I anticipate a, No. Put it back , which is the standard parental grocery-store retort, but Charlie says, “Sure. Why not?” and tosses the Tic Tacs on the belt.
I smile, remembering what I liked most about my first boyfriend, his knee-jerk response was always, “Why not?” He was uncomplicated and upbeat and easy. At one point, I might have thought these traits made him a simpleton, but now I think they just translate to happiness. After all, he is the one with a family. He is the one buying hygiene products for his spouse. And I’m the one who is divorced, with my father waiting for me in the car outside.
“So what’s doin’?” Charlie says with a big smile.
“Not much,” I say and try to deflect with a question about his son. “Is this your oldest?”
“No!” Charlie says. “This is my youngest, Jake Jake, this is Claudia.”
Jake and I shake hands, and I pray that we’re winding up, but then Charlie asks, “How’s Ben?”
“Actually, we got a divorce,” I say.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I say. “He’s getting remarried.”
Then I laugh at my own joke. Charlie does, too, but it is the awkward sort of pity-laugh, not a ha-ha laugh. We exchange a few more pleasantries, both of us promising to tell our families hello. All the while, I can tell he’s thinking, I knew it. I knew she was in for a sad life when she told me after our prom that she didn’t want kids .
Daphne has everything under control when my father and I arrive at her house. But by under control, I don’t mean Maura’s version of polished perfection. On the contrary, Daphne’s house is in a state of noisy disarray. The kitchen is a mess, and Tony’s football game is competing with Daphne’s favorite Enrique Iglesias CD and their frantic Yorkies. Still, everything smells good and feels comfortable. Daphne is standing at the stove, all four burners ablaze. She is wearing her GOT CARBS? apron and looks relaxed. My father joins Tony in the family room, and I put my pies and Cool Whip in the refrigerator and say, “Hope you have dessert backup.”
“Of course I do,” Daphne says, smiling proudly and pointing to a freshly rolled-out pie crust on the counter.
“So,” I say, settling onto a bar stool. “Have you heard from Maura? Is he coming?”
Daphne knows I’m referring to Scott. She sets about peeling a Granny Smith apple and tells me that as of this morning, Maura hadn’t decided whether to let him come or stay home alone. She was pleased to know that Scott’s parents and sister’s family had already booked a trip to Disney World for the holiday, so if she chose to exclude him, he’d have no backup plan.
A moment later we hear my mother and Dwight at the front door.
“Hell-ooo ?” my mother trills as she sails into the kitchen, heavily perfumed, wearing a flowing St. John ensemble with navy pumps. Her outfit conjures the phrase “dressy casual,” which is her favorite dress-code designation for her own parties. Despite her allergies to dogs, she gathers up Daphne’s Yorkies and allows them to lick her mouth. “He-wo, Gary! He-wo, Anna!” she croons as I think that baby talk to dogs is only slightly more annoying than baby talk to babies.
Dwight is also dressy casual. He is sporting tasseled loafers, Ray Bans, and a jacket with shiny, gold buttons. He takes off his glasses and presents three bottles of merlot to Daphne. Then he rubs his hands together vigorously enough to start a fire. “Soo, ladies, what’s shakin’?” he says, surveying the simmering pots. “Smells good in here, Daph!”
Then, as I watch him strut around the kitchen, I think of how Ben used to imitate his walk and say, “Ever notice the way Dwight’s pelvis enters a room about five minutes before he does?” I always liked when he made fun of Dwight, yet the thought that Ben might share such observations about my family (even my mother’s husband) with his bride-to-be has the strangest effect of creating loyalty where none existed before. Dwight isn’t a bad guy, I think, as I kiss him hello for what very well could be the first time ever. I wait for my mother to put down the dogs, wash her hands, and use her inhaler. Then I give her a hug.
“So good of you to dress up,” she whispers in my ear.
I smile and say, “Yes. But you’ll be happy to know that should there be an accident and I am disrobed by a paramedic, I am wearing my best underwear.”
She smiles as if to say, I taught you well .
The doorbell rings, and we all glance at each other nervously, a question hanging in the air: Will Scott show up with his family ?
Even my mother is subdued.
“You get the door,” Daphne says as she nervously reties her apron.