25
I’m telling you. We went to high school together. We did. I’m sure of it. Are you sure you didn’t go to Carver High? That’s so weird. You look so familiar. Well, then, where do I know you from? You’re a what? Really? You don’t look like an actress. No offense, I mean you’re pretty, but I thought they all had to be like anorexic or something. What show? You’re in a what? A commercial? Oh no, God no. It can’t be that. I don’t watch television. I mean, once in a while I flip through the channels, but, no. Especially not commercials. No offense. But seriously, where do I know you from? Maybe we went to the same summer camp?
Congratulations, Franny! How exciting! Remember at the last wedding when you said you were trying to be an actress? And I said How are the tips?’ Remember that? Hahahahaha! Because people who say they’re actors are usually just waiters? Get it?
But your father said you wanted to be a real actress. In the theater. What happened to that? He says you got an agent, right? So that’s something at least. What’s that? You had an agent but you don’t have one anymore? Oh, how terrible!
See Len, I told you she didn’t get her nose done. It just looks that funny way on the TV. Sort of squashed or something? Whatever it was, it made you look so much older. I told him, Franny. I said, Len, Franny would never get her nose done. And even if she did, why would she give herself a little, short, squashy nose that added years to her face? It’s the TV,’ I said. You’ve heard that thing about the camera adding twenty pounds. It must do something to the face, too. What? It’s just ten pounds the camera adds? Hmm, well, it looks more like twenty. Maybe it’s our television. We have a new one. Everything looks so much larger than life. Those lovely girls from Still Nursing look fine, though, those delicate figures! Maybe it’s just when commercials play …
Aunt Elaine is continuing on and on, hardly stopping for a breath, and, finally, I reach over and squeeze Dan’s forearm in an attempt to say “save me.”
“Will you excuse us?” he says to her politely, guiding me away with his hand on the small of my back. “Franny and I—we need to—we have to call the sitter.”
I’m afraid Aunt Elaine can hear the giggle I try to suppress, but she hardly seems to notice, not skipping a beat, turning her monologue seamlessly onto the next victim.
“Sorry, I wasn’t sure how to help you,” Dan says sheepishly. “That’s what my mother always used.”
“It’s okay,” I say, smiling, happy to have Dan by my side, like a giant tuxedoed security guard. “I hope we left enough food out for the baby.”
All the Finnegan weddings take place in a tent in the backyard of my aunt and uncle’s huge old house right on the shore in Madison, Connecticut. As a kid, I could never get over the excitement of their house being right on the beach. I thought they were so lucky to live like they were on vacation all year long. The house itself would be beautiful, if anyone ever painted over the peeling dove-gray paint, or repaired the formerly white shutters near the front door that hang crazily at opposing angles, or mowed the backyard more than twice a year. But as much as my father’s sister, Mary Ellen, tries to keep her house in some kind of order, with eight kids, there was always just “too much goddam fun to be had.” You were lucky if you could find a bed with an actual blanket on it, but I always went to sleep happy, even if I had to use my rolled-up sweatshirt as a pillow. At the Finnegans’, it wasn’t neat but it was comfortable, and there was always someone to play with and always something to do.
When we’d visit, my mom and Aunt Mary Ellen would usually stay up after us kids had gone to bed. They’d sit on beach chairs on the front lawn talking, and I’d fall asleep to the sound of their laughter and the Joni Mitchell albums playing through the open windows of the porch. I can’t help thinking about that now, as we stand gazing out over the water, and I look around for my dad, wondering if he’s remembering her too, but can’t find him in the crowd.
Even though the guests are encouraged to wear tuxedos and long dresses, it’s just for fun—the rest of the event is down-home casual. The “cocktail hour” (which mainly consists of a couple of coolers full of ice and some cans of beer) is held on the sand right in front of the house. There’s a crowd on the beach now, but Katie pushes through, squealing when she sees me. “You’re so skinny,” she says as she hugs me. “Well, hello,” she says to Dan, and gives me a wink. Then she peels off her shoes and veil, tosses them on the sand, and dives headfirst into the ocean, her fully clothed new husband by her side. “It’s a family tradition,” I explain to a visibly shocked Dan. “They have a special dress they all use for the ocean. She’ll put her real dress back on for the reception.”
Beers on the beach is usually my favorite part of a Finnegan wedding, but after tonight’s assault, I’m relieved to finally enter the tent and find our table. My dad has taken his seat already and has an expectant look that tugs at my heart. He’s missed me, I think to myself. He’s wearing the tuxedo I’ve seen him in a dozen times. The cut still fits him as it did when he was younger, but the lapels are shiny now from wear. He’s recently had a haircut, and something about him looks unexpectedly youthful. I give him a big hug.
“You look beautiful!” he says, still holding on tightly.
“Doesn’t she?” Dan agrees, and I blush and smile at him from over my father’s shoulder.
A ragged band of local musicians, regulars at all the Finnegan events, play an almost recognizable version of “Strangers in the Night” at varying tempos. The chair next to my dad is empty, and my cousin Tom and his wife, Beth, are seated across from us, struggling to keep their toddler from eating the centerpiece. Dan goes to find us another couple of beers and a scotch for my dad, who leans toward me once he’s gone.
“He seems like a smart fellow,” Dad says. “Very polite.”
“Yeah, he is. But he’s not my boyfriend.”
“You mentioned that.”
“Len and Elaine asked me if I got my nose done.”
“They don’t know what to say. They’re excited for you. People aren’t used to seeing someone from their television in person,” he says, giving my arm a little squeeze.
“I’m barely even on TV. I’ve done two dumb commercials in two and a half years, and now I’m getting stuck in these bizarre conversations with total strangers. I’ve hardly seen any of the cousins tonight. I’ve hardly seen you.”
“We’ve got the rest of the night. You know these things never end early. Now listen, I wish you’d called me back, because—”
“Dad, I call you. I call you lots. You just don’t know it because I can’t leave you a message because you don’t have an answering machine.”
“I don’t want an answering machine. A taped message is redundant information at best. I need so-and-so just letting me know that they called when I wasn’t home? Or I’m supposed to tell them on a recording that I’m not at home, or that I’m too busy to talk right now? I already know I’m not home, due to the fact that I’m the person who’s not home.”
“But me leaving a message is a way of letting you know I called.”
“If you call and I don’t answer, you already know I was busy and couldn’t have a conversation. I get the same information when I get your machine—it lets me know you’re absent or too busy to have a conversation. If we both had machines this could go on forever, this never actually speaking. I’m saving you a step by not having a machine. If the phone rings—”
I’m distracted by the presence of a strange woman who has appeared just over my father’s right shoulder. She’s wearing a soft blue dress, and she’s swaying slightly, as though she’s deciding whether to sit down in the empty chair beside him. Or maybe she’s just had a few too many. She must be another drunken Finnegan, but it’s odd because I don’t recognize her from any of the other weddings. Is she my aunt’s cousin Maureen from Ithaca? She puts her hand on my father’s shoulder, obviously confusing him for someone else, since if I don’t know this random Finnegan, he certainly doesn’t either. I should warn him that he’s being approached from behind by a drunken woman who thinks he’s someone else, and who—eerily—looks like she might be about to kiss him.
“Dad, um—”
“Eddie?”
She says his name, so I guess she isn’t a stranger, not to him at least. In fact, the look on my father’s face as he turns and then springs to his feet to greet her tells me she isn’t a stranger to him at all.
“Franny,” my father says to me, beaming. “I’d like you to meet someone.”
Her name is Dr. Mary Compton, and she’s some sort of eye surgeon my father met when he had “that thing with his cornea,” which he apparently told me about but I don’t remember. She’s divorced and has a daughter “about your age,” which immediately makes me fatigued as I imagine a future where Mary Compton’s daughter and I are forced to go shopping and have lunch and pretend to enjoy ourselves because our parents are dating. “I’ve always wanted a sister!” I imagine Mary’s daughter saying to me, as we lunch in a brightly lit department store café.
My father and Mary don’t seem to notice the cloud that settles over me while they chat away together easily. “Dr. Mary had to perform an emergency surgery tonight,” Dad says, beaming at her. “We’re so lucky she could make it at all.”
I nod in what I hope is convincing agreement.
When Dan returns to the table with our drinks, I slump down in my chair and take too many gulps of my beer all at once. As Dad introduces him to Mary, I watch as if from a great distance, unsure why I feel so strange. I truly want to be excited to meet this new person my father likes. I want to ask her questions and make her laugh and show her how well he raised me. But instead, I’m strangely quiet, inexplicably unable to think of a single thing to say.
Thankfully, Dan takes over, engaging her easily, learning about her recent promotion, and the fact that she lived in London for ten years, and hearing stories of her daughter’s time at Oxford, and how she met my dad. I try to nod and smile in the right places, but I’m finding it hard to focus.
Numbly, I watch my father behave in a way I’ve seldom seen. I’m riveted by how unfamiliar he seems to me and I can’t look away, even though his loopy expression makes me feel a little queasy. He’s grinning so wide, he looks positively goofy. He calls her “Dr. Mary,” as in “Dr. Mary and I both loved the New Haven Symphony’s season,” and in response she laughs and rolls her eyes.
“It’s so embarrassing when he calls me that, isn’t it, Frances?” she says, winking at me conspiratorially from across the candlelit table. “Like I’m one of those radio call-in hosts who isn’t really a doctor?”
“Actually, it’s just Franny,” I say, and my voice sounds strangely cold.
“Of course! So sorry. I knew that. I guess I’m a little nervous to finally meet you,” she admits shyly, and my father gazes at her, delighted.
Dinner arrives, and I finally manage to sputter out a few sentences as I pick at my burger. The Finnegans always have a barbecue instead of a caterer, and usually I love how homey and informal and comforting the food is, but tonight I’ve lost my appetite.
“Would you like to dance with me?” Dan asks, once the dinner plates are cleared and the cake has been served, and though normally I wouldn’t want to dance, at least not to this slow song, I’m relieved to have an excuse to get up from the table.
“Yes, please,” I say, and Dan takes my hand, guiding me smoothly to the dance floor.
From the start, it’s obvious he can dance—that he can really dance. His lead is gentle but confident, and it almost makes me look like I know what I’m doing, too.
“Cotillion,” he says, before I can ask. And then, “You okay, Franny?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I don’t know why I’m acting so weird. It’s just—Dr. Mary? It’s so cute. Cute is the one thing I never thought my father would suffer from.”
“He seems happy, though.”
“I know. He does. And of course I want him to be. He’s just never brought someone to a family thing before.”
“I understand,” Dan says, pulling me a little closer so I can hear him over the music.
It’s the perfect thing to say, and I lean my head on his shoulder, grateful not to have to explain myself further.
My cousin Katie makes her way across the dance floor, hand in hand with her new husband. She’s still in her wedding gown, but has traded her heels for high-top sneakers more comfortable for dancing. She hugs everyone as she passes, and her groom shakes hands, and sometimes they join in to dance with some of the couples on the floor. When she spots me, she leaves his side for a moment, reaching out to grab my hand and putting her arm around Dan.
“Your boyfriend’s so cute!” she squeals. “I didn’t get a good look at him before.”
“He’s my roommate, Katie,” I say emphatically, not looking at Dan. “I told you, my boyfriend had to work. You looked beautiful today, by the way.”
“Yes,” Dan says. “Beautiful ceremony, too.”
“Thanks, Fran. Thanks, Roommate.” Katie raises her eyebrows at Dan and looks him up and down. “You’re a good dancer,” she says, a gleam in her eye.
“Thank you,” he says, with a funny little bow.
“But this Sinatra stuff they’re playing now, this is just the warm-up, you know.”
“I’ve been informed about the upcoming mandatory dance party, yes,” he says formally, but grinning a little.
“Good, ’cause the DJ takes over after dinner, and this place is gonna get ugly,” Katie says. “After the old people leave, there’ll be real music. And by real, I mean old music, and new music, and horrible, shitty music. We don’t care, as long as you can dance to it. We’re gonna Macarena this thing if we have to, to keep this party going. The Macarena—that’s how low we’re gonna go. You’re not too good for that, are you, Roommate, with your fancy dance moves?”
“Certainly not,” says Dan, with pride.
“I like him,” Katie says to me. “You’re sure he’s not your boyfriend?”
“Ha, ha,” I say, and even though I’m sure, I’m glad she approves of the first-ever person I’ve brought home since Clark.
After she leaves, Dan and I continue to dance, swaying back and forth without saying anything. It’s strangely comfortable, this not talking. In my heels, his shoulders are the perfect height to rest my arms on. I can just see over him to where the light has faded outside, and the little fairy lights inside the tent are beginning to glow, making everything feel magical and warm.
“So, why do you have a tuxedo?” it occurs to me to ask, tipping my head back to look up at him.
“Well, ah, we had to have one. For my college a cappella group.”
“No!” I say, taking a step back, trying to picture what Dan would look like in a line of tuxedoed college boys, bobbing merrily in unison.
“Yes,” he says proudly.
“Really? You sang in one of those groups?”
“Yes. Is that so hard to picture?”
“It’s—surprising, I guess. I’ve never even heard you hum. And don’t you have to, like, do backup singer—type choreography and sing all that barbershop stuff?”
“We weren’t a typical group like that. We made unusual selections, musically speaking. We did some parodies, which were well received. We actually got the chance to …”
“What?”
“Well, we got the chance to appear on The Tonight Show.”
“What! The Tonight Show? Why haven’t you ever told me that before?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Dan says, hanging his head a bit. “I didn’t want to brag, I guess.”
I want to tease him for not telling me, for keeping a secret like this, but there’s something about how humble he is in this moment—his looking embarrassed to have drawn attention to himself—that makes my heart swell.
“I hope I can see it someday,” I say, and I can see him blush.
“The thing is, it turned into a bit of a sore spot. Within the family.”
“How is that possible?”
“Well, my father’s side has been going to Princeton for three generations, and there have been certain, well, expectations. I’m the first to defy some of them.”
“They considered appearing on The Tonight Show a form of defiance?”
“It was considered a distraction from my studies, artistic nonsense, you know,” he says bitterly. “Later, when I announced I wanted to write, my father blamed it on the group somewhat, as if one creative endeavor had somehow opened a floodgate to them all. But studying to be a doctor, as the generations before me did, well, that wasn’t for me. Right before we appeared on the show, I announced to my father I was dropping out of pre-med to be a screenwriter. The idea of writing movies for a living—never mind the subjects that I’ve chosen to write about—well, that’s been a little bit difficult for them, for the family. I’m actually somewhat of a disappointment to them, it seems. My father cut me out of my trust fund and never saw the show.”
“But how do you …”
“How do I live?”
“Well, yes.”
“I have a small inheritance from a great-uncle who always wanted to be a painter. When it runs out, I’ll get a regular job, I guess. Or go crawling back to my father, which would probably mean going back to school to be a doctor.”
“So, you’re on a deadline, too!”
He smiles. “I suppose we have that in common, yes.”
I picture Dan at the dining room table back in Brooklyn, poring over his notebooks and computer every day, eating the same cheap chicken plate from the same horrible place, nursing one beer each night that he’s afraid to put on the coffee table, and the thought of him being made to feel that anyone is disappointed in him shifts something inside of me. I can almost hear it, a sound both sharp and soft, like a piece of heavy paper being ripped out of a notepad, and all of a sudden I feel overwhelming respect for Dan. I care about him, but it’s more than that—I’m proud of him, too.
It’s a relief to recognize that these feelings are nothing at all like my feelings for James. With James there’s heat—it’s exciting to be with him. My feelings for Dan are more like a warm glow, like the lights in the tent, and similarly contained. He’s a good person, I think.
That’s all.
Later, somewhere between “Whoomp There It Is” and “I Saw the Sign,” my father and Dr. Mary come over to say goodbye. They’re gleaming with sweat, and with the low lights and his flushed cheeks, my father looks like he could be thirty again. Suddenly, I’m terribly sorry for how I’ve behaved, and I wish I could go back and replay the whole evening, getting to know her better, and in general inserting a better version of myself into the picture.
“No, don’t go!” I say to them both, clasping Dr. Mary’s hand in mine.
“We have to,” my dad says, somewhat out of breath.
“It was so nice to finally meet you,” Dr. Mary says, bringing her face closer to mine. “I hope we can see you again, very soon.”
“Me, too,” I say. And I realize that I mean it.
The next two hours fly by as Dan and I dance to every silly song the DJ plays. Somewhere around the B-52s’ “Rock Lobster,” I can feel my legs have turned to jelly.
“I don’t think I have anything left,” I say to Dan, a little breathlessly.
“Thank God,” he says. “I’m soaked.”
“We’ll have to sneak out,” I yell to him over the blaring music. “If Katie sees us, we’re toast.”
“Okay,” he says with a grin, up for the challenge. “You break right, I’ll duck left, and I’ll meet you outside.”
We get lucky when “This Is How We Do It” comes on and the dance floor floods with the remaining guests. At our empty table, still littered with cake crumbs, I grab the vintage clutch I borrowed from Jane, then slip out the front door of the tent, trying to assume the nonchalant look of someone who isn’t leaving, only going out for a breath of air. Outside the tent, the night is impossibly dark and I blink a few times, disoriented, trying to get my eyes to adjust.
“Pssst,” Dan says from behind a tree on the lawn. I catch the moon’s reflection on the ocean, lighting the way to the beach.
“Run!” I whisper, and I take off, suddenly giddy and giggling uncontrollably.
I reach the sand well before Dan, and I kick off my shoes and catch my breath, lulled by the sound of the waves softly kissing the shore. The motel where we’re staying is just half a mile down the beach, close enough to see from here. I hardly paid attention to the room when we checked in—we only had time to dump our things on the beds and change quickly before the wedding. But now I see the motel’s softly glowing neon sign and the images come to me: the small room, the two beds that seemed uncomfortably close together, the bathroom we’ll share, the decisions we’ll have to make about brushing our teeth and who showers first.
“Franny?” Dan has somehow crept up behind me without my noticing. It’s too dark to see him exactly, but I can tell he’s close and my heart beats faster. My dress is damp from the dancing, and now there’s a breeze from the sea that sends a chill through my body. I have a feeling that he’s about to kiss me, and I start to shiver. I can’t let that happen, no matter what. It would mislead him—I have feelings for him only as a friend. But I’m paralyzed in this spot on the beach for some reason, powerless to move away from him.
I can’t see Dan well enough to read his expression, and I can’t summon the words to explain to him how I’m feeling, and now there he is, a step closer, close enough for me to smell the beer on his breath. He takes my hand in his and holds it to his chest so I can feel his heart beat, and then he steps even closer, so close he towers above me, just inches away, his body sheltering me from the breeze. But I can’t let it happen; I don’t want anything to happen to change things between us, although in a way I do.
“Don’t,” I say too sharply, and Dan freezes.
“Don’t,” I say again, unnecessarily, since neither of us has moved.
And so we simply stand there, for I don’t know how long, completely still, with only the sound of the ocean and the beating of Dan’s heart against my hand.