Sitting in a high-back chair, off in the corner of the lobby, I waited for Mindy. And in less than fifteen minutes, there she was, making her entrance, stage left: fast walking, arms pumping, hint of a smirk on her pixie face. When I saw her, I felt a surge of happiness, relief. My little Mindy, my little buddy, my coconspirator, my sidekick, my best audience, was here. When you observed your children from afar, when you saw them making their way in the world without you, even if it was just walking across a hotel lobby floor, that was when you saw them perfectly and that was when, I suspected, you might love them the most.
I watched her. Like her mother, she was small and thin and wore her dark hair pulled back in a permanent ponytail that allowed her large green eyes and turned-up nose plenty of space to be noticed and admired. Mary used to call her Sweet Pixie when she was a girl, which was misleading because Mindy did not meet any definition of the word sweet. (Note: As a toddler, one of her first spoken words was fuck, a word she picked up from her articulate and emotional Uncle Sal, and one she consistently utilized in all its various permutations throughout life.) As she approached the bar, I noticed she was wearing her trademark evil elf attire: black hoodie and tight, black jeans, the uniform she had been adopted some years ago upon moving to New York.
I stood when I heard her laugh. “I’ll have what’s she’s having,” she said, pointing to Red Bear, who was sitting submerged in a barstool, a glass of wine in front of her. The bartender, a nice young kid who had eagerly played along, smiled.
“She’s having a Chardonnay,” he said.
“Perfect.” She turned as I approached. “Hey, Daddy-o!”
“Hi, sweetie.” I hugged her hard and gave her forehead a peck. “How was your trip?”
“Great. Hey, my first trip to Knoxville.” She glanced around the bar, which was standard glass, brass, and fern trees. It was empty, with the exception of two overweight men in the corner, one of whom had his head on a table. “And I have to tell you,” she said in a stage whisper, “so far, I’m impressed.”
“Where’s your things?”
“I left them at the front desk.” She pulled off her sweatshirt to reveal a black T-shirt, and we both sat down. “He asleep?”
“Yes.”
“Is it all right leaving him?”
“He’s fine.”
When the bartender brought Mindy her drink, I reached over and took Red Bear’s glass.
“So, have you talked to anyone, your mom? Karen?”
Mindy drained her wine in three gulps, then motioned to the bartender for another.
“Slow down,” I said.
“The wedding’s off,” she said, wiping the corners of her mouth.
There was no way I’d heard her right. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Just don’t flip out on me. I can’t have anyone else flip out on me. I’m just the messenger. I know nothing.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The wedding is off, Dad. It’s off. They broke it off. I just got off the phone with Mom. She told me. Then Aunt Sally told me. Then Uncle Sal told me. Then all of the cousins called me. At the airport and in the cab, everyone kept calling.”
“What?”
“It’s off.”
I squeezed my eyes closed. “Okay, all right, I need you to slow down. Let me understand this: there’s no wedding? They’re not getting married?”
“There’s no wedding, and they’re not getting married. That’s the sum total of what I know. Don’t flip out.”
“I’m not flipping … I’m just … Good God! Poor Karen! Who called it off? Did he call it off? Did he?”
“No. She did.”
“What happened? Why?”
“He was screwing around. They caught him.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“They caught him having sex.”
“What? You mean he was having sex with someone?”
“No, Dad, they caught him masturbating.”
“I can’t believe this. Where? In Charleston? Who was he screwing? How did they catch him?”
“I don’t know the details. It’s a very fluid situation. There’s something about a pool, though, speaking of fluid. They caught him doing it in the pool.”
“A pool? What do you mean, he was screwing in a pool? They caught him screwing in a pool four days before the wedding?”
“In his defense, it was five days before the wedding.”
I was a lot of things at that exact moment: stunned, confused, angry, and yes, maybe a little, just a little, relieved. “How’s she doing, Karen, how’s she doing?”
“I don’t know. She’s the only one who didn’t call me.”
“A pool. I can’t believe this.” I felt around in my pockets for my phone. “I have to call her.”
Mindy picked up her glass. “Call tomorrow. Mom said they were going to meet with Roger’s family. Have a Karen–Roger summit. You know, just for the record, I never liked that guy.”
I patted myself down. “I need your phone. I left mine in the room.”
Mindy opened her purse and handed me hers. “Here, but she’ll see my number and won’t answer.”
“She’ll answer. What’s her number?”
“I don’t know her number.”
“You don’t know your sister’s number?”
“You don’t know your daughter’s number?”
“I have it on speed dial.” I was having trouble processing this news; the wedding had been planned for months. The inn, the caterer, the guests: who was calling them? What and how were we going to tell them? My cousins had booked flights months ago. I had rented a tuxedo, and it was being delivered to my room. Then I thought of Karen again. What must she be going through? How was she handling this?