Sometime Soon

fifteen



Barbecue day dawns clear and cool. The plan is to drive over to Laura and Jonathan’s apartment and then leave together from there. Safety in numbers is the general idea. Making an early escape is another idea.

Mom and Dad always encourage us to invite our friends to the barbeque, but we know without asking that none of our friends would be interested in attending. With mostly friends of my parents, and relatives who suffer from various physical ailments and want nothing more than to describe them in detail to us, my sister and I don’t even want to be there, never mind torturing our friends.

“Will your mom have some backup food this time?” Jonathan asks. He’s driving. Laura sits beside him and I’m in the back.

“Maybe we can convince Dad to let you man the grill this year,” Laura suggests.

This is Jonathan’s second appearance at the barbecue. Last year, when he noticed my dad putting cooked hamburgers back on the same plate he had retrieved them from when they were raw, his half-eaten burger nearly made a reappearance.

“Please don’t suggest it,” Jonathan pleads, a hint of panic in his voice.

“Okay, I won’t. Relax.” Laura replies, sounding annoyed. From the backseat, I can picture her rolling her eyes at him.

For some reason, Jonathan believes that my father doesn’t like him. Jonathan is a friendly, gregarious person--as is his entire family from what I can tell. He seems to think that because my father never speaks to him or acknowledges him, that my father doesn’t like him. We’ve explained that my father never really speaks to anyone, including us, but that hasn’t changed his opinion.

Cars are already filling the driveway when we arrive. We take a spot on the street, and I lead the way, carrying the flowers we’ve bought for my mother. When I pull open the screen door and step into the foyer, I can hear voices coming from the backyard, and I smell something cooking that I can’t quite identify. We find my mother in the steamy kitchen donning a white apron and looking frazzled.

“Hi,” I say, surprising her.

She turns abruptly, her disingenuous smile disappearing once she realizes it’s us.

“What’s going on?” Laura asks beside me.

Mom wipes a hand across her forehead and places the spatula she’s been holding on the counter. I see pots on the stove behind her. “Ask your father,” she scowls.

“What do you mean?”

She places a hand on her hip. “I asked him to check the grill last week. Then I asked him again yesterday. With everything going with the wedding, we haven’t had a chance to use it this summer. So, I asked him to please check to make sure it was working. What do you think he did?”

“He didn’t check it,” we mumble in unison.

“No, he didn’t.”

“It’s not working,” I say needlessly.

“Of course it isn’t!” She picks up her spatula again.

“Do you want Jonathan to take a look at it?” Laura offers.

“No, it doesn’t matter now.” She turns back toward the stove. Obviously, the barbecue has moved inside. At least the cooking part has. On the stove, hot dogs are boiling in one pot, corn-on-the-cob in another. The hamburgers are sizzling inside the oven.

Quietly tiptoeing around Mom as though she’ll ignite and explode if we get too close, we apply ourselves to helping. Laura lifts a vat of potato salad and takes it outside. Jonathan follows wordlessly. I put down the flowers and grab two soda bottles. Then I make my way to the backyard.

A handful of bridge tables covered in red-checkered tablecloths are spread across the grass. People are milling around with drinks in their hands. I spot Dad leaning against the useless grill with an amber bottle of beer in his hand. The grill itself is a marvel of modern technology. It’s a silver gargantuan covered in dials and indicators. I’m surprised Dad can ever even work it at all.

I wade through a sea of cheek kisses that I’m sure leave lip-shaped impressions all over my face. I field questions about my job and my new townhouse, and I try to answer politely without having to stop and chat for too long. Finally, I reach Dad. He’s drinking his beer, his usual placid expression in place, but I can see that the muscles around his mouth are tight.

“I hear you’re in the doghouse,” I comment.

He shrugs. “I don’t see why we have to have this barbecue every year. It’s too much work.”

“Not for you--today,” I say. Then I narrow my eyes at him. “You didn’t sabotage the grill, did you?”

He laughs and shakes his head.

“Hello Laura. I hear congratulations are in order.”

I turn to see Uncle Jerry squinting at me. Laura is nowhere in sight.

“I’m Andrea.”

He appears confused for a moment, but recovers quickly and grins at me. “Oh, Andrea. How are you?”

“I’m good. How are you?”

He purses his lips together. Above them, a pair of thick glasses balance on the bridge of his red bulbous nose. “You know. Doing the best I can.”

“That’s all any of us can do,” I tell him.

“Don’t get old Andrea,” he instructs, pointing a weathered crooked finger at me.

“It’s better than the alternative,” I suggest.

Uncle Jerry blinks at me, looking confused again behind his coke bottle glasses. He’s my dad’s uncle, which makes him my great uncle. I glance over at Dad, trying to make eye contact with him, hoping for a rescue. But he is oblivious to my discomfort as he takes another pull on his beer.

“How’s Ashley?” I ask Uncle Jerry after a brief conversation lull. Ashley is his twenty-something granddaughter, rumored to have an alcohol problem, who never turns up to family events.

“Good. Very good. She’s working at the registry of motor vehicles. Saving money to go to college.”

“That’s great.”

“She wants to be a teacher.”

“How nice.” I glance around, thinking of a way to escape.

“Her boyfriend works for the registry, too. He got her the job,” he continues.

“Oh, lucky for her.”

Uncle Jerry nods. “How about you?” he asks.

“What about me?” I answer, distracted as I spot Laura coming toward me.

“Have you got a boyfriend?”

“No,” I smile sweetly. “Excuse me. I think my sister is looking for me.” I turn before leaving and say, “Hey Dad, did you know that Ashley is now working for the registry of motor vehicles?” Uncle Jerry moves toward him, more than happy to expound on the topic. That’s when I grab Laura’s elbow and turn back to the house with her. “Good timing,” I whisper.

“Mom wants us to cut up the fruit for her.”

“Great!” I exclaim, happy for a valid excuse to go back inside.

Laura gives me a funny look.

This is how I spend the afternoon. I keep my head down and work my butt off, bustling around the kitchen, carrying food in and out of the house, washing dishes, appearing far too busy to chat with anyone.

“Andrea, let me do that,” Mom offers, coming to stand beside me at the sink. “Go outside and enjoy yourself.”

“It’s okay. I’m almost done,” I reply before glancing around for more dishes to wash.

“Thanks, sweetie,” she says. The she puts an arm around me and squeezes. “You’re really terrific. You know that?”

“Yes, I do,” I joke, feeling guilty. My motives aren’t exactly pure.

When Mom leaves, Laura appears with a dishtowel in hand, and she starts drying the pots I’ve laid on the counter.

“Where’s Jonathan?” I ask. I realize that I haven’t seen him all afternoon.

“Mr. Kates got a hold of him. They’re out front looking at his Mustang.” Mr. Kates is one of our parents’ friends. With unnaturally black hair and jeans that are inappropriately tight, he has a death grip on his youth. The Mustang is part of the illusion.

“Does Jonathan care about his Mustang?”

“Not a bit,” she replies. “I may not get him to come to another one of these.”

“If he can come up with a viable excuse, I will be in awe.” I plunge my hands into the warm soapy water and go to work on a charred pan.

“His name is David Rose by the way.”

I glanced at Laura, confused. “Who?”

She rubs the pot dry and avoids eyes. “The lawyer I told you about. That’s his name.”

I feel my shoulders tense. “What kind of a last name is Rose?”

“I think it was changed from Rosen or Rosenberg, maybe. He’s cute. He looks a little like Matthew Broderick.”

“Matthew Broderick isn’t cute.”

“Well, maybe not when compared to Channing Tatum or Brad Pitt. But compared to the average guy on the street, Matthew Broderick is pretty cute.”

She’s has a point. As she finishes the pot, I hand her the clean pan. “No,” I answer firmly.

“Come on Andy,” she whines, jutting her hip out. “What have you got to lose?”

“It isn’t about having anything to lose. I’m just not up for it, okay?”

“I’m not taking no for an answer.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“I already gave him your number.” She bites her lip and then winces as I stare wide-eyed at her.

“You’re joking,” I exclaim in disbelief.

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. But I had no idea you’d say no and actually mean it.”

“You gave him my number before you even asked me?”

She nods, looking contrite.

“What if he’d called? I’d have no idea who he was.”

“He wouldn’t have called you yet because he was going to be away visiting his family in Montreal, and he isn’t going to be back until tomorrow.”

“He’s Canadian!”

“I guess. So what?”

“Nothing.” My shoulders slump in defeat. I can’t think of anything wrong with Canadians. I’m just upset in general.

“Come on,” she nudges me with her hip. “What’s the big deal? At worst, you’ll get a free dinner out of it.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” I mutter.

“How many times do I have to tell you,” she points the dishtowel at me. “You don’t offer to pay for dinner when you’re on a date.”

I hold my hands up in silent surrender. I’m not getting into that discussion again with her. “He probably won’t call anyway,” I say. Everyone is always trying to indiscriminately set me up with single men they know or barely know. I stopped protesting too vigorously because, generally, none of them ever actually called me.

The washing is finished, and I feel the need to soap the greasy water off my hands. I grab my purse and head for the bathroom, leaving Laura to finish up. I also want to check my cell phone to see if Katie has called. She’s been on my mind all day. Happy to see that I do indeed have a message, I dial into my voicemail. But no one ever calls when I expect them to.

“Hi, Andrea. It’s Ryan. I ended up having to go to New York last week, so I wasn’t around. But I hope you’re having a good holiday weekend. Give me a call when you get a chance. Talk to you soon.”

I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it. Had I imagined him asking me out for Thursday last week and telling me that he would call me? He left a message as though he hadn’t completely blown me off. Maybe it’s me. I shake my head at my phone incredulously.



If I were to look for an example of a long, happy marriage, I wouldn’t have to look any further than my parents. They have their issues, and they certainly do their fair share of fighting, but they love each other and they are able to weather all issues that arise--not necessary easily or even gracefully--but eventually. Their caring is evidenced in everything they say and do. They are an entity unto themselves and have been for over thirty years, Jack and Karen. When you say one name, you automatically say the other.

We leave the barbecue just after the dessert, homemade strawberry shortcake, was served. It’s the earliest we could make our exit without seeming rude. Laura and I finished the main meal cleanup, leaving my parents with only the dessert dishes to handle.

“So you think I should call him back?” I ask. I told them about the message from Ryan once we were back in the car.

“He could have forgotten about your date,” Jonathan suggests. “It happens.”

“Compared to not walking you to your car, this isn’t quite as bad,” Laura adds from the front seat.

I shake my head. “Why are we always measuring how bad, on a general scale of badness, something a guy did was? Why can’t anyone just be nice and normal? Act courteous and kind? I don’t get it.”

This is a rhetorical question as we all know, but Laura scowls in commiseration with me. “Because guys are idiots!” she proclaims.

“Hey.” Jonathan protests on behalf of his gender.

“You know what I mean,” she chides, reaching out to turn on the radio. Suddenly Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ bout Love” is blasting at us. She smiles ruefully at me as she turns down the volume.

But I’m not sure Jonathan does know what she means. He looks a little put out.



I receive a call from Katie later that evening. She finally sat Mike down and told him.

“He was shell-shocked at first,” she tells me. Her voice holds an undercurrent of excitement. Mike is at a Red Sox game with some friends, allowing Katie to relate the story to me without having to whisper. “He just stared at me and didn’t say anything for a long time.”

“Uh-huh,” I comment, anticipating the rest.

“But then this kind of slow smile crept across his face. He was so adorable, Andy. He gave me a huge hug. He’s happy about the baby. He really is.”

“That’s great.”

“I feel so relieved. I don’t know why I waited so long to tell him.”

“What did he say exactly?”

“He asked me how I was feeling and if everything was okay. He couldn’t believe he was going to be a dad again. And don’t go reading anything into this, but he thinks we should postpone the wedding plans until after the baby is born. I can’t be planning for a wedding and a baby at the same time, and I definitely can’t be walking down the aisle with a belly out to here.”

“I’m not going to read anything into that, Katie.”

“Yes, you are. I know how you think.”

Her comment rubs me the wrong way--even though she’s mostly right. My impression of Mike hasn’t spontaneously generated itself. I take a deep breath. This is none of my business. “I’m glad you’re both happy about the baby. And I’m here if you need anything. You can talk to me about anything, and I promise not to make any judgments. Okay?”

“Okay,” she repeats.

“Besides, celebrities are having babies out of wedlock all the time. It’s totally trendy right now.”

“That’s me. Always following the latest trends. I bought the new iPhone and soon I’ll have a baby bump.”