There was a rumor that when Patrick didn’t get into Harvard, Will overheard Babs talking about it to her bridge club. “Well, Michael will definitely get in, but we all knew Patrick wasn’t going to make it. You know how it is—you always throw the first pancake out.”
Part of me hoped this story wasn’t true, that it was a lie made up by one of the Kellys, just a joke that had lasted through the years. But another part of me thought there was a good chance Babs actually had ridiculed Patrick in front of all of her friends. When Patrick wasn’t around, his siblings referred to him as Pancake, which seemed cruel. Patrick had the same features as his brothers—thin nose, strong cheekbones, blue eyes—but they didn’t come together the same way on him, and he was much less handsome. His eyes were just a little large for his face, his nose just a little too sharp, and something about him reminded me of a deer—he was always so jumpy and unsure.
He tried hard to please Babs, but it didn’t seem to matter. He could’ve moved somewhere far away, but he stayed close by and came to Sunday dinners. I always wondered why. If it were me, I would’ve moved to the other side of the country.
Matt’s dad was standing at the end of the kitchen table, and all of the grandchildren were vying for his attention, interrupting each other with news about school and field trips. Charles was a quiet man who worked a lot—all the time, really. Even now that he was officially retired he spent most of his time in the office. But he also adored his grandchildren and tried to attend as many soccer games and gymnastics meets as he could. He never raised his voice and he didn’t have to—as soon as he started talking, everyone got quiet. I could never figure out how he and Babs ended up together. Did she marry someone quiet to make up for all the noise she made? Did they balance each other out on a kindness spectrum?
The kitchen was full and noisy then, everyone talking at once. Babs looked at all of us and said, “Okay, now. Don’t just stand there like lumps. Go sit down.” And because we always did what she said, we walked quickly into the dining room.
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The bright side of Sunday dinners was that the food was always really good. I tried to concentrate on that when I was there. This Sunday was roast chicken with lemon and garlic, twice-baked potatoes, and a kale salad.
“Kale?” Meg asked, as it was passed to her. She sniffed. “How trendy of you, Babs.”
Meg was twenty-three and still living at home. She’d had two different jobs since graduating from Trinity, and probably could’ve moved out, but I think she enjoyed the benefits of having Rosie iron her clothes and make her bed each morning. Once, when I said something about how fun it was to live with my friends after graduating, and how I wouldn’t have wanted to move back home, she looked up and said, “That’s because your parents live in Wisconsin. Gross.”
When Matt and I first started dating, I thought I’d become friends with Meg. She was closer to my age than anyone else. But she didn’t have much interest in me and, to be honest, was sort of a spoiled brat. Even Babs didn’t seem to know what to do with her. Jenny and Nellie had known Meg since she was a baby, so they thought she was adorable, and when she rolled her eyes, or christened something disgusting or revolting, they thought it was a riot. They were always commenting on her clothes (Meg had a wardrobe that would make anyone jealous) and asking her for accessory advice or pressing her about her dating life. Meg found them amusing, and tolerated their questions, sometimes even smiling briefly at them.
Most of the time, Meg was on her phone, which made it difficult to have any sort of conversation with her. Babs, who was firm about her grandchildren not having any screen time at the house, seemed to have very little power over Meg and her iPhone—once I watched as Babs tried to take it away from her, and Meg whined like a sick pony or a panicked toddler.
As dinner started, I braced myself. When all of the Kellys were in one place, the noise was constant, like construction. I never got used to the way the grandchildren raced through rooms, running into people and tripping over carpets (which was probably how poor Jonah was mowed down earlier). And there was so much food—enormous platters of food, so many mouths gobbling things down, so many glasses of water and wine being poured. Each dinner felt like a small fund-raiser. More than once after I married Matt, someone said to me, “That’s so nice you finally got yourself a big family,” like it was something that I always wanted, like it was something that everyone hoped for.