"That's what I told you in high school!" I said, hitting his arm. "A lot of good that excuse ever did me."
"Drinking vodka in the Burger King parking lot at sixteen? That is hardly what I'd characterize as overzealous police work." My dad chuckled. "Marcus, I have a lot of stories to tell you about our girl here."
Our girl. It was a big concession. That combined with his chipper mood on the heels of a ticket was only further proof of his determination to like my new boyfriend.
"I can only imagine," Marcus said from the back seat, his voice detached, bored. Was he was missing my dad's cues, or was he simply unwilling to go along with the jovial routine?
I glanced back at him, but his face was in shadow and I couldn't read his expression. For the rest of the ride home, Marcus said virtually nothing despite plenty of effort from my father.
As we pulled into our cul-de-sac, I pointed out Rachel's house to Marcus. He made an acknowledging sound.
"Are the Whites away?" I asked my father, noticing that all of their lights were out.
He reached over and squeezed my knee with one hand and then clicked our garage door opener with the other. "No. They're around, I think."
"Maybe they knew I was coming home and couldn't bear to face me," I said.
"Just remember, it's not their fault," my dad said. "It's Rachel's."
"I know," I said. "But they did raise a traitor."
My dad made a face as if to say, "Fair point."
"Think Mom will mind if we go in through the back way?" he asked me. My mother believes that visitors should always be brought through the front door—not that Marcus would ever notice the difference.
Sure enough, my mom peered into the garage and whispered, as if Marcus and I couldn't hear her, "Hugh, the front door."
"The kids have bags," he said.
My mother forced a smile and said in her turbocharged, company voice, "Well then, come in! Come in!" As always, she was in full makeup—she put her "face" on even to go to the grocery store. Her hair was swept up in a jeweled clip I had bought for her at Barneys, and she was dressed in ivory from head to toe. She looked beautiful, and I was proud for Marcus to see her. If he subscribed to the whole "a daughter will end up looking like her mother" notion, he had to be exceedingly pleased.
Marcus and my father fumbled with our bags, maneuvering them between our car and the lawnmower as my mom lectured my father about pulling the car in too far to the left.
"Dee, I'm perfectly centered," he said, agitation creeping into his voice. My parents bickered constantly, more with every passing year, but I knew that they would stay together for the long haul. Maybe not for love, but because they both liked the image of the proper home—the good, intact family. "I'm perfectly centered," he said again.
My mom resisted a retort, and opened the door wide for us. As she kissed me, my nose filled with her heavier-than-usual application of Chanel No. 5. She then turned to Marcus, putting one hand on each of his cheeks and planting a big kiss just to the right of his mouth. "Marcus! Welcome! It's so nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you too," Marcus mumbled back.
My mother hates mumblers. I silently hoped that the shame of greeting a guest between our dark garage and laundry room would distract her from noticing my boyfriend's poor enunciation. She quickly ushered us into the kitchen. A spread of cheese, olives, and her famous shrimp puffs was laid out on the counter.
My brother, Jeremy, and his girlfriend, Lauren, suddenly bounded around the corner like two overeager house pets. Neither of them was ever in a bad mood. My father once said that the pair had two modes: chipper or asleep. True to form, Lauren wasted no time postintroduction and launched into an inane tale about one of our neighbors. I have known Lauren since she was a baby—she lived down the street from us and Rachel occasionally babysat her—so I knew that she was the kind of girl who could dominate a conversation by saying absolutely nothing in the sort of way you expect from an old lady in church, not a twenty-five-year-old. The weather, the big sale at JoAnn Fabrics, or the latest winner of bingo at Good Haven, the nursing home where she worked.
As Lauren concluded her story, my father offered Marcus a drink.
"A beer would be great," he said.
"Get him a chilled glass, Hugh," my mother said, as my dad flicked off the top of a Budweiser.
"Oh, I don't need a glass. Thanks, though," Marcus said, taking the bottle from my father.