy, I can’t wait for this wine to kick in. I foist Serena on my father, who is better than any of us at concealing his displeasure over something, and escort Scott into the backyard.
I hate him because I still get a rush of adrenaline whenever I see him. I hate him because I wanted things to work out. I hate him for so swiftly moving on. I hate him because I’m turning twenty-six this weekend and I have to start my life all over again with a daughter who is halfway to puberty. Did Zoë and I count for nothing? I feel compelled to reiterate all of this to him. So I seize my opportunity and I do. Right after I slip inside to the bar cart and grab the sherry bottle.
“We’re both impetuous people, Claire. We married practically on a whim and we—”
“I’m not exactly as impetuous as you seem to think I am,” I interrupt. “I…Yes, I know our courtship was kind of a whirlwind…but even so, I knew I wanted to be with you forever. You…you get obsessions about things. Math, technology, me. I was dazzled by the passion. We all were. Your passion made you so fucking sexy.” I rarely curse, but right now I’m riding on a wave of pure emotion. “You’ve got to know that every girl in Thackeray had a raging crush on you, don’t you? You think it was a coincidence that there was such a sudden rush to learn computer skills when you got hired?” I sit on one of the swings and dig a line in the dirt with my toe. “You know, Zoë was a toddler by the time I realized that I was just another obsession.”
“I think you’re viewing things through hindsight.” Scott runs a hand through his thick, glossy hair and even though, at this moment, I hate him with an intensity akin to love, I find myself wanting to do the same. Our divorce is so recent it still doesn’t feel real, although the ninety-eight-pound girlfriend sitting uncomfortably in the living room should be proof enough, if I’m still demanding it.
“Maybe I am. Maybe not. I don’t know. It’s too bad you weren’t a history teacher,” I say ruefully.
He chuckles. “Why?”
“Because you’d recognize its repetition. You got a Vegas divorce from your first wife because you fell in love with me. You dumped me when you became obsessed with Serena. And please don’t try to tell me that woman is a meal ticket, because if you really believe that, you’ll starve.”
He fixes me with those blazingly intelligent gray-green eyes. “I suppose if it’s a numerical sequence, you can tell me what happens next,” he says with a tinge of autumnal melancholy.
I nodded. “You move on from Serena, too. Eventually. Scott, Zoë needs a father. You have no idea how hard it is to do this alone. Please don’t leave her out of the equation.”
“You’ve got a lot to offer the world, Claire,” he says, sort of changing the subject. “Don’t neglect your artwork. Don’t neglect yourself.”
“And when, do you suggest, am I supposed to focus on it? On me? Since you left us, I have no life—but you haven’t come around long enough to notice. My social life has become entirely subsumed into our daughter’s. Zoë has a busier schedule than the mayor. Except maybe that her bedtime is a bit earlier. I don’t see you offering to help out much. Scott, you’re supposed to show up every other weekend to be her white knight and take her on an adventure. Lately, you haven’t even done tha. You say you’re too busy. And Zoë doesn’t even stay overnight at your place since you’re living with Serena. For the other twenty-something days of the month, it’s just me. While Zoë makes the rounds of parties and after-school programs, I’m the mommy, the daddy, the chaperone, the chauffeur, the nurse, the teacher, the baby-sitter, the bad cop, the Wicked Witch of the West. And…” I feel hot tears welling up behind my eyes. “…it’s…overwhelming. I’m not a selfish person, but there are times when I do wish I had a minute or two to myself. Or a chance to see my own friends—if they even remember who I am by now. I need your help here.”
“I’m afraid I’m more of a disruption,” my ex says apologetically.
“You are when you bring your girlfriend to family occasions,” I mumble, wiping away a tear. I wish I had it in me just to lash out at him, but I’ve always had problems expressing anger. Although I’ve been known to lose my temper—as the Thackeray educators would attest—I become horribly uncomfortable and embarrassed by yelling and screaming. Anyone’s. “Zoë blames me for the divorce, you know. She adores you. As long as you’re her hero, you could at least play the part.”
Play Dates Page 11
