“My sister already has one.”
“Oh, yeah.” I’d forgotten that. We don’t hang out with Anna that much because she’s kind of hard on Tom, just like she was the first day I met them both. She’s fine with me, but for some reason, Tom seems to drive her crazy and she’s always finding fault with him. But she does have a little tattoo above her wrist that says PEACE, which is ironic given her personality.
“Anyway,” Tom says, pretending to be focused on the cake but surreptitiously sneaking a peek at me, “it’s not like I expect you to do this too, or anything. It was just something that felt right for me.”
“It was really, really sweet,” I say.
“You like it?”
“No, I love it,” I lie.
7.
We’ve already made three separate trips to the market on Sunday to grab things I didn’t know we didn’t have until I couldn’t find them, when I realize fifteen minutes before the guests are due to arrive that I don’t have any French bread for the artichoke dip, so I ask Tom to race out one more time.
He wonders out loud—with some justification—why we didn’t just order in. “It’s only Jacob and that girl, right? They’d probably be happy with anything we put in front of them. For graduate students, a free meal is a free meal.”
Since I’ve spent the last three hours slaving away in the kitchen, and my feet hurt, and I’m sweaty, and I still have to shower, dry my hair, and get dressed before they come, I’m not in the mood to figure out what would have been a better plan than the one we’re committed to. “It’s my birthday dinner and I wanted to make a friggin’ home-cooked meal. Do you really have a problem with that?”
He holds up his hands in surrender, tells me he’ll get a baguette, and flees.
I spoon the thick artichoke mixture into a little pan and put it in the oven to get hot and bubbly (as per the directions on my laptop—all the recipes I’m using are online, and I have to keep tabbing back and forth between them) before I race to the bathroom and stand in the shower just long enough to wet my hair and condition it (with my curly hair, actual shampooing is like a once-a-week thing) and run a razor up my legs. I’m wrapped in a towel and combing my hair when the phone rings the special intercom ring that means someone’s downstairs and needs to be let in.
I race to the phone, hit the buzzer, call down that we’re on the eighth floor and to turn right out of the elevator, then race back across the apartment to our bedroom, where I throw on some underwear, a pair of jeans (because I said it would be casual), and a glittery tank top (because I want to look nice). I’m still trying to decide what shoes to wear when the apartment doorbell rings.
I run on bare feet across the living room, prop a smile on my face, fling the door open—and gasp audibly.
Jacob’s standing there.
My dad’s at his side.
* * *
I gape at them while they both wish me a happy birthday.
“I know we’re a little early,” Jacob says, apparently misinterpreting my stunned silence. “I thought it would take longer to get here than it did. No traffic.”
He’s holding my father by the elbow, and as they move into the apartment, I see why. My father’s gait is unsteady. He lifts each foot tentatively and sets it down gingerly, like he’s not sure it will land on something solid.
I come around to his other side. I don’t actually hold his elbow, which I feel would embarrass us both, but I do keep my hand poised an inch or two below it. It’s not particularly helpful, but it’s there if he stumbles, which seems way too possible.
A shard of guilt slices into my heart at seeing him so slowed down. I should have called him this week. I should have invited him tonight in the first place. I should be paying more attention to how old he’s getting.
“Where’s Tom?” Jacob asks as we settle my father into one of the armchairs.
“Um…” I’m so thrown by my father’s appearance at my doorstep and by his overall appearance that it takes me a moment to remember. “Tom? He ran to the store for something.”
“You should have called us,” Jacob says. “We could have stopped on the way.”
“He’ll be back in a sec. Do you mind if I go dry my hair really fast?”
My father waves his hand regally, dismissing me. “I was wondering if that was the new hair fashion,” he says to Jacob jovially as I move away.
In the bathroom, I set the blow-dryer to the maximum heat and power, bend over at the waist, and shoot the hot air at my roots. My hair will end up frizzy, but since my guests are here, I don’t have time to use the diffuser.
As I stand back up and flip my hair over my shoulders, I try to remember what I wrote in my original e-mail to Jacob that might have made him think the invitation included my father. Nothing. I had said almost nothing in my e-mail. Maybe that was my mistake.
Tom finds me in the bathroom just as I’m dabbing some stain onto my cheeks and lips. “You didn’t tell me you were inviting your father” is how he greets me as he enters, still holding the bag with the baguette poking out of the top.
“I didn’t invite him! I invited Jacob, and I guess he just assumed I meant he should come with Dad.”
Tom grins. “Maybe Cathy will fall in love with your dad. I mean, he’s available now, right? We’re giving her two bachelors for the price of one. She should be thrilled.”
“Very funny. This is going to be so weird. The four of us and…Dad.”
“Yup,” he says cheerfully. “Happy birthday, babe.”
* * *
The plus side is that Cathy really is thrilled to meet my father.
“I read your book in college,” she tells him. “It was amazing.”
I watch Dad with just a touch of anxiety. He could go either way with a statement like that: raise his eyebrows derisively and say something cutting or accept it as a compliment. To my relief, he chooses to be gracious and thanks her in a pleasantly condescending way before turning to me and asking when my mother will be arriving.
“She’s not.” I pretend not to notice the disappointment that crosses his face. “This is the party! Who wants a glass of wine?”
While Tom takes care of the drink orders, I try to get a conversation going between Jacob and Cathy about their studies, but my father interrupts almost immediately to ask why my mother isn’t there. “Did she have other plans?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know. I didn’t invite her, Dad.”
“Keats didn’t actually invite you, either,” Tom says, coming in with the wine bottle and glasses. “I mean, we’re happy as always to see you, Larry, but it’s totally a surprise.” He jerks his chin in Jacob’s direction. “We didn’t realize Jacob would be bringing a date.” And he laughs.
I picture myself bashing the wine bottle on the edge of the coffee table and twisting its jagged edge into Tom’s eye. I have to remind myself that he’s the man of my dreams and I love him a lot because right now I. Just. Want. To. Kill. Him.
Jacob is staring at Tom, a half-eaten oval of French bread halted halfway to his mouth. “I thought…” He slowly turns his head to look at me. “I just assumed you meant both of us. Since it was your birthday.”
“I did! I mean, maybe I didn’t at first, but this is great.” I awkwardly pat my father’s knee. “I’m so glad you’re here, Dad. I feel honored.” I force a smile as I look around our little group. “This is perfect. The five of us here. I’m so happy.” Could I sound any more idiotic?
Tom’s pouring wine, unconcerned, oblivious to how he just made things much more uncomfortable for everyone there—except him, apparently. He hands each of us a glass and holds his own up, saluting me. “To Keats. Happy birthday to the love of my life.”
I wonder if there’s anything more annoying than being called something like that by a guy whose death you’re still fantasizing about. “Thanks,” I say through clenched teeth as everyone raises a glass to me and we all drink, some of us more desperately than others.
I try agai
n to get Cathy and Jacob to talk directly to each other by doing the hostessy prompting thing—“So, would you guys say that teaching freshmen is easier than seniors or vice versa?”—and they both respond, but the conversation is awkward and stilted, and eventually my dad steps in. He’s not a good listener. If he has to spend time away from his computer and in company, he wants to be the one everyone’s listening to. So he starts talking.
Once he gets going, he won’t stop unless someone or something makes him, and after half an hour of Dad’s explaining to us that the problems in the Middle East are based more on ancient and conflicting ideas of government than on the more obvious schisms of religion and ethnicity, Tom starts noticeably fidgeting and glancing at the TV, which I insisted we keep off for the dinner party. He’s missing a baseball game—the one Lou and Izzy are at. I know he’d much rather have gone with them, but he hasn’t complained about it since this is for my birthday.
It occurs to me that the sooner I get dinner on the table, the sooner this mistake of an evening will come to an end, so I excuse myself and head toward the kitchen.
When I get there, I realize that Jacob has followed me in.
“Can I help?”
“You know how to toss a salad?”
“Gee,” he says, “I’m not sure. Maybe you could draw a diagram for me?”
I’m not in the mood to joke around. “The dressing’s in that bowl. Just whisk it a little more before pouring it on, will you?” I bend down to take the lasagna out of the oven where it’s been staying warm for the last half hour. I put it on top of the stove and peel back the tinfoil. The cheese is bubbling and it looks pretty good. At least I didn’t ruin the food, I think.
Jacob says in a low voice, “I’m sorry I misinterpreted your invitation, Keats. I guess I just assumed that since it was your birthday party, you wanted your dad here.”
“It’s no big deal.” I go to the refrigerator to get out the bowl of Parmesan cheese I grated by hand earlier that day out of some crazy Suzy Homemaker belief that I shouldn’t buy it pre-grated. Ninety percent of the time I eat takeout Chinese food and pizza for dinner, so why I insisted that everything be homemade and top quality tonight is beyond me. It made sense earlier. But not now, not when I’m thinking I just want these people out of my house. Including Tom. Especially Tom.
Why did he have to point out Jacob’s mistake? He’s supposed to be the host, for god’s sake, and make people feel welcome in our home, not make them feel bad about a minor misunderstanding. Especially not when it was going to make an already awkward evening even more awkward.
“I’m actually really happy to have my dad here,” I say. “The only reason I didn’t invite him in the first place is because I know he doesn’t like to go out much.”
“He really wanted to come tonight,” Jacob says. He’s poured the dressing on the salad and now he’s tossing it carefully, gingerly. When Tom tosses a salad, lettuce flies everywhere, and if I complain, he grins and says, “I can’t control my own strength,” but Jacob just gently scoops and tumbles the leaves with the servers. “He’s been kind of—” He searches for the right word. “Kind of nostalgic, I guess. Wistful. I think he misses being with his family.”
“He didn’t spend any more time with me when he was still in the house.”
“I know. It’s not logical. But something about moving out has shaken him up.”
“Then I’m especially glad you brought him tonight.” I glance up in time to see the relief on Jacob’s face, so maybe I’ve fixed the damage Tom has done.
“So how do you know Cathy?” he asks. “I’ve never heard you mention her.”
“Through work. She’s so nice, I wanted us to become better friends.” Man, I’m smooth. A born matchmaker.
“Cool. Salad’s all tossed. What else can I do for you?”
“Carry it into the dining room, by which I mean the table in the living room.”
“Got it.” He picks the salad up. As he moves past me, he leans his head in toward mine and whispers, “If you’d just told me it was a setup in the first place, Keats, I’d have known not to bring your father.”
I whisper back, “But would you have come?”
“Yeah,” he says, a little sadly. “I can use all the help I can get.” He leaves the kitchen.
* * *
“So,” Tom says when all our guests have gone, “think they hit it off?”
I’m looking around the kitchen. How did five people make so many dishes? I wish I hadn’t used separate plates for the salad. “They barely said two words to each other.”
“That’s because your father never stopped talking.”
He has a point. Dad orated at dinner. That’s the only way to put it. If people were bored, he was oblivious to it, although both Cathy and Jacob looked convincingly interested in whatever he was saying. Not Tom, though. He’s never found my father particularly fascinating—and I kind of love him for that because most of the time I don’t, either.
It worried me that my father said he was tired and needed to get home when it was still pretty early. We had just finished eating the lasagna, so I rushed out the flourless chocolate cake—it had taken me twenty minutes that afternoon to whip and fold in the egg whites—and everyone sang a quick and tuneless “Happy Birthday to You.”
Dad handed me an envelope with an iTunes gift card inside. I thanked him but the gift had to be Jacob’s idea. No way Dad even knows what iTunes is.
Cathy gave me a small knit beanie in dark green. There was no tag on it, so I asked her if she had knit it herself, and she said with horror, “God, no! Why? Does it look homemade?” I assured her it was great and put it on. It was itchy, but I was worried it would hurt her feelings if I took the beanie off, so I left it on, reaching up surreptitiously to scratch underneath it when she wasn’t looking.
Jacob and Dad left as soon as they’d eaten their cake, but Cathy stayed for a while longer. Too long really. It wasn’t late, it was just that both Tom and I were ready for the evening to be over. But she had finally found her voice (now that the guy I wanted her to make an impression on was gone) and chatted away happily about the class she was student teaching and how at least five of the kids didn’t speak any English and how she had invented some sign language to communicate with them. And by “invented,” she seemed to mean that she used the same universal gestures for writing and walking and listening that anyone would use.
Tom and I did our best to smile and look interested, and when she finally sighed and said, “This was so lovely, but I probably should go grade papers,” we did our best not to look too relieved.
I pulled the beanie off and tossed it on the table the second Tom closed the door behind her.
“So what do you think I should do now?” I ask Tom as we stand there in the kitchen surveying the damage. I feel discouraged.
“Let’s get a load of dishes going and leave the rest for tomorrow.”
“No, I mean about Jacob and Cathy. Do I wait to see if one of them asks me for the other’s phone number? Or should I try to talk to them, push them a little bit?”
“Keats,” he says wearily, “you put them in the same room for an entire evening. If they want to see each other again, that’s up to them. Your work is done.”
“I know, but they’re both so clueless.”
“They’re adults. They can figure it out. Anyway, why do you care so much?”
“I don’t. But they both seem kind of lonely.”
“Jacob chooses to spend all his free time with an old man. You can’t do that and expect to have a social life.”
“But it’s my father he’s spending time with. If he didn’t, I might have to. So that means I owe him some help.”
“Which is what you gave him tonight. You’re done.” He puts his arms around me. “If you really want to take pity on someone, I could use that massage you offered me a few nights ago.”
“But it’s my birthday. I should get the massage.”
“It’s not your
birthday. That was four days ago.”
“It’s my birthday dinner night.” He looks skeptical. “Fine. We’ll compromise. You give me a massage.”
“How is that a compromise?”
“Yeah, about that…I’ll figure out an answer while you’re rubbing my back.”
“You always win,” he says amiably.
“When I win, you win,” I say, coaxing him along toward the bedroom, abandoning the dishes until the morning.
“How do you figure?”
“Shh,” I say and throw myself facedown on the bed. “Don’t talk. Rub.”
8.
When I check my e-mail the next morning, I have one from Milton. He’s CC’ed Hopkins on it. It’s short.
Mom was in bed all day. Still there.
That’s all, but that’s all he needs to say.
I e-mail them both back. Should we do anything?
A minute later, Hopkins’s response comes: I’ll take care of it. I’ll call her shrink and see if he thinks we should play around with her meds. I think we can cut this one off quickly.
It’s a relief to leave it in Hopkins’s hands, but I can’t shake the worried, sick feeling—too many childhood memories of anxious days spent waiting for Mom to emerge and be herself again.
Tom comes into the living room where I’m still staring unhappily at the computer and says, “Everything all right?”
“Yeah, fine,” I say and get up and go into the bathroom to get ready for work. What’s the point of talking about it? His mother goes to a resort in Arizona once a year when she feels like she needs a break. It’s not that he wouldn’t understand or be sympathetic, it’s just that I’m sick of being the one with the messed-up family. Anyway, maybe Hopkins is right and this one won’t be bad. She should know, right?
* * *
Sure enough, Milton e-mails us late on Tuesday afternoon. She’s up. Quiet. But up.
And when Mom calls me at work two days after that, she sounds like herself. Her speech is back to its normal rhythm—well, maybe just a little slower than usual—as she informs me that she found a box filled with some old letters of mine. “Can I toss them?”