The ladies among us bought new dresses at the Nordy’s at Old Orchard and got mani/pedis from the Polish girls at the new nail salon where the Blockbuster used to be and blowouts from Lonnie, who we’ve been going to for years and don’t know what we would do if he ever retired. The men got their suits dry-cleaned and gave up their tee times to a few of the new guys at the club who didn’t know to call months in advance like they did. We all dieted a little bit the week before so we could eat whatever we wanted the night of the party. Some of us took our water pills even on days when we didn’t need to.
We all sat together through the day and the night, first at shul, where we took our seats in the fourth row, the first row belonging to the Middlesteins: Edie and her escort, the Chinese man whose name we did not know; and Benny and Rachelle, the proud parents, with the twins, on one side. And on the other side sat proud Aunt Robin and her boyfriend, that charming schlub Daniel; Richard with his new girlfriend (also unmet, because no one ever introduced us to anyone), who sounded British from three rows away, which seemed impossible (though we later discovered was true); Rachelle’s parents, straight as arrows, cool as cucumbers; and a handful of empty seats beside them, as if no one wanted to go anywhere near that traffic jam. The next two rows were filled with people we didn’t know, but it was children mostly, and some out-of-towners we were guessing, and also we noticed Carly there—how could you miss Carly? So glamorous, even at sixty!—and some friends of Benny’s and Rachelle’s. We supposed we could have sat closer, fought our way through the out-of-towners, but we’ve sat in the front enough in our lives. Sometimes it’s better just to sit in the back and watch. Watch, listen, and learn, that’s what we say.
Little Emily and Josh sang their haftorahs beautifully, Josh’s voice cracking during a high note, the whole room restraining their laughter, Emily a sullen, brunette, already bosomy beauty who smiled at nothing, and while we would like to think she was caught up in the majesty of the moment, it was more likely that she took after her grandmother Edie in her intensity. (We had all feared Edie at one time or another. The woman knew how to make a point.) Emily pounded away at her portion, as if she were adding exclamation marks where they did not need to exist. None of us knew what she was singing, but we all got the message: If she had not arrived somewhere yet, she was intending on getting there soon. Good luck with that kid, we all thought. She was going to be a handful.
We shared cars from shul to the party at the new (new-ish, anyway) Hilton. It had been built two years ago, and we had driven by it hundreds of times on the way to the health club, but why would we ever visit it? We already have homes, why would we sleep somewhere else? So we were excited when we got the invitations. Ooh, we said. The Hilton. We had heard good things through the grapevine. Plenty of bar mitzvahs and weddings had been held there, even if we were not invited to them, as we were at the age where we had almost been forgotten but were not quite old enough to be heralded for still being alive after all these years.
Of course we were seated together at the reception, the eight of us. We barely glanced at our place cards, which we picked up at the entrance to the ballroom from a table decorated with dance shoes: shiny black tap, pink satin ballet, bright red high-heeled flamencos, and a scuffed-up pair of Capezios. Flanking the table were two life-size photos on cardboard of Emily and Josh dressed in dance attire, and in the center was a sign that read, WE KNOW WE CAN DANCE. Charming, we said. Isn’t that adorable? Some of us had seen the television show being referenced and watched it twice a week before bed, and some of us had better things to do with our time than sit around rotting our brains with garbage like that, especially when there were books to be read. Politely and calmly—some of us squeezing our spouses’ hands for silence—we agreed to disagree.
The banquet room was just stunning, with a huge wall of windows facing a well-manicured rose garden backed by a trellis, the highway only faintly visible in the distance, and there was an atrium lit by strands of twinkling lights. Every table had a different dance theme and was decorated accordingly. Hip-hop! Broadway! Bollywood, salsa, and krump. (We never really understood krumping.) We were at Table 8—the waltz table. They must have run out of ideas for that, because all they had was two pairs of high heels on the table and a box of Viennese cookies. One of the husbands sat down first, opened the box of cookies, and offered it to the rest of us, but we all declined. Not before dinner, we demurred.